14x08 - A Rare Bird

[bunniefuu]

(BIRD CALLS)

There we go. You're a beauty,
aren't you?

(CHUCKLES)

(TOILET FLUSHES)

(BEEPING)

(STATIC)

Nothing exciting today.
Just the green fitch.

Patrick, I'm pregnant.

What? Well, that's impossible.
You can't be!

Oh, yes, yes! The test
was positive!

Whose?
What do you mean?

Whose is it?
Patrick!? You're hurting me!

I'll k*ll you! You hear me?!
I'll k*ll you!

What's the matter? Oh!

(SINGS TO HIMSELF)

See you again tomorrow then. There's
another load of logs to come up.

Tomorrow? I'm not sure...

Well, just give me a bell. I mean, I
can come up anytime you're available.

Better be off. Call me, yeah?

Yes.

(ENGINE STARTS)

What's Foxely doing here?
I ordered wood from Napier's farm.

Didn't I tell you...?
I'm late for my class.

Is he the one? Was it Foxely?

(SPEAKS RUSSIAN)

All right.

So... I thought we'd go round
Swansdown Lake...

Er... over to Midsomer Parva.
Pub there?

Er, through the woods,
and then back

How far is that?
Oh, it's about er... eight miles.

You said a gentle stroll,
not a route march. You'll enjoy it.

Remember that walk we did above
Down Way, in Brighton?

Remember it? I've still got
the blisters.

One of the reasons we came
to Midsomer

was to enjoy the peace
and tranquillity of the countryside.

True.

Ta-dah!

What are those? They're gaiters.
Causton Camping shop.

Stops the rain getting
in your boots.

Are we expecting rain?
(SCOFFS)

We are going to go for a good walk,
aren't we, Sykes? Come on.

And I will be in charge
of the map-reading.

(SIGHS) We know what's guaranteed to
spoil a good walk, don't we, Sykes?

Come on, come on.
(LOW WHINING)

Those logs you delivered...

I phoned Napier and told him
to take them off my land

What's this?
My wife ordered that wood in error.

I'm not paying. Is that clear?
I want it off my land.

Well, I might be wrong but in my
world a contract is a contract.

Well, the order is cancelled. Right.
I'll fetch them back up again then.

But in the meantime we've gotta get
these drainage pipes laid.

You're not going ahead with that?
Oh, yeah.

Drain the Mead and you'll drain
my wetlands.

They are habitat to several birds
with protected status.

It's my living that needs
protecting, not them birds.

I'll sue you if I have to!
Do what you like.

You ain't the only cock can crow.

Damn birds!

Chicken plucking so and so!

He's not a happy bunny.
Got problems indoors with the wife.

Ain't getting his rations.

Whatever... he better turn
the volume down.

It's the duck who quacks
the loudest gets sh*t.

# Piano ... And one, and two,
and three, and four.

Good.

Look to the right, Fion.

(MUSIC CONTINUES)

Good. Neat feet, neat feet.

Hands up, Gloria. Up, up, up. Good.

Good.

And... finish.

Very well done. OK. Ton leve's
from the corner.

Good, good. Back, back, back, back.

(BIRD CALL RINGTONE)

Eyes up, eyes up. Ton leve,
ton leve, ton leve and ton leve!

Good, girls.

And ton leve. Up, up.

Good, Aimee. Good, good, good. Bravo!

OK, all of you, reverence,
all of you.

Everyone together. Thank you,
maestro.

Right, plie, and to the left, plie.

Finish. Proud finish.

Good, girls. Thank you very much.

Remember, it's Finale Concert
and Awards.

Remind mums and dads to book tickets
if they have not done so.

Tim.

You must encourage her. She is mad
for the dance.

She's not made for it though, is she?
Her feet aren't exactly feathers.

She has her dreams.

We all have our dreams.

Ha. Yes. Ha.

Look, is there any chance you could
have Aimee at yours this morning,

or drop her off at my mother's?

Yes, of course. She will be fine
with me. Thank you.

That's great, that's great.
I'll call. OK. OK.

Can I give you a lift?
No, thank you. I have car.

Ralph Ford's spotted a blue crested
hoopoe, up by Swansdown Lake.

A hoopoe? In Midsomer?

Yeah, that's what he says. Probably
flopped in on its way to Africa.

Be a British first... if Ralph's
spotted it right.

The others have headed up in case the
place is overrun with townie twitchers.

Right. I'm with you. Let's go.

Bye, sweetie.
Bye, Dad!

Er, Wednesday then.
OK.

Come on. That's it.
Oh, sorry.

Come on, Bob.
I'm going as fast as I can.

(EXCITED CHATTER)
That's it.

Blimey.

Come on.

Well, the track is heading this way.
So if I just turn the map...

John, are we lost?

No no, no. I'm just checking.

(WHISPERS) Excuse me, excuse me.

Not spotted the hoopoe, have you?
Hm?

The blue-crested hoopoe!
Extremely rare visitor to Britain.

Been tweets about it on Twitter
all morning. I'm sorry, I...

Ssh.
Quiet!

Listen.

(BIRD CALLS)

Yeah, that sounded like its call.

A sort of oooh-poo-poo-pooh!

Ooh-poo-poo-pooh!

Whatever it was, it came
from that way!

Come on. Before this lot spook
the damn thing. (DOG BARKS)

Sssh!
Keep that dog quiet!

I beg your pardon?

Ooh.
Quickly. Come on.

(BARKS)

Follow them, follow them.
Right.

(WHEEZING)

Excuse I.

Well... so much for the peace
and tranquility of the countryside.

Where to next?
On to Swansdown Lake.

Which is North of here... wherever
"here" is.

Darling, give me the map.
No, no. Look it's fine.

Give me the map and...
It's, it's...

It's this way, it is. It's this way.

No. Sorry, no. This way.
It's definitely this way.

This way.

Sykes.

(GROANS)

(GROWLS)

(CHATTER)

Chif chaf. Where was this?

I did. I smashed him in the chin.

Oh, can I get you one in?
Your usual?

No, thanks, Olivia.
We'd better start.

Still besotted, are we?
Buttocks to you, Ralph!

Bloody bird watchers, eh?
That lot love it.

They think bird-watching
is better than sex.

Probably is, the way they do it!
(LAUGHTER)

(CUCKOOS)

Please, please be quiet.
Sit down.

No, I will not.
Get a grip, Patrick.

Not until he withdraws
the accusation. Order! Order!

Order.

Thank you.

Now...

Ralph has claimed that he saw
a blue-crested...

It's not a claim! I saw
the bloody thing!

A mega.
Oh, Ralph.

Ralph says he saw a blue-crested
hoopoe by Swansdown Lake.

