02x01 - Episode 1

[bunniefuu]

Dear friends, let us begin.

GUTTURAL GROANING

HE MUTTERS RASPILY

HE INHALES SHARPLY

HIGH-PITCHED: I can see you.

I can see you, Babuji.

The mists are clearing.

Babuji...

That's what she always called me.

Do not weep for me, Babuji.

All is well.

HE SPEAKS HINDI

I have to go now, Babuji.

Farewell.

INDISTINCT WHISPERING

Death...

is but a door.

There's nothing here but peace.

Universal, never-ending...

peace and joy.

The connection is fading...

Papa...

Where are you?

I can't see you, Babuji.

Oh, bless you, Babuji.

CHOKED: Argh...!

HE GURGLES

Argh...!

HE GURGLES

Mr Sneed?

Mr Sneed, are you all right?

FOOTSTEPS CREAK

THEY ALL GASP

SHE SCREAMS

Blimey.

What's the story?

Harold Terence Sneed,


He's lived here, 27 Kingsgate,
Roborough, for about a year.

Previously somewhat itinerant.

Profession...

-psychic medium.
-Hmm.

And k*lled by a single blow to
the heart.

Done with some force.

Well, can we deduce anything...

-from the angle?
-Hmm.

Pretty much straight on.

We'll obviously know more when
we get the prints analysed.

Yes, yes. Right, well, we're holding
the others down at the station.

Any obvious suspects?

Book! What...?

Oh, apologies, Inspector.

Like the dead, m*rder travels fast.

Well, news of it, anyway.

And I must confess to a personal
interest in this matter.

You see, I rather suspected
that something of this sort

might happen to
Harold Terence Sneed.

Oh, you...

You knew the victim?

LIVELY STREET HUBBUB

I'll have one of those, thank you.

Here you go.

-Oh.
-I know.

Half cloth.

Oh, uh, paper-covered boards.

Uh, spine bound in cloth.

Excellent. Duodecimo.

Uh...

Uh, a book.

Good start.

Uh, seven inches tall.

BELL DINGS Seven or eight.

One to Nora.

Do I get a shilling?
You may.

b*stard title?

Oh, hang on, hang on. I know this.

Come on, come on, come on.

Uh... Come on, come on.

The page before the title page
with nothing but the title on.

Correct.

-Yes!
-Bugger.

Definitely worth a shilling.

Come on, Jack, Nora's putting you to
shame. She doesn't even work here.

I could. Just say the word.

Impossible. Your uncle says
you're indispensable.

That's only cos he doesn't
pay me.

Oh, Mr Baseheart.

-Hello.
-Good morning.

Good morning.

What can we do for you?

Uh, Mr Book, I...

I was wondering if you could help me
with a little problem?

Come this way.

BASEHEART: His name is Harold Sneed.

BOOK: Sneed.

I've heard that name before.

Gently now, Ayesha.

Ah.

BOOK: Sneed...

He's a medium, a psychic.

Ah.

Oh, you remember young Jack?

You may speak freely in front
of him.

He's by way of being apprenticed
here.

Think of him as Pip to my
Joe Gargery.

Eh?

Oh, well, I have great expectations.

BASEHEART CHUCKLES

Well, anyway, all that psychic
stuff, it's not really

something I believe in.

You are wise in your generation.

Though I did go and see one once,
a medium.

Yeah, end of a pier, Southend.

Old girl, all scarves and bangles.

How did that go?

Well, she got in touch with
a few people, you know,

-including my Aunt Irene.
-Oh.

There was a lot of moaning,
as I recall.

-And how was she?
-Who?

Your Auntie Irene.

Oh, very happy in the vale of mists,
and looking down on me with pride.

Ha. They always are.

So, how exactly can I help you,
Mr Baseheart?

Ah, well, now, it's...

It's not me I've come for.

I know how you helped clear up
that nasty business

with Eric Wellbeloved and
George Harkup,

and people tell me you're very,
erm...

discreet.

How indiscreet of them.

No, uh...

I'm actually here about
someone else.

