01x01 - Episode 1

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(Owl hoots)

(Horse neighs)

(Leaves rustle underfoot)

(Mutters)

(Snorts)

(Squelch) (loud neigh)

(Blood spurts)

Are we looking for some maniac with a Kn*fe?

A Kn*fe would've gone deeper, opened up the guts.

So far, none of the animals were actually k*lled in the att*ck.

You mean not at the time.

They either bled to death or were in such a state they had to be put down.

So it's not a Kn*fe?

Something that cuts easily but shallow.

Could be a tool from the leather trade.

Or a farm instrument of some kind.

He's been ripping since New Year's - and always when the moon's out.

Sergeant?

Oh.

This note was left on the steps of Wyrley Police Station this morning, sir.

(Mysterious music)

Despatch all the constables at your disposal to St Joan's.

I'll inform the Chief Constable.

We're off to the school, lads.

"I am finished practicing now.

I am ready for the sweet roses of St Joan's to slice their stems and burst their buds."

Good God.

(Dream-like)

♪ Children sing: Ring A Ring O' Roses Go inside.

Hannah? Hannah!

Quickly.

We must act, Inspector.

We must act or the good people of Staffordshire will not forgive us.

I need to see your son.

He's at work.

Why?

Another horse has been found mutilated and k*lled.

You suspect my son?

Let's just say it would help to exclude him from our investigation.

My brother is a solicitor.

Your implication is as preposterous -

Maude?

"I am finished practicing now.

I am ready for the sweet roses of St Joan's to slice their stems and burst their buds. But are they ready for me?"

(Courtroom murmurs)

Will the prisoner rise?

George Edalji, you've been found guilty of some of the most depraved and bizarre crimes I've ever encountered, namely the systematic mutilation and k*lling of untold livestock in and around the parish of Great Wyrley, Staffordshire.

It's no small mercy that you were apprehended when you were as your letter states your intention to graduate from defenceless animals to defenceless children.

(Dramatic music)

Timmy, go and fetch.

(Barks)

Go and fetch, Timmy. Good boy. Come on, give me the ball. Come on.

(Paper rustles)

It's going to rain.

Quickly, come in.

I'm coming.

(Barking)

I think next time -

And who won today?

Both: I did.

I don't believe a word of it.

Edna, why don't you let me take that upstairs?

Yes, sir.

We're received another one of those dreadful pictures, Woodie.

Dispose of it as you see fit.

Yes, Sir Arthur.

(Crockery rattles)

(Cat meows)

Mmm...

Oh.

I was remembering our honeymoon this morning.

Oh, Vienna.

Mm-hm.

You were wonderfully decent about that.

Decent?

Me trotting off to the Krankenhaus every day.

Hmm. You said it was important.

"The only place to study ophthalmology."

Still.

I didn't mind, Arthur.

Really.

(Coughs)

Well, I know you didn't.

(Exhales)

Oh, bless you.

(Bell tolls)

(Hushed whispers)

She said yes to everything I proposed.

If we were to pack up in an instant and go to Austria, she said yes.

If we bought a knew house, she says yes.

If I went to London for a few days, or South Africa for a month, she always said yes.

I miss her nature.

That was her love.

Oh, Mam.

You read beautifully, Connie.

Arthur.

Arthur. You have my deepest condolences.

Thank you, Willie.

(Sorrowful music)

(Hollow tap)

Good sh*t.

Thank you, Edna.

Kingsley?

Coming.

Father?

Yes, Mary.

When Mother was dying, she said you would remarry.

Did she by God?

Well, not exactly.

What she said was I was not to be shocked if you were to remarry, because that's what she would want for you.

Do you have any particular candidate in mind?

Father.

Wee Jimmy's proving to be quite a useful fielder.

Mm-hm.

Aren't you, lad?

Yes, very good.

But if she did suspect, why would she tell Mary?

To prepare her I suppose.

But, I'm not sure she did suspect.

What if she did, right from the start?

Understood every mean little lie I told her, imagining me downstairs on the adulterer's telephone.

Oh, you were not an adulterer, Arthur.

No, not in deed.

You were NOT an adulterer.