Hoopoopoe pops.
Yes, thank you.

Were you alone at the time?
Yes.

Then it's unverifiable,
as Patrick says.

Whatever happened to
birder's honour. My word is my bond.

Nobody's questioning your word,
Ralph.

Yes, he is! And why?

Because this sighting gives me ten-point
lead in this year's list competition.

Ten points ahead of you, Patrick.
That's what this is all about.

The committee is meerly
trying to establish how

it is you saw the hoopoe
and no one else has.

Because I'm up at a sparrow's fart
every morning

and sat in the sticks every night,
year round ... that's how!

It's not just a seldom-seen, Ralph, it's
an endangered species. Native to Uganda.

So? It made a pit stop on its way
home. Oh, that's...

We never saw it.

I propose we refer it to the
National Committee,

and it will not count towards
the Year List competition.

Seconded. God, I saw it!
What more do you want?

Proof would be good.

You're as likely to see
a blue-crested hoopoe

land in Midsomer as
Concorde, truth be told.

You wouldn't know the truth if it
plopped on you from a great height.

Do you accept the proposal?

I know your game, Patrick.
This is w*r.

From now on, consider yourself
an endangered species.

To hell with all of you!
Ralph!

You can't speak to the president
like that. You can't...

We're at a meeting, Ralph.

You can all get stuffed. We'll
take that as a "no", then, shall we?

(SIGHING AND LAUGHTER)

(BIRDSONG)

(BIRD CALLS)

(MAKES BIRD CALL)

(MAKES BIRD CALL)

(SEARCHES FOR FREQUENCY)

(MAKES BIRD CALL)

(BIRD CALL)

(BELL TOLLS)

Ha!

Hey!

What the...?

Aaargh!

(BLOWS THUD)

(Low conversation)

Spotted this morning at
10am by a dog-walker.

The body was entangled
in that net.

Contusion to the rear of the skull.

Asphyxiation by drowning,
most likely cause of death.

We can eliminate accident, then?

I wouldn't be too hasty.

He could have stumbled
into the net, fallen,

hit his head, rolled
into the lake.

Looks like blood on the end
of this.

It's a bramble-beater, isn't it?

Could be blackberry juice?

You think of everything.

I trust nothing and no-one,
till tested and proven.

How about time of death? All
night in the lake... hard to say yet.

Sir, his name's Patrick Morgan.

Aged 51, married, lives
in the big house over there.

He was a bird-watcher.

Binoculars. Notebook,
lots of sketches of birds.

Oh... I thought I recognised him.

There's also an interesting
text message on his mobile.

It says: "Hoopoe now showing.
Lakeside.

250 metres east of
Swansdown House, 23:59."

Now, one of the lads is a bit
of a birder.

Says they get hotline alerts
when rare birds are spotted.

Twitchers come running at all hours
from every direction.

Let's find out who sent it.

But first we'd better talk
to his wife.

I'm very sorry, Mrs Morgan. Is there
somewhere we could sit down?

(TEARFULLY) Yes, yes, yes.

When did you last see your husband,
Mrs Morgan?

Nina, please.

Yesterday evening. He came back
from his meeting.

He's president of Ornithological
Society.

There'd been... argument.

He was angry, he got himself drink
to wind down.

I went to bed.

You didn't think to raise the alarm
when he wasn't there in the morning?

He's a bird-watcher. He disappear's
all the time, at any hour.

I'm sorry, this is difficult.

Of course.
No. Er... especially...

Patrick and I are expecting
our first child.

I see.

Been trying for years, ever since
we were married.

We moved here, to start a family.
How long ago was that?

Ten years.

Is this you?

Yes. At Kirov ballet.

I was prima ballerina.

Well, I think that's enough for now,
Nina.

Erm... If you think of anything else
give me a call, please.

(DOOR OPENS)

Just pregnant and your husband dead.
That's tough.

At least she confirmed
the bird-watching angle.

Mm.

Oh, here's trouble.
Dave Foxely, sir. Known to us?

He's had community service
and a few minor punishments.

Still thinks stealing's easier
than working.

And a bit of a ladies' man, too.

What's happened? They been burgled?

Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby.

Work for Mr Morgan, do you?
No. George Napier.

That's his truck. I'm collecting
some logs Morgan doesn't want.

Where were you late last night?
I was spark out.

Five pints and I'm nobody's.

Mr Morgan was k*lled last night.
What? Never!

Mrs Morgan ... do you know her well?

Well, not as well as I'd like to.

She fit or what, Jonesy, eh?

Forget it. I'll pick up those logs
tomorrow.

You don't think Nina Morgan would go for
somebody as rough as Dave Foxely, sir?

Ever read Lady Chatterley's Lover,
Jones? Only bits.

(ENGINE STARTS)

OK. Patrick Morgan
ran a city finance firm.

Retired to Midsomer ten years ago.
Just a sec.

Bought a 200-acre estate
on Swansdown Lake.

I want us to check for previous
on Patrick and on his wife, Nina.

Are you with me, Jones?
Yes.

I got a trace on that text message.
The bird alert.

It was sent from a mobile
belonging to a Ralph Ford.

Here's a list of the
Midsomer-in-the-Marsh

Ornithological
Society Committee.

Ralph Ford is a member.

Nina mentioned an argument
at their meeting last night.

And, sending the text message is a
smart way to lure Patrick up there.

But Ford sent it from his own phone.

Which is not smart at all.

(MAN SNEEZES)
Bless you.

Sorry. Got drenched this morning,
out birding.

It was "persisting" it down.

Got a stinking cold.
(SNEEZES)

Bless you.
Sorry.

As long as it's not bird flu!

This your hobby, Mr Ford?
No. My profession.

I'm a taxidermist. You'd be surprised
what people want to preserve.

And how much they're prepared to pay
for it. You name it, I've stuffed it.

Hunting trophies, are they?

Well, the fish were all hooked,
the bear got sh*t, but the birds...

they all d*ed a natural death.

This is their resurrection.
I give them life after death.

Pity we can't do that
for Patrick Morgan.

You had a row with him,
yesterday evening. That right?

Hm.

I spotted a blue-crested hoopoe.

A mega, a rare bird.

Patrick said I was
lying, because it gave

me a ten-point lead in
the annual Lis Cup,

for spotting the most different
species in a year.

He couldn't bear to be beaten.

This is Patrick's mobile.

There's a message on it,
purporting to be a bird alert,

a message which drew him
to his death.

It was sent from your phone,
Mr Ford.

That's ridiculous.

I'll show it to you.

(CLOCK CHIMES)

Oh, God, it's not here.

Where is it?
Well, I don't know.

Erm... I had it last
night, at The Feathers.

I hung my coat up in the snug.

