01x02 - Episode 2

[bunniefuu]

(Horse whinnies in fright)

We must act, Inspector.

We must act or the good people of Staffordshire will never forgive us.

George Edalji, you have been found guilty of some of the most depraved and bizarre crimes I have ever encountered.

A parsee Indian. A parsee clergyman.

Yes.

In rural Staffordshire.

Remarkable.

So the Crown's contention is that he wrote the poisonous letters himself.

They must have entered a motive.

To attract attention.

I've never met a shyer man.

Despite the fact your father alerted police you were treated with suspicion.

Yes.

A suspicion born of prejudice no doubt.

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

Who's there?! Stop!

Forgive me, Woodie. I blame myself.

It's only a bloody nose, sir. I'm sorry I didn't use the shovel.

We may get a cast of our man's boot print come daybreak.

What have you found, Sir Arthur?

My doll.

Where did you find her?

In the woods.

God Satan has worked in these parts all this time.

Hidden in plain view. Sharpening his pen and his ripping Kn*fe.

Our visit has prompted fresh persecution.

And there may yet be a benefit to that.

What benefit could that be?

We've a fighting chance of unmasking him, Reverend.

And in so doing, exonerating your son.

George is innocent and I mean to prove it.

Let's go back in the house.

What does it mean? Why would they take my doll and return it so many years later?

Why would they leave dead birds on your lawn?

And plague you with letters of the foulest abuse?

Why would they butcher livestock and lay the blame at your brother's feet?

Because they are cruel, pitiless... and very patient.

What made us their target?

Maud!

That is a question you are better placed to answer than I.

(Door knocker taps)

(Door knocker taps again)

Who is there? Your name.

It's George.

George?

What brings you here?

Common courtesy.

You are seeking to clear my name and it was remiss of me not to accompany you and make the proper introductions.

I thought we agreed it wise you do neither.

Strategically speaking.

George?

George.

Mr Wood, I am heartily sorry if I brought you into harm's way.

Nothing broken.

What do you make of it, Sir Arthur?

God Satan lives among you still.

But he may have mutated into someone you trust and respect.

A valued member of your congregation even.

God Satan does not resemble God Satan?

As he wrote in his letters, did he not?

Why rear his head now? After all, in the world's eyes, I am the Wyrley Ripper.

I have bowled my first ball and they have struck back hard hoping it will be my last -

Sir Arthur, we will miss the Birmingham train.

Hm. Yes, I suppose we will. Forgive me.

Sir Arthur, if I may be so bold.

You had your doubts before but now you're struck by the timing of his arrival so soon after our violent intruder.

Compounding this, mud spattered his boots and his trousers as it does mine.

Conclusion - he's the man I chased into the woods and the brute that bloodied your nose.

Well?

Three things factor against it -

his poor eyesight, his limping gait and his honest face.

His face?

I heard him tell his story, Woodie and I believed it.

Every damn word.

And my lights might be dimmed by the loss of Lady Doyle, but I can still tell a good story from a bad one.

And a truth from a fiction.

Of course, Sir Arthur.

How's your head?

Oh. Nothing a night's rest won't remedy.

Good.

I want to make a small detour en route.

(Low chatter)

These were no acts of livestock theft.

Or youthful pranks gone awry. Do take a seat.

Those animals were butchered and their genitals mutilated.

Their deaths slow and painful.

And a stain on the memory of all who witnessed them.

Hm.

I'm still uncertain as to how you alighted on George as a suspect.

The Chief Constable himself pointed me in his direction.

Ah. Chief Constable Anson.

Second son of the second Earl of Lichfield.

Late of the Royal a*tillery. Chief Constable since 1888.

The same.

I'm sure he had a good reason to point you in the direction of George Edalji.

The boy was a suspect in the first campaign of letters sent to the vicar.

And what was the connection between the letters and the rippings?

Some contained dead birds and other animal parts.