I can never be sure.

I'll never know what she truly believed.

I can't make it right.

(Gentle sigh)

(Horses hooves approach)

Hmm.

Miss Leckie, thank you so much for coming.

I'm so sorry.

(Door opens)

Sir Arthur?

Woodie, you can open everything.

Discard or answer as you wish.

You long since learned to reproduce my signature.

No, Sir Arthur, I'd never be so bold as to -

Then please be so bold.

You be Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

The name's owner has no desire to be himself.

I'm sad to hear that.

You have visitors, Sir Arthur. Miss Leckie and her brother.

I know.

Oh, don't worry about pouring it in. We'll manage.

Of course, sir.

Thank you.

I rather think I might take a stroll in the garden.

Very good, Malcolm.

(Door closes)

Thank you for your kind letter of condolence.

Of course.

It was kind of you.

Of course I would have come.

I didn't think, all things considered -

No.

That's what I thought.

Perhaps we might join Malcolm in the garden?

(Gravel crunches)

I fear I wasn't much of a host.

Well, perhaps it's too soon for that particular guest.

(Peacock calls)

Dr Watson and Mr Holmes might have more luck raising your spirits.

They're declined the invitation.

Huh.

How ungrateful of them.

They don't want to fraternise with an adulterer either.

Oh, Arthur.

You need to sink your teeth into something.

If not a book then some other pursuit.

(Dream-like chatter)

That was my intention.

Anyway, it's been very nice talking to you ladies.

May I introduce Miss Jean Leckie. Miss Leckie, Arthur Conan Doyle.

Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Leckie.

Thank you.

May I ask you a question?

When am I going to write another Sherlock Holmes story?

How do I come up with such ideas? Did he really die at the Reichenbach Falls, and if he didn't, should he not now settle down now and marry?

That's four questions.

Which one was yours?

None. I have never read your stories, although Stephen, our footman, says they're quite engaging.

God bless the footman.

I was going to ask if you'd seen the exhibition of the photographs of Dr Nansen's voyage to the North.

No, but I was at the Albert Hall when he gave a lecture to the Royal Geographical Society.

So was I.

No.

When I read Nansen's account of crossing Norway on skis, I recklessly acquired a pair myself.

Oh.

I skied from dawn till dusk on the high slopes of Davos with the Branger brothers.

Goodness. I should like to learn to ski.

I have excellent balance and I have ridden since I was three.

Well, forgive me, I think it's highly unlikely that women, I mean society women not female Swiss peasants, will ever learn to ski.

Unlikely, why?

Because of the physical strength required and the dangers attended.

I'm quite strong.

And I might have better balance than you, given your size.

My size?

It must be an advantage to have a lower centre of gravity, and being much less heavy I should not do so much damage were I to fall.

Oh, one day perhaps I will teach you to ski.

Yes, I'll hold you to that.

Morning, Ralph.

Morning, Mr Wood. I have a package for you today, sir.

Thank you.

There you are. You have a good day, sir.

Thank you, Ralph. Thank you.

(Dramatic music)

Morning, Sir Arthur.

Morning.

Something that might interest you.

(Papers rustle)

A Parsi Indian? A Parsi clergyman?

Yes.

In rural Staffordshire?

It's remarkable.

And quite possibly incendiary.

Reading between the lines, I infer that race prejudice rather than hard evidence is what drove the police to the vicar's son.

If I'm right, this is shabby, shabby as shabby can be.

Please arrange a meeting with Edalji Junior as soon as possible.

What of the publisher's deadline?

To hell with it. This is far more important.

This is a chance to right a wrong, Woodie. How splendid would that be?

Er, very... splendid, sir.

What?

Nothing.

Rather, I'm just thoroughly pleased to see you so... enlivened.

Oh. Tsk. I've been a sulk and a bore the last few weeks, haven't I?

You've been mourning Lady Doyle.

You know, my wife used to say,

"The sum of the world's tears is always equal if the chance arises to mop one up."

Is it not too late?

Too late?

For Mr, er... Edalji. He was found guilty, served a sentence of three years.

That's why there's not a moment to waste. He's already waited too long. Giddy-up.