Er... somebody must have taken it.

Who would do that?
Well, I don't know.

All the committee were there.

Dave Foxely's crowd were all
in the snug, by the coats.

Erm... Napier, the farmer ...

he's always at w*r with
Patrick over the wetlands

(SNEEZES)

Look, it wasn't me.

Sitting in the bushes
all morning, waiting

to spot a bird.
What's that about!?

Well, psychologically speaking, birding
is classic obsessive behaviour.

I mean bonkers, if you ask me.
It's like hunting, without the k*ll.

We're all instinctively
hunter-gatherers.

Didn't you ever go
train-spotting?

Or collect stamps,
or football stickers? No, sir.

I had an uncle who collected
beer mats. d*ed of drink.

So getting soaked to the skin, just to
tick a bird off your list isn't crazy?

It's not very different
from what we do.

We tick all our suspects, off our
little list, until we find our k*ller.

Does that make us any saner
than the twitchers?

That's Nina Morgan, sir.

She's not exactly devastated
by Patrick's death, is she?

(WHIRRING)

Tim Whitley?

Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby and
Detective Sergeant Jones, Causton CID.

Ah. With you in a minute.

Oh, it's a... it's a mist-net.
For catching birds.

It doesn't harm them. We ring them
and release them immediately.

Patrick Morgan was found tangled up
in one of these.

Yes, well, you know, they look quite
fragile but they're really very strong.

Was that Mrs Morgan we just saw?

Yes, yes, she's er... quite
some lady.

She'd arranged to give Aimee ...

that's my daughter ...
extra ballet lessons today.

She insisted,
despite what's happened.

I'm a single parent, you see.
I lost the wife f-four years ago.

I'm sorry.
No. No, no.

She got sick of the birds.
You or the tufted ducks, was it?

Afraid so.

Er... actually, I was about
to ring the police. Erm...

Really?
Yes, come in. Come in.

(DOOR SHUTS) Yes, it's erm...
it's a bit of a mess.

I work from home.
Computer and audio-visual repairs.

You're a keen member of the
Midsomer in the Marsh Birder's club?

Yes, yes.

Actually birdsong's my thing.
Mating calls.

The chat-up lines
of our feathered friends.

Could you tell us where you were
last night?

Yes, I was at the club meeting
at The Feathers.

And after that?
Well, I went up to the Lake.

I was hoping to get a recording
of the blue-crested hoopoe

which Ralph Ford says he saw,
but no-one else did.

I understand Mr Ford had a row
with Patrick Morgan at this meeting?

Yes, yes. Well, at first Ralph just
dropped his bottom lip and sulked.

Well, then he lost it.

He was flapping, fit to take
off, which he finally did.

He was cursing everyone.

Were you up at the lake all night?

Yes. Now that's what I wanted
to talk to you about.

I er... I had my mikes open
and sound running.

I played everything back this mornin
when I heard about Patrick.

I think I've found
something interesting.

Now... watch the up-slurs
and down-slurs on the sonogram.

(PERSON CRIES OUT)
There ... a cry!

Wait, wait.

(SPLASH)
There! A splash.

Is the recording time-coded?
Er, no.

Run it again, can you? There was
something in the background

I'll whack up the ambience.

(TAPES WHIR)

(OWL HOOTS)

(CHURCH CLOCK BELL)

Well, that's just the church clock.
Quiet.

(CHURCH BELL STRIKING)

11. 12.

(PERSON CRIES OUT)

Then the cry.

And you didn't see or hear anything?

Well, I heard a sage sparrow,
which is nothing sensational,

but it turned out to be
a male dunnock, mimicking...

Fascinating (!)
Yes, I thought so too.

Look, I'm sorry I can't
be more helpful, I...

Oh, you've been a great
help, Mr Whitley.

We now know Patrick Morgan was
k*lled on the stroke of midnight.

Just need some er... thinking space.

Right. Well, just follow the footpath,
and you can't miss Hipsman cottage.

OK.

You tackle the farmer, Napier.

Ask him about Dave Foxely and about
this dispute with Patrick Morgan.

Yes, sir.

# Swan Lake

(MUSIC CONTINUES)

And here, neat feet, pull up.
Up, up, up, up.

(MUSIC FROM SWAN LAKE)

(APPLAUSE AND WHISTLING)

(MUSIC CONTINUES)

(MUSIC SWELLS)

Bravo!

Bravo! Bravo!

Bravo!

Bravo!

Bravo, bravo!

(SOBS)
Nina!

It's OK.

(KNOCKS)
Hello? Police.

Hello? Mr Hipsman?

Ah, ah. Detective Chief Inspector
Barnaby, Causton CID.

Michael Hipsman?
Yes.

I'm terribly sorry, but
I'm in a tearing hurry.

Got a class to play for.

Is this about Patrick?
Yes. How well did you know him?

Well enough to know the man
was an arse.

Frankly, I had nothing but contempt
for him.

Far too impressed with himself.

(SOBBING)

(SIGHS)

Are you all right, dear?

Oh, yes, yes.

I was just dancing and... thinking
of Patrick.

Yes. It's terrible.

Awful. You have my condolences.
Thank you.

We fell so much in love at first.

So much.

You understand?

Yes, I understand.

Better than you think.

I'm sorry. I must be going.

Things to deliver. Sorry.

Bye.

(DOOR SLAMS)

I get the impression that Patrick
didn't have many admirers?

No. Erm... not that it bothered him.
He was his own fan club.

Patrick had to be top
of the pecking order.

Everyone else could
kiss the ground.

This month's newsletter.

Oh, just put it through the door,
would you, Olivia?

Here's my card.

I have a small bookshop on the
High Street.

If there's anything else you want
to know, you can find me there.

Bye, Inspector.

Are you the police?
Yes.

Olivia Carter, Secretary of the

Midsomer-in-the-Marsh
Ornithological Society.

You here about the m*rder?

I'm investigating Patrick
Morgan's death, yes.

You know it was Ralph Ford
who did it? Do I?

The man's crazy as a coot.

He'd k*ll to get his hands
on that cup.

Rip your throat out to win the prize.

And there was me thinking
that bird-watching

was such an innocent pastime.

It's not a pastime, Inspector.
It's religion.

Birders are a bunch of jealous,
self-centred maniacs.

They'd cancel their own wedding
for the glimpse of a rare bird.

Oh, yes.

And erm... what's in it for you,
Ms Carter?

I er... I just enjoy the exercise.

None of that committee
appreciated Patrick.

Ten years he served as President.

He loved birds.

Their freedom to fly, to steer
by the stars.

Yes, he could be over-bearing.

But he was a man, Inspector, not an
intumescent wimp, like the rest of them.