Also the handwriting on the threatening letter we received matched Edalji's.

Five years ago, there was a campaign of letter writing against the vicar.

The parsee?

The Reverend Shapurji Edalji.

Pranks, hoaxes, petty thefts... and a few dead birds and rabbits.

At the time, I sensed it would grow to something more serious.

Now it has.

Why was George suspected?

Local police received intelligence he was, in common parlance, 'not a right sort'.

Not a right sort? That's not evidence, is it?

We had plenty of evidence linking George Edalji to the rippings.

You refer to the horse hairs recovered from his coat?

Principally.

But by no means exclusively.

I do hope that's put your mind at rest, Sir Arthur.

If I could detain you a moment longer, I'd like to hear how that evidence was recovered.

As you wish, Sir Arthur.

We visited the Edaljis the morning after the crime.

George wasn't at home.

We believe whoever sent you those letters five years ago and left birds and rabbits on your lawn has now raised their game.

I need to see all your son's clothing. Without exception.

This is all his clothing?

Apart from what he has on.

What a q*eer thing to say. We didn't think he went to work naked.

I'll need to see his Kn*fe.

His Kn*fe?

Every young man has a Kn*fe.

My son is a solicitor.

He does not whittle sticks.

Sir.

Those are mine.

And your son, what does he shave with?

He uses one of them.

You don't trust him with razors of his own?

He does not need one.

Then why should he not be allowed razors of his own?

Or indeed a bedroom of his own.

Our living arrangements are of no consequence.

He was out last night, your son?

Yes.

How long for?

An hour and an hour and a half.

I'll need to see his boots.

These are wet.

Sir.

Damp.

It was raining last night, sir.

Who does this coat belong to?

It's dry.

It's damp.

Who does it belong to?

George.

It's an old house coat he never wears.

I told you to show me all your son's clothes without exception.

Look, sergeant. A hair.

And another.

Let me see, Inspector.

That's not a hair, it's a roving.

A what?

A thread. A loose thread. Anyone can see that who's sewn anything.

What do you think of these stains, Sergeant?

Saliva and blood, I'd wager.

As my wife told you, it's a housecoat. He never goes out.

Then why is it damp?

It's not damp.

It's damp. And blood-stained.

And they're not threads but horse hairs.

And our Dr Butter will prove it.

Nasty cut, Mr Wood. Fresh. What happened?

He collided with the train carriage door.

Man's an idiot. Refuses to wear spectacles.

It's total vanity, Inspector. Total vanity.

Did we just lie to an officer of the law?

There are two aspects to this case that I fail to understand.

The first.

Why did Chief Constable Anson so dislike George Edalji?

Hm? Anson is a man of distinction. What's the explanation?

I'm not an investigator, Sir Arthur.

Woodie.

If someone asks me a question, I look for the obvious answer.

And what would the obvious answer be?

The Chief Constable dislikes people who are coloured.

That lead is so obvious that it can't be the case.

Whatever Anson's faults, he's an English gentleman and Chief Constable.

I told you already. I'm not an investigator.

All right.

Let's not abandon hope quite so fast, Woodie.

The next problem is the coat. The police examined it at the vicarage and said they were hairs on it and the vicar's wife said there were none.

Police surgeon, Dr Butter, testified he found nine hairs similar in length, colour and structure to those of a mutilated horse.

Are you saying the Edaljis perjured themselves to protect George?

Well, that's clearly what the jury believed.

What if the hairs weren't from the coat?

Then they must have been put there afterwards.

After what?

After the clothing left the vicarage.

Dr Butter put them there?

I don't know but if you want obvious answers, they got there afterwards somehow. If so, the police are lying.

Well, some of the police.

Hm.

May we have our room keys?

Sir Arthur, I've heard you say that once you eliminate the impossible, then what is left must be the truth.

Not my own formulation. Alas.

No?

No.

But one that I endorse wholeheartedly. Continue.