Hmm, thank you.

Sir.

Myopia, do you suppose? Perhaps a touch of astigmatism?

Mr Edalji?

Arthur Conan Doyle. And this is my secretary, Alfred Wood.

How do you do, Sir Arthur, Mr Wood?

Is that how I should address you? Sir Arthur?

That or just Doyle.

I'd prefer Sir Arthur.

Very good.

Er, let's find somewhere more private.

Peter.

Doyle.

Er, yes, this should suffice. Take a seat.

In your letter, Mr "Adalji" -

It's pronounced "Edalgee", actually, if you don't mind?

I apologise.

So, like most writers, I have a sentimental attachment to the concept of a beginning, a middle and an end.

You wish me to recount my plight from the start.

Um, I understand that five years before the rippings, your family was subject to a campaign of abusive letters?

But before the letters there was a key.

A key?

Yes.

I arrived home from work one evening to find that a key had been rather deliberately placed on our doorstep.

(Metallic scraping)

(Door shuts)

Did you pass anyone on your way home from the station?

No.

Are you intending to go for your walk tonight?

I am, Father.

If you feel... anxious in any way, come straight home.

Yes, Father.

The key didn't belong to us, so naturally my father handed it in to the police.

The following evening I returned home from work, I was training to be a solicitor at that time, and to find someone waiting for me.

George. Sergeant Upton's here to see you.

Sergeant Upton? For me?

(Clunk)

(Clunk)

(Key clatters)

So you are the young fella that found the key.

Yes. It was on the doorstep.

Is there a reward?

Now why would you be wondering about a reward, you of all people?

Have you found out where it's from?

(Turns pages)

Name?

Well, you know my name.

Name, I said.

(Fire crackles)

George.

Yes, go on.

Ernest.

Yes, go on.

You know my surname. It's the same as my father's and my mother's.

(Bangs table) Go on, I said, you uppish little fella.

Edalji.

Oh, yes.

Now you better spell that out for me.

As it turned out, the key was from a school six miles away in Cannock.

So despite the fact it was your father that alerted the police, you were treated with suspicion?

Yes.

A suspicion borne of prejudice, no doubt?

Well, I cannot say that.

No?

No.

No, I do not believe that race prejudice had anything to do with my case.

I must say, I find that rather a surprising answer.

My answer reflects my experience.

What was the next significant event after the key?

A month or so later, we were left something in the back garden.

Father.

(Gasps)

In the garden.

A milk churn.

(Suspense music)

What is it?

I can't see.

"Before the year's end, your son will be in the graveyard or disgraced for life."

They mean me.

George, you'll be late for work.

Father?

Have you noticed anyone loitering around the vicarage?

No, Father.

Your mother and I received other anonymous letters.

What do these letters say?

They say wicked things, George.

About who?

About all of us.

It was then I learned that my father had borne the weight of this vitriol for months.

He'd kept the letters locked away to shield my sister and I from their venom.

(Turns key in lock)

Also, despite the good ministry of my father to the community of Great Wyrley, we were hounded in other ways.

Shapurji?

(Suspense music)

(Bells jangle)

George, escort your mother and sister back to the house.

(Sinister music)

Good evening.

(Gravel crunches underfoot)

(Metallic squeak)

(Loud sobbing)

What's the matter, Agnes?

My sister. My sister is dead. I must go and collect her body.

She's just received a telegram.

Let me read it.

(Sobs)

Your sister's not dead, Agnes.

This is a vile prank.

How do you know that?

It's says your sister lies in a public house in Wolverhampton.

Now, why would her body be placed in a public house?

And much less, down a hundred miles from her home.

(Thud, then animal-like squeal)

Father?

(Suspense music)

Let's go inside.

And what of the horse mutilations, George?

Do you mind me asking, is there anyone you suspect of the crime?

Which one?

All of them.

To be perfectly honest, Sir Arthur, I've been more concerned with proving my innocence than anyone else's guilt.

Understandably, but there's an inevitable connection.

Do you suspect anyone or not?

No. No-one.

You had no enemies in Great Wyrley?

Evidentially I did. Unseen ones.