Too good to live! (SOBS)

Sorry.
(BELL DINGS)

Excuse me.

(SOBS)

Pull!
(g*nshots)

Patrick Morgan? He gave me
the right Humperdink.

Always complaining.

Me draining my pasture, or sh**ting
them rooks what was eat my seedlings.

Your land adjoins his, does it?
Yeah.

He's put in to get the
wetlands designated

as a site of special
scientific interest

or some such cock.

And he calls the locals all peasants

You were in The Feathers last night.

Did you see anyone take Ralph Ford's
mobile from his coat?

No.

One of Dave Foxely's lot?
What's Dave got to do with it?

Is he banging Morgan's wife?

Oh, he might be. Who knows?

She's fit, and Dave's
got a feather in his

pants, that's for sure.
You'd better ask him.

I will.

I feel sorry for her.
Oh, yeah?

Well, she's a trophy wife, like.
You know?

Young woman he'd got his hooks into.

Well, she's well rid of him.

We all are. Pull!

It was blood, Patrick's blood,
on the bramble-beater.

So I was right. m*rder for certain.

It would seem so.

Glean anything from Napier?

He hated Patrick Morgan, sir.

And he implied things were
a bit cold between him and his wife.

Must have warmed up sometime,
recently.

She's expecting his child.

No. Oh, no, she isn't.

I read his notes. He had a vasectomy
15 years ago, and not reversed.

Oh, she definitely said it was his.

She lied to us.
And very convincingly.

I've under-estimated Nina Kustanova.

Can't always get things right,
can we?

I'm no detective, but it strikes me
whoever fathered her child,

may well be the k*ller
of her husband.

(EXCITED CHATTER) -
Sssh.

And drop the foot... and finish.

Good we try together. OK?

And... music, Maestro.

(PIANO PLAYS)
And plie... and sachet and up.

Aimee, Aimee, tummies in, head up
and lift.

And attare, and finish.
Good, good, good.

OK, let's finish with reverance, yes.

OK. Tummies in, head up.
Thank you, Maestro.

And right and plie.

And left and plie.

Finish, finish, proud, proud.
Heads up!

Good, well done. OK.

Remember it's Finale Concert.
Go home, practise, yes!

Well done, sweetie.
You were terrific.

We'd like a quiet word
with Mrs Morgan.

Yes. Yes, of course.

Bye, Nina.

You misled us, didn't you, Nina?
Sorry?

You said you were expecting
your husband's child.

But your husband had a vasectomy
15 years ago.

It's true.
Yes. Er... during his first marriage.

So could you explain how you managed
to become pregnant?

Things between Patrick and I were
no good.

I went to London to a party.

Got drunk, met a man.
Hardly knew his name.

I wanted child.

And Patrick believed your story,
about this one-night stand?

Yeah... No.

He suspected every man who ever came
near me.

How did you know about vasectomy?

Our pathologist, Kate Wilding. She's
erm... usually right about things.

I'm sorry I misled you, Inspector.

This is a m*rder enquiry, Nina.

When people lie to us, it makes us
suspicious.

Thank you. There you are.

I'm sure she's lying about how she
got pregnant, sir.

Is that your male intuition, Jones,
or can you prove it?

Patrick's nearly 20 years older
than her. She married a meal ticket.

Probably got bored after ten years
and went adrift on him.

Two 99's, please.

Or could be... biological clock ticking,
foetal attraction, all that?

Or she could've got pregnant
accidentally with someone local.

There's Dr Markham, he's also
a member of the committee.

Let's check out his bedside manner.

Ah, Michael Hipsman, the pianist.

I didn't have a chance to check his
alibi for the time of the m*rder.

Will you go and check it out with
him? Yes, sir. Thank you.

Mm. (CHILDREN SHOUTING)
Thank you, Jones? What?

(CHILDREN SCREAMING)
Four pounds, please.

Four?

(CRUNCHING)

receptionist, Ms Carter?

Since he moved here five years ago.

We met at the
Ornithological Society. Ah.

And Nina Morgan is his patient?

Yes.

They any closer than that?
How do you mean?

Oh, socially, erm... personally?

I don't know.

You think they were carrying-on,
behind Patrick's back?

Oh, I'm not sure what I think
at the moment.

Oh, poor Patrick...

Mrs Phillips. Thank you.
Thank you very much.

Goodbye.
Bye-bye.

(DOOR CLOSES)

Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby,
Causton CID.

Dr Markham.

Er... let's take a stroll
in the garden.

You're a member of the
Midsomer-in-the-Marsh

Bird Club committee, Doctor?

Yes. Forgive me, I wouldn't have put you
down as the kind of "dotty spotter"

that I've recently encountered
running around here.

There are bird-spotters, there are
twitchers, and there are ornithologists.

I'm of the last.

I'm interested
in avian memory paradigms.

The scientific study of the development
of neural pathways in avian brains.

Especially for me in rare birds.

Can I ask you about Patrick Morgan?

He was your patient? He was on my
list, but I rarely saw him.

Patrick thought illness
was a character defect.

And erm... Nina Morgan.

You're aware she's pregnant,
I take it?

If she's told you that,
I'd be happy to confirm it.

Bit of a miracle, really,
since her husband's

matrimonial software
no longer functioned.

He'd erm... had the snip.

Where exactly are you going
with this, Inspector?

I'm interested in what you know about
your patients, Patrick and Nina Morgan.

I was treating Mrs Morgan
for depression.

Are you and Nina particularly close?

My relationship with her has been,
and is, entirely professional.

Can't be everybody's Doctor Zhivago,
I suppose?

I didn't father her child,
if that's what you're implying.

Look, I do have patients waiting.

Er... of course. Of course.
Oh, one more thing.

You were you at the er...
the birders club,

the night Patrick and Ralph Ford
had a blazing row.

Yes. And it might be
more fruitful if you

turned your attentions
in that direction.

Perhaps Patrick's death has nothing
to do with his wife's pregnancy?

Oh, indeed. We could be completely
on the wrong track.

You know our business is a little
bit like bird-watching.

Wherever you look, you're almost
bound to find something interesting.

I'm sorry. I can't tell you
anything more.

You'll appreciate my duty is to
protect my patients' confidentiality,

as well as to care for them.

(PRINTER WHIRRS)

(WHIRRING CONTINUES)

Mr Hipsman?

Ah, Mr Hipsman.

I'm Detective Sergeant Jones.
Causton CID.

Patrick Morgan was k*lled on the
night of the Birders' Club meeting.

I discussed all that
with Inspector Barnaby.

He was m*rder*d around
midnight, to be precise.

Where you were at that time?

I came home after the meeting, which
had been a bit bloody, as you know.