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

He was well placed to steal his sister's doll.

George was in the photograph not in Maud's bedroom.

If George harboured ill will towards his sister, it may explain why the vicar and George shared a room long after such an arrangement could be considered normal.

Just give me the key for God's sake, Woodie.

Yes, sir.

Good Lord!

It's just a bird.

If this window was breached from the outside, there'd be more glass. This glass has been placed.

There's something in its mouth.

Let me see.

(Reads) Honoured Sir, we know it was Edalji k*lled that horse and wrote those letters for it shall be proven that he is not a right sort.

There was no education to be got at Wyrley's School when that swine Bostock was the teacher boss.

He got the b*llet.

Ha-ha.

They're sending US letters now.

Woodie, come on. I want to pay a visit to Harry Bostock, an old school friend of George's.

Bostock?

Any relation to the Bostock who 'got the b*llet'?

Aye, his son.

The case against George was daft. The police were daft.

And the notion of a g*ng flitting about after dark under George's orders was the daftest of all.

So you were at school with George?

Yeah. When we were little 'uns.

My father taught us both.

And what was George like?

Clever.

Cleverer than me and I was clever back then.

Not that you'd know it now.

Staring up the backside of a cow does rub away at your intentions.

Did George have any enemies?

Anyone dislike him for his colour, say?

Not as far as I can recall.

But...?

When we were lads, I mean, 11 and 12, there was some business about a servant girl being sacked by the vicar and not going quietly.

And that business involved George, did it?

I think so.

You'd have to ask him.

But overall, he was liked despite his race?

Put it this way, if he were disliked, it were more for being clever.

To think, we all thought he were thick as pig's muck.

Father would ask him a question...

This plus this... and he'd get it wrong.

.. equals?

Really wrong.

George.

Eleven and seven-eighths.

(Children titter)

N-Nine.

(Children snigger some more)

Barry.

12½.

Correct.

Turned out it was his eyesight.

Father moved him up the front and he never looked back.

Which give us a grand total of...?

George?

Eleven and three-quarters, sir.

Correct. Very good.

Hm.

Aside from George, was there much talk in Wyrley about who might be the ripper?

There's always talk.

It's the same price as rain.

All I say is, it's got to be someone who knows how to handle animals.

You can't just go up to a horse and or a cow and say, "Hold still, my lovely, while I rip your guts out."

Quite.

In your opinion, how would George fair if he were to milk one of your cows?

(Laughs) He'd be kicked to death.

Or he'd fall in the shits before he got his stool under her.

You see.

Will... er... Will that be all, Sir Arthur?

Yes. Thank you very much, Harry. Thank you.

Oh, one more thing. Is your father still the schoolmaster here?

No, sir.

My father passed on eight years ago.

Oh, I'm so sorry.

Do you mind me asking how?

Mind telling me why you're asking?

Forgive me. I'm sorry.

He... erm...

He fell to his death. Up at Rugeley Falls.

Erm... it was a winter, so bone cold.

Ice under foot.

They think that his dog went over first and that he was trying to rescue him.

He never saw his grandson.

What are you like?

George, I'd like you to tell me about an incident with your servant girl.

Do you mean when I was a child?

Yes.

Who told you of this incident?

Er... that's by the by. George?

Her name was Elizabeth Foster.

George, Elizabeth Foster complains you look at her strangely.

What does she mean, Father?

What do you think she means?

Is it something sinful she means?

And if it was, what would that be?

My only sin, Father, is that I'm hardly aware of her.

Though I know her to be a part of God's creation.

I haven't spoken to her more than twice on occasions where she has mislaid objects. I have no reason to look at her.

No reason at all, George?

No reason at all, Father.

I was left with only one course of action.

You dismissed her?

Of course.

There was never any doubt in your mind that your son was telling the truth?

None whatsoever.

And then her true nature came to light.

The day she was dismissed from our employ...