It seems the judicial system has failed me, Sir Arthur, and that's why I wrote, appealing for your help.

I don't mean to be rude, but I notice when you walk you put more weight on the right foot than the left.

I limp, but the boot corrects it to a large degree.

I'd suggest a slipped capital femoral epiphysis.

That's a condition associated with obesity, and you're slim, George.

So I'd have to say that was caused by an injury, yes?

A man in Pentonville Prison pushed me down the stairs.

Why?

I don't believe he ever offered a reason.

Mr Edalji, those letters, I would greatly like to see them.

My father has them still at the vicarage.

I can arrange to have them sent to you.

I rather think it's time we paid a visit to the scene of the crime.

The crimes. And I think perhaps it's better that we do so unaccompanied.

Of course.

(Clock chimes)

Thank you, Sir Arthur. Mr Wood.

A remarkable fellow.

Mmm. I think rather more sure of himself than he looks.

I might almost say impudent.

One might. I wouldn't.

"It's pronounced 'Edalgee', actually, if you don't mind?"

His name is important to him. If it wasn't, he wouldn't be seeking to clear it so long after his release.

Whoa, girl.

Temple.

The same rather odd detail came up twice during his account.

You mean the fact he shares a bedroom with his father?

A locked bedroom.

Hmm.

Almost as if the Reverend didn't trust him.

Woodie, if you are going to assist me, then an open mind is a pre-requisite.

Yes, of course, but -

But what?

Surely an open mind also means that we don't accept every word he says as gospel. After all, he was found guilty by a judge and jury.

You heard evidence that we are ignorant of.

Precisely.

That is why you are going to pay a visit to a Mr Higgins of Temple Bar.

Higgins is a clerk known for his fast and sure hand, and for a price he'll hand copy the court records of the longest, most involved trials. As I commissioned him a week ago, I've no doubt his work is done and the balance due. One thing.

In the interests of keeping a certain consulting detective out of proceedings -

You commissioned the transcript under a false name.

An alias, Woodie. An alias.

(Knocks)

Come in.

Ah, Mr Higgins.

No, not Mr Higgins.

Oh. Well, I was expecting a transcript from him.

The transcript has not been completed.

Ah.

But the blame for that lies not with Mr Higgins, rather it lies with you, Mr Wood, and your employer, Mr Bray.

Surely the transcript is a matter for public record?

And he will have it.

The question is, why does he want it?

Er, who precisely is asking that question?

The Honourable Hugh Atkins.

The trial judge?

So the Crown's contention, if you can credit it, is that he wrote the poisonous letters himself.

They must have entered a motive?

To attract attention.

I ask you, you've never met a shyer lad.

Extraordinary.

Ah, unbelievable.

It does seem unlikely.

Unlikely?

Answer me this. How can a man with eyesight so poor he must hold his newspaper six inches from his face, a scholar, a solicitor, with no knowledge of the land, with no familiarity of livestock, how can this man steal into a field in the dead of night and rip open a horse's belly without being trampled to death in the process?

Jean, your eyes.

Oh, I'm sorry.

No, no.

It's an affecting story.

It is, and...

I feel wretched for saying this after all I've heard of poor Mr Edalji, but -

But?

They are not tears of sadness.

Ah.

Woodie observed that I am enlivened.

Woodie is no fool where you're concerned.

(Sighs)

I wish that I was coming with you.

That's extraordinary.

On the way over here, I imagined driving up to Staffordshire with you by my side.

Mm.

Like a man and a wife.

Like a man and his wife.

You've waited a long time, Jean, I know.

And now I must wait a little longer.

I understand, I do.

It's so wonderful to see you.

Oh, Woodie, you've found me.

Yes, rather, I did.

Hello, Woodie.

Miss Leckie.

Goodbye, my dear.

Have you acquired the transcript?

No, Sir Arthur. I acquired an invitation.

(Knocks, then opens door)

Thank you.

Oh, and the adventures too, if you don't mind.

You are too kind.

And what of Moriarty? He's still with us, isn't he?

So, did he manage to escape death's clammy hand with the Reichenbach Falls? No? Of course, no.