I had a glass of wine and I played
the oboe, to wind down a bit.

Ah. Were you alone?

Yes.

But I assure you I was there,
at home, at midnight.

You're certain about that?
Yes.

Because erm... shortly
after I finished playing,

I turned on the radio and the
midnight news had just started.

Uh-huh.

Well, that's all I need to ask you
for the moment.

Fine. Oh, you're you're welcome
to browse.

I have a very good
crime fiction section.

I get enough of the real thing,
thank you.

So... tell me more about Nina
the ballerina.

She's Russian, you said?

Yes erm... very chic.

Dancers' thighs,
bottom like an apple.

Oh, you noticed? It's my job
to take down her particulars.

(CHUCKLES)

Cheers.

(SIGHS CONTENTEDLY)

So, her husband had a vasectomy,
you said? Hm.

And when he married her, had he told
her about it?

Erm... I don't know whether
he'd told her or not.

Why wouldn't he?
Oh, come on.

Do you tell a woman that
you're dating, who's

20 years younger, you
can't have children?

I bet he didn't.

Hm, you could be right.

Imagine trying for a child for ten years
and not knowing it couldn't happen.

No wonder she nipped off
for a one-night stand.

I'm surprised she
didn't k*ll him!

Maybe she did?

The female of the species can be
more deadly than the male.

(GROWLS)
It's OK, Sykes. We're all right.

"The female blue-crested hoopoe
has multiple partners,

and att*cks the male viciously in
the nether regions, after mating."

Well, that should stop them
feeling frisky. Ouch.

Are you feeling frisky?

Will you att*ck me viciously
in the nether regions afterwards?

Quite possibly.
You're on!

(WHINES)

The police have questioned me twice.
They suspect me.

Calm down, Nina.

I told them I had no idea
who the child's father is.

Then that's the end of the matter.
You must stop stressing.

Your pulse is way up.

Can you give me something
to help me sleep?

I can't handle this.
(SOBS) I'm sorry.

He had me and Sykes wandering round
and round that lake, in circles

Well, it's easy enough
to get lost up there.

It's easier for
some than others.

Thanks, Ben. See you later, John.
Bye!

(BARKS)
Away, dog.

It's Sykes.
Away, Sykes!

(WHINES AND GROWLS)
Away!

Basket!

Got him well-trained, sir.
Anybody can train a dog, Jones.

As the dog whisperers say:
There's only one rule.

You have to be cleverer than he is.

The Council's planning department
has confirmed

there's been a
long-running dispute over

the wetlands shared
by Napier and Morgan.

And Napier said something
interesting to me about Nina.

Right. About her being a trophy
wife, and feeling sorry for her.

So...? Well, he's unmarried,
he lives alone.

And he's glad to see the back
of Morgan. Look at this.

A CD was delivered during the night.
No return address, no sender's name.

Dr Markham. On a home visit.

The question is, who's feeding us
these photographs? And why?

Those bird-watchers have got
fancy cameras and telephoto lenses.

Olivia Carter's interesting.

She was obviously carrying a torch
for Patrick Morgan.

Oh! Oh, oh!

Have you seen these photographs
before? No.

Oh... I never dreamt that something
was going on between them.

Not til you asked me the other day.

Look at the hussy!

Patrick gave her everything a woman
could want...

and she appreciated none of it.

You worked closely
with him as secretary

of the Ornithological
Society, didn't you?

Patrick and I were... simpatico.

Birds of a feather?
He didn't tolerate fools gladly.

Neither do I.
(PHONE RINGS)

Regardless of my feelings, there was
never anything between me and Patrick,

if that's what you think. Nothing
but... respect. Excuse me.

Olivia Carter.

There's something showing.
Where?

Third tree on the left.
Fagus sylvatica Purpurea.

Where?
Copper beech, ignoramous.

Sssh.

Ooooh...
Ssh.

The way it's spreading its tail, I'd
say it's a yellow-rumped warbler.

No, it's twitching its tail.
It's a black-throated green warbler.

Ooh, ooh. Could be a Lucy's warbler.
It's got a rusty rump, it's not yellow.

It's a redstart!

No, it's not.
(SNEEZES)

(BIRD CALLS, WINGS FLUTTER)
It's gone!

Sorry. You erm... you seen
anything else?

No. Certainly not
a blue-crested hoopoe.

Well, maybe it's headed back
to Uganda for a summer of love.

You're sure it was a hoopoe you saw,
Ralph? Wasn't a trick of the light?

Best to be honest about uncertainty,
Ralph. What are you, my conscience?

I saw it. I've got the tick
in my book.

You want to argue about that? - No.
Well, you can just stuff it! Ssh.

Oh, Ralph. Ralph.
Bugger off.

Ssssh!
Ralph, don't slam the... door.

(BIRDS FLY OFF)

(SIGHS)
He's unsquashable.

He's game as a badger. Oh!

(LIVELY CHATTER)

There you are, George.
Cheers.

(LAUGHTER AND SHOUTING)

Bloody twitchers. Ruining my drink
here. All the gear and no idea.

Yeah.
She's showing now.

(EXCITED CHATTER)

(HORN BEEPS)

What's all that about?
Some sort of birders' hotline.

They get one of them and they're
out of the place before you know it.

Like somebody shouted "fire"
in the cinema. (LAUGHS)

This what they're after?
That's it. Blue-crested hoopoe.

I could find me one of these,
quicker than plucking a chicken.

Oh, yeah? Where?

Ah. That's for me to know. Could be a
nice drop of money in this. (LAUGHS)

Ralph!

Ralph? Are you in there?

It's Dave Foxely.

Ralph?

I haven't been to a ballet, sir.
Tights and tutus ... not my thing.

(CHUCKLES) Ballerinas
are consummate athletes, Jones.

They've pushed themselves
through th pain

barrier, with ruthless
self-discipline.

You think Nina's that ruthless?

Oh, there's a steel in her.

She's more than just beauty.

Be a cherry on anybody's cake.

Hm, yeah, I was thinking of
something rather more... spiritual.

Something of the unattainable
object of desire.

Out of my depth there, sir.

Jones, you'd be out of your depth
in a puddle. Come on.

Ah, your surgery told us
that you were on a call.

Nothing serious I hope?

Mr Horrocks is 97.

Alive beyond his natural span.

Too many are these days.
Not Patrick Morgan.

Where did you get these?

Who took them? Have you been
following me?

Somebody sent them to us,
anonymously. Any comment?

Mrs Morgan was stressed. She called.
She wanted a sedative.

She's been through real trauma.
She needed to talk.

Tea and cuddles, was it?
She was upset.

Would you like to have a second
think about what you told me,

regarding how close you and she are?
No.

All right...