I didn't... I wasn't... (Spits) .. she spat in my face.

Did you not consider that Elizabeth Foster might be responsible?

Oh, many years had passed.

She had long since got married and left the parish.

Leaving no relatives?

Only her half brother.

Sergeant Upton.

Sergeant Upton? Who persecuted and threatened you?

He's a vulgar and lazy man but I can't credit that he's involved.

Hm. I agree.

Very good. Let's go and see if the daylight has left any clue to our intruder.

Hm. It's a pity. Too dry for shoe prints.

When Mr Holmes is investigating, it's never too dry for shoe prints.

There would be an obligement of soft mud.

You think I tilt the playing field in Holmes's favour?

On occasion but it's more fun that way, isn't it?

Well, his legion of fans certainly seem to think so, young lady.

And Holmes isn't always right anyway.

True.

Er... in the Speckled Band, he asked Mrs Hudson to fetch hot coffee for a young lady who was shivering.

But it is not cold that makes her shiver but fear.

Hm. That's right.

Er... Sir Arthur... much as I admire my parents... I think they have an exaggerated respect for authority in general and Sergeant Upton in particular.

Well, I'm in agreement on the latter.

Upton is not just a thug, he is cruel and devious and he made my brother ill from the start.

On your way to Cannock, are you?

I beg your pardon?

You heard what I said.

I only wondered why you asked. This is not the way to Cannock.

As we both know.

As we both know (!)

As we both know.

What we both know is that you know the way to Cannock and I know the way and you've been up to your little tricks.

You've been into Cannock. You've took the key to the school.

You've brought it home and put it on your own front step.

You're hurting me.

Oh, no I'm not. I'm not hurting you.

If you want Sergeant Upton to hurt you, all you have to do is ask.

I'm going to be a solicitor.

(Chuckles) Is that what you think?

A so-li-ci-tor.

What a big word for a little mongrel like you.

You think you'll be a solicitor if Sergeant Upton says you won't?

So you believe Upton targeted George to avenge his sister's dismissal?

At the very least.

Maud, what can you tell us of Bostock, the teacher?

Fell to his death while walking his dog.

Poor man.

Slipped and fell?

I never heard of a more sinister explanation. Have you?

Sir Arthur, do we really need to go all the way to the top?

Buck up, Woodie.

Yes, sir.

(Reads) That swine Bostock was the teacher boss but he got the b*llet.

I'd assumed 'the b*llet' was a euphemism for dismissal.

Not death.

So would I.

(BRANCH SNAPS IN DISTANCE, BIRD SHRIEKS IN ALARM)

What is it, Sir Arthur?

God.

Brookes the blacksmith.

He received messages too.

But this is not a message for him.

No, this is for us.

Mr Brookes? William Brookes?

My name's Arthur Conan Doyle.

I wonder if I could ask some questions about the rippings?

I understand from Reverend Edalji that you had letters from the same individual that was plaguing his family.

Wouldn't know anything about that.

Ernest, just make yourself scarce. I'm all right for the moment.

Mr Brookes, did you receive any letters or not?

Mr Brookes, it strikes me that I'm in need of a boot scraper.

I'm very taken with this handsome brute.

How much would a thing like that cost?

Oh.

Let's see. Let's say 10 shillings and sixpence, please, sir.

10 shillings and sixpence, Woodie.

Right. So we were talking about these letters.

Not so much letters. Crudely written scraps of paper.

It was blackmail pure and simple.

Once you got past all that Satan gibberish.

Some nonense about Fred and another boy throwing stones at a pregnant woman outside Cannock Town Hall.

I was supposed to send money if I wanted to keep him out of trouble.

You did nothing about it?

Of course not.

Did you think about talking to the police?

Not for a moment.

Not for a tenth of a moment.

I ignored it and it went away.

Did you keep any of the letters?

You must be joking.

So why do you think the blackmailer targeted your son and George Edalji?

Did they have a common enemy at school, say?