You cannot divulge.

What a chilling creation.

"He sits motionless, like a spider at the centre of his web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well every quiver of each of them."

Wonderful.

Your interest in my books is gratifying, but it's not the reason I had to come to Highgate to collect a transcript.

Not the sole reason, no.

Nor the primary one, which I'm sure is to deter me.

To provide some context.

To warn me off?

To cancel pause for thought.

Had Edalji not been caught, I've no doubt he would've made good his thr*at to the girls of St Joan's.

Supposition based upon an assumption. I contend he did not write the letter in which the thr*at was contained.

You disregard the evidence of Dr Stephen Wallace, a renowned handwriting specialist.

Renowned experts are two a penny.

And a Sister at St Joan's who saw Edalji lurking in the grounds of the school.

I was not aware of any such testimony.

It was withdrawn at the 11th hour.

Because she did not wish to perjure herself.

Because she was silenced by members of Edalji's g*ng.

His g*ng? Does George Edalji strike you as the sort of man who'd run with a g*ng?

No.

But then neither does Professor Moriarty.

He's a fiction.

As is Sherlock Holmes.

Yet it strikes me that if you pursue your interest in the Edalji case, you'll be judged by his high standards, and judged harshly.

Why does my interest alarm you so?

But if you fall short, as you are bound to do, you'll taint not only yourself but the world's favourite consulting detective.

As the author of his every word and deed, I would say that's my risk to run. May I?

My man Shaw listened to the entire conversation that you had at your club, and you were shockingly oblivious.

I had no grounds to imagine I'd be so rudely spied upon.

Sherlock Holmes would have discerned the eavesdropper in an instant, and in the next his name, political persuasion and place of birth all from the dust on his shoe leather.

Pause for thought, Sir Arthur.

Pause for thought.

(Horse whinnies)

Read all about it!

Assassination attempt on the Spanish king and queen.

Whoa.

Spanish royalty! An assassination attempt.

Porter!

Yes, sir.

Woodie, as this is our first foray to Great Wyrley, I'm keen to visit a theatrical costumier and equip myself with a false beard.

Do you think that's absolutely necessary?

I'm just trying to deflect attention - pre-emptively.

I wonder if it might draw more rather than less?

Attention, I mean.

Ah, well, yes, perhaps it might.

Yes, I'm sure a turned-up collar and a muffler and a raised newspaper will get us to Wyrley unscathed.

Honestly, you know how to thump the joy out of a thing.

I'm only imagining the society page of The Post.

"What is Sherlock Holmes up to in a Midlands costumier?"

Yeah, yeah.

(Sighs)

(Brakes squeal)

Oxford! This is Oxford!

Boarding!

I can't feel my thumbs.

(Whistle blows)

All aboard!

Test me, Woodie.

On what subjects?

About the village of Great Wyrley, of course.

Oh, er...

Well, how many public houses does it boast?

Er, there are three retailers of beer in the village.

Henry Badger, and Mrs Jane Corbett, and Thomas Yates.

Presiding over The Bull, The Stag, and The Bottle And Glass respectively.

The Post Office is held by James Henry, the blacksmith is William Brookes.

The station is presided over by Albert Ernest Merriman, who has evidently inherited his station master's cap from his father, Samuel Merrimen. The station lies a quarter of a mile to the northwest, on the Walsall, Cannock and Rugely branch of the London and North Western Railway.

The parish of Great Wyrley contains a number of well-built residencies, farmhouses...

(Breaks squeal and steam hisses)

(Train whistle blows)

Mr Merriman.

Good evening, gentlemen.

Good evening.

Do you think he recognised me?

I highly doubt it.

I fear that mufflers and collars will not be sufficient.

What's our business here? What's our pretence?

Do we need one?

Certainly we do. We must, um... I have it.

We'll say we're emissaries from The Church Commission.

And what's our business in Great Wyrley?

To inspect the crumbling masonry of St Mark's.

What crumbling masonry?

What?

What crumbling masonry?

Woodie.

Honestly.

(Owl hoots)

"My dearest Shapurji, I have great pleasure in informing you that it is our intention to revue the persecution of the vicar.