I hated Patrick Morgan.

It wasn't personal ... everybody did.

But I'm not the father
of Mrs Morgan's

child, or her lover,
or Patrick's k*ller.

If you think I'm any of those things,
you prove it.

Oh, don't worry, Doctor.
If you are

Patrick's k*ller, I
will nail you for it.

He could've acted alone, or Nina could
have been a willing accomplice.

Talk to her now? No. I'm sure
we'll get the same story

from her as he's given us.

I wouldn't be surprised if he's
talking to her right now.

(CRIES OUT)
Argh! Oh, you damn fool.

What's the matter Ralph?
Dodgy ticker, have ya?

I'm not surprised, that nasty secret
you been sitting on.

What do you mean? Well, you had
a row with Morgan over that bird.

If I tell the world what went on
there... you're in the sticky stuff.

You wouldn't do that, would you,
Dave?

Rattle a few teacups round here,
that, wouldn't it?

Please, Dave. Please.

Don't worry, Ralph. I don't rat
on people, not even to the coppers.

I wouldn't do that to you.
Not if you made me an offer.

How's 50 squid for starters?
50? Yeah.

It's enough for a few good swallows,
and I'm talking beers, not birds.

I'll meet you in The Feathers
tonight.

Bring the money.
I promise.

Erm... but listen, you won't...?
It's all right, Ralph.

I'll stay quiet... that way we'll both
make a k*lling.

Won't we?

Oh, God!

Oh, thanks very much.

Have you heard the latest?
About Nina?

Nina. Oh, Nina.

Nina. Nina!

I'm sorry it keeps happening.
You don't have to do this, Nina.

You could cancel the concert.
No, no.

Patrick would have wanted it
to go on. Thank you, Michael.

Thank you.

(LOW CHATTER)
It's outrageous.

Have you heard the latest?
The police have got photographs.

Of her and Dr Markham.
What sort of photographs?

They've been at it.
Still, what do you expect?

Russians: free love and all that
malarky.

Oh, give it a rest, Olivia.

She's got all you middle-aged buffer
gasping for it, hasn't she?

Oh, leave it, Olivia.

She'll get what's coming to her.
You mark my words.

You know, I thought at first
Ralph had done it, but er...

no, the police are onto her.

Oh.

So congenial and fun-loving, Olivia.
I mean, what's she so cranked up about?

Well, she worshipped Patrick.

Oh, well, that was never
going to happen, was it?

He always cold-shouldered her

I wouldn't be surprised if
it wasn't her that did for him.

What?
He spurned her, didn't he?

"Hell hath no fury," Michael.

Olivia certainly does, Tim.

Dad!
Oh, there you are. Come on.

(g*nsh*t)

(BIRDS SQUAWKING)

(CAR IMMOBILISER BEEPS)
Yes. Yes, don't worry.

I'm on my way now. Well, no.

Try to stay calm, all right?
Be righT there.

(ENGINE STARTS)

What the...? Aargh!

(r*fle COCKS)

No. No!

(POLICE RADIO)

Shotgun. Double-clicked, close range
m*rder.

So we're agreed on this occasion?
Entry-level common sense, John.

And we have a precisely-determined
time of death.

Do we?

His watch was hit by g*nsh*t.
It stopped

at exactly two minutes
after midnight.

Well, it saves me a job.

Same time of death as Patrick.
Same kind of net.

It's the same k*ller, sir.
Hm, could be.

He received a call on his mobile
at 23:45.

Number traces to a phone box
outside The Feathers.

Someone lured him here with a false
emergency call-out.

Sir?

He had his medical bag with him.

Michael Hipsman found the body.
Out for his morning walk.

What was he doing last night?
Said he heard nothing.

Went to bed at 10:30.
Slept right through.

Well, I suppose we can cross
Dr Markham off the list.

Oh, it may still be the good doctor
who k*lled Patrick Morgan,

and now somebody else
has disposed of him.

Dr Markham is father of my child.

I'm sorry I lied to you.
Not for the first time.

He begged me to tell no one.
He was afraid he'd be struck off.

You also lied to me about Patrick's
vasectomy.

Did you know when you married him?
No. He kept it from me.

Ten years trying for child
and all the time...

So how did you find out he was...
"f*ring blanks",

I believe is the expression?
After I found out

I was pregnant, I told
Patrick child was his.

He said it couldn't be.
Then he told me about vasectomy.

And how did that make you feel?
Sick to my stomach.

We had flaming row. I hated him
at that moment.

Enough to k*ll him?
No. I love Patrick.

But, he fell in love with me when I
was still prima ballerina.

He became obsessed with me.
From a distance.

Like an "unattainable object
of desire"? Yes.

After my injury, he promised me
new life, with him. A family.

I loved Patrick, but now I realise he
just wanted to cage me here.

Trap me. For himself. Not for me.

And Dr Markham? Was he committed
to you, once you became pregnant?

Or did he back away?

Did he disappoint you, as well?

Dr Markham gave me child I wanted.

Who k*ll him, Inspector?
Who is doing this to me?

She could have k*lled both of them,
once she'd got what she wanted, sir.

Oi! I thought Mr Morgan
cancelled this wood?

Yeah, well, since he's turned up
dead, Nina changed her mind.

Where were you last night,
around midnight?

I was in me caravan, on me tod.

I'd had a couple of six packs.
Completely Schindler's.

Oh, yeah?

Yours I take it?
Yeah.

What? Know which end of a g*n
goes bang, do you? (CHUCKLES)

Ah, double-barrelled, 12-bore, side-lock
ejecter, isn't it? Valuable g*n.

Yeah, yeah. Belongs to George Napier

Left to his father, used to be
gamekeeper to Lord Midsomer. Ah.

(g*nshots)

Oi!

Whoops.

Well, at least it's safe now.

Cheeky sod!

Done a spot of sh**ting in your time
have you, sir?

No. School Cadet corps.
Learnt all sorts of skills there.

Erm.. sh**ting, map-reading.
Oh, yeah.

Your wife mentioned how handy
you are with a map. Did she?

(CUCKOOS)

(APPROACHING FOOTSTEPS)

Sorry I'm late. I've just seen
a peewit.

Oh, sit down, Tim.

Now, let's get on.

(SHUTTER WHIRRS)
Sorry.

Sorry.
Tim, really.

Come on, please.

Olivia, has erm... committee secretary

will chair this meeting
in the absence of Patrick.

And erm... Dr Markham.

Given the present tragic
circumstances,

the annual year List Cup Competition
has to be closed.

Oh, fine with me. I win.
Oh, Ralph.

I've got 173 ticks, including
the blue-crested hoopoe.

No, she means completely cancelled,
Ralph. Null and void.