They didn't go to the same school.

What school did your son go to?

Cannock.

Cannock School. Over the hill.

It's where we lived till I took on this place.

And might Fred have come across George in the village?

Were they connected in any way at all?

It's been 10 years now. Better to ask my son.

Does he live locally?

Who? Fred? Nah. No.

He's long left.

He's... er... in Birmingham. On the canals. Working there.

Doesn't want to take on this shop.

Little bastard!

And what did you think of today's work, Alfred?

To be perfectly honest, Sir Arthur, I think we've made not much progress.

It's better than that. We've made not much progress in several directions and we did need a boot scraper.

No, we didn't. We've got one at Undershaw.

Don't be a spoilsport.

In later years, we shall remember this as the Edalji scraper.

Every time we wipe our boots on it, we'll think of this adventure.

George!

Sir Arthur. I must return to London.

Please accept my apologies.

I do greatly appreciate all that you are doing for me.

Very good. And we shall meet again in London.

Yes.

And soon.

Are you thirsty, Woodie?

Thanks, John.

Are we still the subject of local interest?

We are.

Hard to imagine George Edalji growing up in a place like this.

Yes. Yes, it is.

He's an admirable fellow with a lucid brain and resilient character.

But if one merely looks at him... looks at him with the eyes of a dimwit village policeman or a narrow-minded juror then you'd be hard pressed to get beyond a dark skin and an ocular peculiarity.

It would seem q*eer and then if q*eer things started happening, what passes for logic in an unenlightened village would glibly ascribe those events to that person.

Yes. Sir Arthur...

When reason... When reason, Woodie, gets left behind, a man's virtues become faults. Self-control presents as secretiveness.

And so, a respectable lawyer, bat blind and slight of physique becomes a degenerate flitting through fields in the dead of night.

It's so utterly topsy-turvy, it's to seem logical.

Yes, Sir Arthur...

Well, you must be Sergeant Upton.

And you must be Sherlock Holmes.

Oh. My mistake. He only exists in stories.

Yet you're here, large as life, sticking your beak into constabulary business and making a nuisance of yourselves.

Now that's what I call 'topsy-turvy'.

Sergeant Upton, may I remind you...

What happened, Sir Arthur? Tired of making up stories?

Has the well run dry?

What happened is a travesty of justice in which you played a leading role and which I am soon to expose on the most public stage imaginable.

Where would that be then? London?

Oh, most certainly.

Why don't you go running there and get your stage ready?

If you hurry, you'll catch the four o'clock.

Did Inspector Campbell forewarn you of my arrival?

No, I have my own sources, thank you.

Oh. Tell the inspector we're making great strides.

Ernest? That you?

Ernest?!

Ernest!

Oh!

Oh, no.

Er-nest!

Help me! Anybody!

(Fire bell clangs)

(Hubbub)

Who is that?

William Brookes, the blacksmith, sir.

What?

Hi.

William Brookes?

It's awful.

I was just with him less than an hour ago.

Was he well liked in the village?

Up to a point.

He was Cannock born and bred. Not Wyrley.

So I see you missed the four o'clock.

Chief Inspector Campbell, this man has been m*rder*d.

Humpf.

And by the Wyrley Ripper.

If you're not going to contact Chief Constable Anson and tell him, I'll do so myself.

Willy Brookes m*rder*d?

Oh, dear me. That's good. That's very good. (CHORTLES)

Go and calm your wife, Sergeant.

By all accounts, Brookes liked a drink and a smoke.

Usually at the same time.

So he takes a break after a hard day, has a drink, lights his pipe, has another drink, and falls asleep. Whoosh.

Or is that too simple for you?

Too absurd.

Careful.

Brookes received letters from the same vile entity that persecuted the Edalji family.

Thank you, Sir Arthur. If we need any more amateur speculation, we will be in touch. Good day.

Those speculations will soon take the form of a report in the Telegraph.