However, if we find your grievances to be unsubstantiated or, worse, self-inflicted, you and your wretched family will be taken forthwith to a certain lunatic asylum not 50 miles' distance from your thrice cursed home."

What incompetent hand.

Is that a different hand?

Or made to look so.

Your son was accused of writing all of these letters?

That he disguised his handwriting.

"Revenge on you and Brookes is all my heart desires."

What?

"I have sent a letter in his name to The Chronicle that he cannot pay his wife's debts. I am ever yours, Satan."

God, Satan. Poisonous.

And is Brookes the blacksmith in the village?

That's correct.

And he received threatening letters too?

Yes.

But fewer in number.

And did you compare?

No.

Well, why not? You both had a common foe.

Mr Brookes was not inclined to pay the matter much heed.

On the occasion of Maud's confirmation.

The upstairs window.

Oh, yes.

See?

The spite, the gall...

To enter our home.

Where is this room?

(Owl hoots)

Maud's. That was the same day her favourite doll disappeared from her bed. We had no explanation until that was developed.

(Suspense music)

What George really wants is to return to his work as a solicitor.

Of course, and so he shall. (Clock chimes)

It's almost worse for him now than when he was in prison.

Well, now he's in a state of limbo.

The Incorporated Law Society cannot re-admit him until the "taint" is washed from his name.

Rest assured, I'll make a tremendous noise. I will stir things up.

There'll be a few people sleeping less well in their beds when I've finished with them.

I'm sure you will, Sir Arthur, and I thank you for it.

What I'm saying is rather different.

George is determined to overthrow this injustice, but that is all he wants. He does not wish for the limelight.

He does not want to become an advocate for a particular cause.

He wishes to return to work.

He wishes for an ordinary life.

He wishes to get married.

Maud, how can he?

Since when?

Charlotte, do you know anything about this?

Father, don't be alarmed. I mean he wants to get married in general.

Hmm. Married in general.

You think that will be possible, Sir Arthur?

I myself have only been married in particular.

That's the system I understand, and the only one I'd recommend, too.

(All chuckle)

(Distant whistle)

Mrs Edalji, were I still a betting man, I'd wager that you were the pianist in this house.

Oh, I was once.

Nonsense. You still are.

Play to us, I beg you.

Something strident and stirring.

Play to us now. Please?

(Cutlery gently clatters)

(Chair scrapes)

Strident and stirring, Mrs Edalji.

Sir Arthur?

(Piano intro)

There's an uninvited guest listening at the far window. Don't look.

Which, judging by the faint draught, is open an inch or two.

Are you certain?

Quite certain. Having fallen prey to one eavesdropper this week, my antennae are keenly attuned.

Bravo. Play on, Mrs Edalji. Play on. (Continues playing)

That window opens onto the back garden, correct?

Correct.

If this mat represents the house, this Kn*fe the back wall, and here the front gate, how's the back garden accessed?

There's another gate.

Where? Show me.

There.

Right. And that's the only other exit?

Yes.

Right. Two exits, one front, one back.

Two of us, Woodie. He will not escape.

Why don't you go and stand in front of the window?

(Owl hoots)

What if he's armed?

Fight fire with fire.

(Dramatic music)

Good. You take the back.

Right.

(Piano playing continues)

(Suspense music)

(Owl hoots)

(Leaves rustle underfoot)

Stop there! Now! Stop!

Don't run!

(Door slams shut)

Agh!

Woodie!

I'm fine. That way. That way!

(Dramatic music)

(Pants)

(Eerie music)

(Exhales)

Good afternoon.

Anyone can see that if you stroll around town with a grin on your face and your mistress by your side -

Jean Leckie is a woman of the utmost virtue.

Our relationship was, and remains, one of friendship.

You must be Sergeant Upton?

And you must be Sherlock Holmes.

I'm not sure if I'd have been on that jury I'd have found George Edalji guilty.

Just give me the key, for God sake.

This case is rigged to raise prejudice. Your professional future may not be as you imagined it when I'm finished with you.

I'd guard against turning this into a vendetta if I were you.

(Grunts)

(Glass shatters)

Argh!