No way! Oh, come on, Ralph. It's
the only decent thing to do.

Oh, don't be so pathetic.

You're such a loser, Tim.
You're all losers.

Sat here like tits in a trance.
We've got to agree on this.

I'm reaching the end of my tether.
Tie a knot in it and give us a rest.

Witter, witter, witter.
Apologise, Ralph.

If anyone's mouthing off, it's you.
No, I will not apologise.

You moron!
I will not apologise.

The competition has two days to go.

It's a sprint to the finish and you
all know who the winner will be.

The prize is mine!
OTHERS: Ralph!

Leave it! just leave it.

(ARGUING CONTINUES)

(SOBS)

TIM: No way, Ralph, no way.

We've run checks on all our suspects

All clean, but Michael
Hipsman's name came

up, connected with an
as*ault, 14 years ago.

I'm waiting to hear back
from the Met on that.

Could be something or nothing.

But... We do have an interesting tie-in,
just turned up from ballistics.

The cartridge cases you snaffled
from Foxely's g*n

match the cases found
near Markham's body.

The f*ring pin and compression
marks are identical.

Yes, sir. Now we know Foxely
was sweet on Nina.

So maybe he put Patrick
out of his way?

And he could have found out
about Nina and the doctor.

And he's the one who sent us
the photos.

Cartridges!

You what?
Cartridges!

What are you on about?

I'm asking you, how come cartridge
cases from your g*n

were found next to Dr Markham's body
in Swansdown Woods?

Cartridges... The woods? I go rook
sh**ting all over them woods.

My spent cases will be as common
as bird crap round there.

Did you k*ll Dr Markham, Dave?

Did you find out he was
involved with Nina

as well as you? Did you find
- No way!

Yeah, she might have
had a heartthrob but

I wasn't the lucky
one pleasuring her.

Perhaps you'd like
to spend some tim

pleasuring Her Majesty,
down Causton nick?

Look. You have got this all wrong.

I can help you. I know who did
for Patrick Morgan.

Really?

Who?
Ralph Ford.

He hated Morgan.

Ralph ... he's as nutty
as a fruit cake.

He's a liar and a cheat.

Is he?

Ralph and Morgan had this upset
about this rare bird, yeah?

This er... hoopee?

Well, Ralph did see it.
And I know cos I saw it too.

Oh, you a closet bird-watcher now,
Dave?

Yeah, whatever. Look, I sh*t
a couple of rooks last week.

But this other bird fell to earth,
as well. It was strange.

It was sort of like a bluey-brown
colour. A hoopee.

So, I takes it to Ralph.
I mean, cos he buys any

dead rare animals.
Stuffs 'em, sells 'em on.

So Ralph was telling the truth
about spotting it? Yeah.

Only after I'd sh*t it stone dead.

That's cheating, see.

Cos they can't claim a tick in their
book if it's dead when they spot it.

Listen, you wanna get
down to Ralph Ford's

workshop and shake
his tree, not mine.

That thing's eyes keep following me.

Don't turn your back on it, Jones.

Look at the teeth on that pike.

"Caught in Swansdown lake".

(YOWLS)
Oh!

(EXHALES HEAVILY)

This place gives me the creeps.

(CLOCK CHIMES)

What's through there?

(RATTLES)

It's locked.

Maybe it's just a bit stiff?

I'd say definitely
a blue-crested hoopoe.

And definitely dead, sir.
Like Patrick Morgan and Dr Markham.

Dead as... I don't know what.

(DISTANT CONVERSATION)

I suppose it's one thing
if it's some sort of

prize and you sh*t it
but quite another if...

Hm!
What are you doing here?

We've found a rare bird, Mr Ford.
A blue-crested hoopoe, I believe.

Yes. Yes, it is.
Dave Foxely told us everything.

You cheated by lying about seeing
it alive. That's my affair.

What's it got to do with you? We
know you've told us one lie, Ralph.

How many more have you told us?
What do you mean?

Your phone was used to lure
Patrick Morgan to his death.

Look, I told you, it was stolen.

Can anyone confirm where you were
around midnight last night?

No, I was here, working alone.

Do you own a shotgun, Mr Ford?
What?

Did you k*ll Doctor Markham?
What? No!

I could never harm another
living thing. I mean, I couldn't!

I'm a vegetarian!

I don't quite see the relevance
of that. Well, I'm just saying,

as a vegetarian, I could never put
a living corpse into my mouth...

chew its hacked flesh, swallow
the juices of its death wounds.

We're not accusing you of eating
him, Mr Ford.

I'm just saying that I could never harm,
eat, let alone k*ll, a fellow creature.

You're surrounded by dead animals.

I told you, I don't k*ll them.

I stuff them and give them resurrection.
Life after death, in all their glory.

Bag up the bird, Jones.
Yes, sir.

Yes, all right, all right,
you take it.

But look, you don't have to tell
everyone that I lied.

My tick?

I imagine it'll be
all over Midsomer before long. Hm.

You'll have to take the shame,
Mr Ford.

(SIGHS)

Well, Foxely was right about him.
He's out of his tree.

All that stuff about vegetarianism.

Maybe he's got a point.
Not everyone's capable of k*lling.

Could you wring a chicken's neck?
If I had to, yeah.

But you couldn't call me a k*ller
for that. A chicken could.

(OWL HOOTS)

Here, here. We're coming to it.

(g*nshots)
There.

Two bangs in the distance.

Shotgun.

We've established the sh*ts that k*lled
Dr Markham were fired at midnight.

Did you hear anything else last
night? Well, yes.

About half an hour later, I thought
I'd picked up... the hoopoe.

(BIRD CALLS)
"Whoo-poo-phoo!"

But it turned out to be...

(IMITATES BIRD CALL)

The meadow lark. Ha!

(HIGH-PITCHED HUM)

What's that other sound
after the bird call?

Oh. I'll whack up the ambience.

(DISCORDANT TUUNE)

Oh. That's just Michael playing
his oboe.

Yeah, his cottage is right
by the lake.

It echoes all round the woods
whenever he plays.

Did you see anyone else out by the
lake last night?

No, no. No.
Do you own a shotgun, Tim?

Me?

Yes. Yes.
I do a bit of clay-pigeon sh**ting,

occasionally.
I keep it locked away.

Good. Mind if we take a look at it?

Well, actually, I'm-I'm running
a bit late.

It's Aimee's ballet graduation class
tonight. It'll only take a minute.

It will be useful to us if we could
eliminate it from our inquiries.

Yes, yes. Of course.

Just hold on.

(MUSIC FROM SWAN LAKE)

Oh.

You said Michael Hipsman told you
he was in bed by 10:30.

He did.

Then how come he's playing the oboe
at half-past 12?