I'll look forward to reading it.

I doubt it.

This case has reeked of race prejudice from the start.

Your professional future might not be as you imagined it when I've finished with you.

I'd guard against turning this into a vendetta.

Aye, you would.

CAMPBELL: Get these people out of here!

This is our doing. It's our meddling.

No, Woodie. This is tragic evidence that we are getting near the truth.

A man is dead.

Yes, and we shall avenge his death by unmasking the true ripper.

This is no time to lose our nerve, Woodie.

Right, sir.

Look. This is burnt on this side here.

This has been put up against the door to trap the poor man in.

These are lime barrels.

Lime.

Aye. He stood here observing his grizzly handiwork.

God Satan is nothing if not stealthy.

An obligement of soft mud.

Boot prints of a man, who for some reason, put more weight on his right foot than his left.

George Edalji...

He's served his sentence, Woodie.

Why on earth would he seek me out to clear his name if he was guilty?

Well, I think his mother answered that question rather eloquently.

Oh.

She said, "Now he is in a state of limbo, the Law Society cannot readmit him until the taint is washed from his name."

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

(Sighs)

May I speak frankly, sir?

I offer no guarantees.

When you first took this up... I was heartened by the effect it had on your mood.

I was delighted, in fact.

The whole challenge seemed to raise your spirits and invigorate you.

And...

Well, I... I just think it's time to go home now, sir.

But not until we've brought this to the Inspector's attention.

We saw much death in Pretoria.

One occasion following the Vet River north, a Basuto came and told us of an English soldier lying wounded some two hours journey into the Veldt.

The wounded Englishman turned out to be a dead Australian.

Short, muscular, with a yellow waxen face.

Bled to death from a stomach wound.

Set his pocket watch in front of him.

Must of watched his life tick away with every minute.

A fair fight, open air and a good cause.

There's no better death.

Life should be more like that.

Perhaps you need a change of environment.

Why don't you ask Woodie to arrange something?

A golfing tour? A spot of skiing?

Oooh. Woodie's already sent me to Coventry.

Then Woodie needs to remember which side his bread is buttered.

He thinks me intemperate, corrupt and entirely beyond redemption.

Nonsense!

Right now, I'm not sure I'd go to w*r to prove him wrong.

What does your instinct tell you?

My instinct tells me that George Edalji is innocent.

But effectively, I've only met him twice.

Then meet him again.

See if your feelings have changed.

On what pretext?

You are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and you're seeking to clear his name.

It's a surfeit of pretext, if you ask me.

You're a remarkable woman, Jean Leckie.

I have a drawer of your letters saying so.

I don't have long, do I?

No.

Not too long.

Once this Edalji business is behind -

Arthur... go and see him.

You think this a fool's errand?

If the truth could be divined by looking in a man's eyes, the world would be a very different place.

Whoa!

There he is.

Come on, Woodie.

Just a moment, Sir Arthur.

Perhaps we might see where he's going?

A shilling to follow that carriage.

Two if you can do it without being noticed.

Come on.

That is him. Right on time.

Welcome, Mr Edalji.

Good evening.

What is this place?

(Whistle)

Turn right or you'll be...

They've got g*ns. Sir Arthur, we shouldn't be here.

Look, they're going. Now's our chance.

Come on.

Hang on, Sir Arthur.

What? It was your idea.

It was not my idea.

It's Hayden Price.

I thought he was still residing at His Majesty's Pleasure.

You know him?

Only by reputation. And inspiration.

He's Moriarty.

(Van backfires)

Oi, you two! Where you going with them?

Leave them. You will help me here.

Hayden Price is the worst kind of criminal.

He's a m*rder*r who's never wielded a Kn*fe and a thief who's never stolen a ha'penny bit.

Perhaps I got it wrong.

What, Sir Arthur?

If this were a story, I'd change the beginning or change the end or try something else but it's not.

And I'm not its author.

Come on.

(Ball thwacks against bat)

SPECTATOR: Nice sh*t, Doyle!

Tea, gentlemen.

The bowlers have no secrets from you today.

Well, I was jousting for my lady.

And I should have worn your ribbon in my cap.

If I had a cap.

Hmm.

Hello. It's your sister and Willie.

So it is. Connie!

Good afternoon.

Connie!

Arthur, please.

Thank you.

Explain your rudeness today.

You know how Connie loves you and you know my enormous admiration.

How proud I am to say that Arthur Conan Doyle is my brother-in-law.

Get to your point, Hornung.

Your behaviour is compromising.

Too whom?

To your children. To your lady friend.

To yourself.

Oh, and what about the Marylebone Cricket Club, the readers of my books and the staff at Gamages Emporium?

Your involvement with Miss Leckie pre-dated Lady Doyle's passing by some years.

Define involvement.

Only your popularity deterred the hints in the gossip columns.

Now you must keep your end of the bargain.

A bargain I never struck. Define involvement.

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 and our relationship was... and remains one of friendship.

You think me a liar as well as a scoundrel now, do you?

In these matters, perception counts for more than reality.

Then to hell with perception.

If a man is discreet, society will allow him all the mistresses -

For the LAST time!

Jean Leckie has never been my mistress.

(Approaching footsteps)

Then why don't you marry her for God's sake?

Choose a date and announce it in The Times.

Treat her with the respect and feeling you expect us to and be done with it.

Good evening.

BUTLER: Sir Arthur!

Sir Arthur, Ma'am.

Jean.

Arthur.

I apologise for the lateness of the hour.

Erm...

I would like to ask for your hand in marriage.

What is your answer?

I didn't hear you ask me a question, Arthur.

Ah.

Nor did I.

Will you marry me, Jean?

No.

No?

You've been to see your sister seeking an apology.

And judging by the look on your face, you didn't get it.

You're not asking for my hand in marriage, you're saying, "To hell with you all." You're flouncing, Arthur.

Flouncing?

Don't go blaming Connie and Willie. It's nothing to do with them.

Just as your busybodying in Staffordshire had scant to do with George Edalji.

Did you ever once ask yourself why you took up this case?

Because I judged him to be innocent.

Because you judged yourself guilty and in dire need of redemption.

Whoa. That's a rather tortured connection.

After Louise d*ed, I visited you -

Not to say melodramatic!

You were attempting to answer your copious letters of condolence.

Attempting and failing.

Well, I doubt if many widowers find that an easy task.

You found it an unbearable one!

What had you done to deserve such heartfelt sympathy, you wondered.

I confess to certain misgivings, yes.

Misgivings?!

You felt like a perfect hypocrite!

I think you're rather close to overplaying your hand, my dear.

Two summers after we met, we spent an afternoon in Regent's Park.

As we sat in the rose garden, you said you were thinking about your wife at home in Undershaw.

Of her goodness and her patience and her fortitude.

And yet, you couldn't hand on heart, swear that you'd ever loved her.

You said you'd always loved her as best you could.

But now she's gone... you're gripped by a fear, a horror... that she knew all along.

And you can't forgive yourself.

How dare you presume to have knowledge of my heart where Louisa is concerned?

Nothing I've said is presumed, Arthur.

Witnessed.

Experienced. Endured. Would be nearer the mark.

One day... One day I hope you'll make your peace with her.

Seven years.

Seven years and all I had to sustain me were your snowdrops.

But it was plenty.

A feast.

Look me in the eye and tell me you're innocent.

I'm innocent.

Why would a respectable young man with no previous history of a violent nature, suddenly sneak out in the night and att*ck a pit pony in the most cruel and violent fashion?

Why does human society everyone abhor the half cast?

As sharp as sharp can be.

Sir, what do you want from me?

I want to find out who k*lled your father.

(Crow caws, flies buzz)

George!