Really? All right. Yeah, thanks.

That was the Met.

Remember Michael Hipsman's name
came up with a spot of previous?

Came to nothing.

Apparently he and three
other musicians, were

slightly worse for
wear in Coven Garden.

A bit Brahms and Liszt.
He was questioned, but not charged.

Right.

Tim Whitley's g*n has been recently
fired.

Get it checked.

And first thing tomorrow,

go and ask Michael Hipsman if he
remembers playing the oboe in his sleep.

# Bluebird Pas De Deux

(CHEERING)

# Dance Of The Sugar Plum Fairy

Please!

(HUMS MUSIC FROM SWAN LAKE)

(CONTINUES HUMMING)

Do I have to work to the
sound of music?

It's not, is it?

It's Swan Lake, Tchaikovsky. I've
been listening to it all evening.

Sorry, I can't get the damn tune
out of my head.

What are we having?

Erm... How about a salad,
with some roasted Moroccan veg?

(BARKS)
What brought that on?

One of our suspects is a
vegetarian taxidermist,

if that isn't a
contradiction in terms.

So, I suppose I'm trying some erm...
method detecting.

(HUMS MUSIC FROM SWAN LAKE)

It's not his greatest ballet, is it?

(SIGHS) You don't think so?
Well, it's very Russian.

Love, betrayal, death.

It's a bit dark.

Really? Well, there's dark
and there's light in it.

The black and white swans, the evil
Odile corrupting Odette the innocent.

And both drowning at midnight, with
their lover prince, in a lake of tears.

You remember it very well.

Look at this.

We were checking this out
this afternoon in the office.

Background for this case that we're
working on.

Some video of Nina Kustanova
at a gala performance.

Here. Here.

(CHEERING AND APPLAUSE)

Hang on, hang on. I need to go back
a few seconds.

When I looked at it before,
I was focused on Nina, but...

Of course!
What is it?

Oh, come on, Jones!

Jones, where are you?

What do you mean you're in bed?
It's only quarter-past...

Ah. Oh. I see.

Well, look, make your
excuses, get your kit on,

and meet me at the
station in ten minutes.

Sorry. What about your roasted
Moroccan veg?

Er... I don't need it anymore.
Take Sykesy out for a burger.

(BARKS)

# Dance Of The Little Swans

(CHEERING)

(CHURCH BELL STRIKING MIDNIGHT)

This is the recording that Tim Whitley
made on the night of Patrick's death.

Now...

There's the church bells
striking midnight...

(PERSON CRIES OUT)
..then Patrick's cry.

(Splash)
And a little later the splash. Yes?

Yeah, I remember all that.

What else can you hear?

Nothing.
Exactly.

I think we've got our k*ller.
Come on!

Remember when Tim Whitley told us about
picking up the sound of the oboe,

whenever Michael Hipsman played it?
Yeah.

And Michael Hipsman told you that
at the time of Patrick's death,

he was at home, playing the oboe.

But if he had been
playing his oboe, Tim

Whitley's microphones
would have picked it up.

But it didn't. There was nothing
on the recording.

So he wasn't playing it at the time
of Patrick's death.

No. He was lying.
I think Nina's his next victim.

Where to, sir?
Village hall.

(SIREN WAILS)

Just keep turning it, turn it.
What?

Is Nina Morgan still here?
Oh, no, she's just gone.

Michael Hipsman's giving her a lift
home. Her car's packed in.

Or someone tampered with it.
Hipsman's place now.

He might have taken her there.

Oh, listen, I-I-I'm waiting
for the repair man.

It could just be the
differential or perhaps

the manifold's cracked.
Something like that.

Michael? Police! Check upstairs.

Yes, sir.

This was in there.

He came here with her.

All clear upstairs, sir.
Come on.

You two men get over
to Swansdown House. Check it out.

I'll go with them, sir.

Jones!
Sir?

Wow!

What's that?
It's a circlet. Nina's circlet.

From the ballet Swan Lake.

She threw it into the audience at the
end of her final gala performance.

And Michael caught it.

And my guess is that now Michael
will want to destroy her.

When Odette...

his innocent white swan ...
was made pregnant by Doctor Markham,

she became Odile, the corrupted,
the black swan.

And both drowning at midnight

with their lover prince in a lake
of tears.

The lake!

It's OK.

It's all right, my darling.
(GROANS)

Get some back-up down here now.

We're nearly there.
(GROANS)

You take the left, I'll go right.

If he get's her in this water,
we'll never find her.

Just you and me.

Michael!?

It's alright, my darling.
Let her go, Michael! Leave her!

Stay back! She's mine!

We found your... your shrine.

The feathered circlet she... that she
threw into the audience on...

She gave it to me!

You were playing the oboe
on her final gala performance.

When she threw the circlet
and you caught it, didn't you?

Caught it and kept it. Your little
secret in your own...

private little twilight zone.

And then when she
left the ballet, you

followed her here, to
Midsomer-in-the-Marsh.

To save her. T-t-t-to protect
and rescue her...

(GROANS)
From Patrick Morgan?

He didn't deserve her!

I worshipped her!
I'll k*ll you!

Oh, Patrick, I promise you
it's yours. No. That's impossible.

What do you mean?
I had a vasectomy 15 years ago.

I cannot father a child!
What?

All the time you knew, you bastard!

Oh! Oh! Argh!

Was it then you decided
to k*ll Patrick?

You did k*ll him, didn't you?
What?

Stay still, Nina!
Keep away from me!

No Michael wait, wait.

Why did you send us those
photographs?

You were trying to throw suspicion
onto Markham.

But once you heard that
Markham was the father

of Nina's child, he had
to go too, didn't he?

No! (g*nsh*t)
So you sh*t him.

You dropped those spent cases
that you'd picked up in the woods.

Cases from Dave Foxely's sh*t g*n,
trying to implicate him as well.

You seem to know everything,
Inspector. It's my job, Michael.

Then you'll know why Nina has to die
in the lake.

We will both go down together.
I and Odile.

No, Michael. She's innocent.

She's still Odette, she's still
the white swan.

No! No! Look at her!

The black swan. We must
drown together.

In the lake of tears.
Jones!

Argh!

It's OK, Nina.

You're OK. You're safe now,
you're safe now.

Need a hand?
No, sir.

No need for you to get yourself
wet.

Watch out for the pike in there,
Jones. Give you a nasty nip.

Cheers, sir.
Cheers Jones, well done.

To a very rare bird.
Hm. To the beautiful Nina,

who for a moment there was almost
a dying swan.

No. I didn't mean Nina.

I meant our feathered friend.
Ah, of course. To her.

To the blue-crested hoopoe.

A very rare bird indeed.