Mrs Dredge.

You're close, are you?

Well, you know, uh, we were...
nodding acquaintances.

And then...

Well, after Harkup died, I just
seemed to keep on bumping into her.

We've become very fond of
one another.

And then, when she lost her
boy, uh...

Oh, I heard about that. How sad.

Well, what happened?

Accident.

Overdose of his morphine.

He was in so much pain.

-Yes, I remember.
-Mm.

Anyway, Mr Book, the thing is, Ada,
she's...

Well, not to put too fine
a point on it,

she's wallowing in it, wallowing
in her grief.

I mean, I always knew she had an
interest in spiritualism,

and she kept on mentioning it
more and more,

and that there was this chap, Sneed,

and how he was the only one who
could put her in touch with her boy.

And, well, it seemed altruistic.

I mean, he doesn't charge a bean.

And it helped, at first.

But now?

Now she can't keep away from him!

I, I...

I just think it's making it all
worse, Mr Book.

Much worse.

And she's never going to move on.

So I...

I just wondered if perhaps you might
think there was...

something to do to help?

I'm sure she'd listen to you,
Mr Book.

We shall have to tread carefully.

If she's a true believer, then Mrs
Dredge might not take too kindly

to any intervention.

It's rather like waking
a sleepwalker.

Oh.

But, uh...

I'll do what I can.

THUNDER RUMBLES

Yes, yeah...

OK. Yeah. Yes.

No, that sounds about right to me.

Well, we should be about 20 minutes.

Righto.

Morris.

-Sir?
-Stick-up job.

Tobacconists on Mercer Street.

Bring the car around.

Well?

Morris!

Jump to it.

Yes, sir.

Spiritualism began in America.

Not surprising.

Where all sorts of silly things
have started.

Yeah.

Hot dogs, Coca-Cola.

The Fox sisters, they were called,
three of them.

Cowboy films, gangster films.

The electric chair!

Such an uncivilised way to
k*ll someone.

The sisters convinced everyone
they could communicate

with the dead by making strange
banging noises.

Created a whole industry out of it.

Where are bananas from?

Uh, not America.

I've never had a banana.

Anyway, years later, one of the
sisters revealed they'd done

the whole thing by cracking
the knuckles in their toes.

It was too late.

Even though it was a proven fraud,
people wanted to believe.

And they still do.

There you are, Mr Book,
the best we have.

Ah, thank you, Yusuf. I owe you.

You do, six shillings.

Uh, yes.

Uh, pay the man, would you, Jack?

What's that?

"Life is short.
Eat your pudding first."

Present for Mrs Dredge.

Off the ration.

A sweet tooth is always a reliable
way into someone's confidence.

Come on.

Bup, bup, bup. Not you, young lady.

Dishes.

Oh, what?

There is a pile of dishes in there
higher than Hagia Sophia.

Ade.

You should give the girl a rise.

She eats, she has a roof over
her head.

What more does she want?

Hmm.

Cheerio.

NORA GROANS

Oh, Turkish delight!

Oh, it's been years.

My late husband used to get me a box
every Christmas.

Of course, he's long gone now.

Long gone.

Oh, it's just one thing after
another.

First him, then poor George Harkup,
and then...

TEARFULLY: And then my Alf.

Yes, I had heard.
I'm so terribly sorry.

Yes, I still keep his boots just
as they were.

Mm.

And now he's in Our Lady of Dalston,
down the road, next to his dad.

A vale of tears, this life, Mr
Book.

That's what it is, a ruddy vale
of tears.

Still, you're... you're managing?

Oh, yes, yes.

And George...

Mr Harkup's money won't come through
for a while yet,

but I'm all right.

But to the matter in hand,
Mrs Dredge.

I noticed some advertisements
when last I visited.

Footfalls on the Boundary
of Another World?

Oh, you've noticed those.

Yes.

Well, I used to give little talks on
it up at the Temperance Hall,

the spirit world.

Uh, it's concerning that,
that we're here, dear lady.

I understand you're an acquaintance
of Mr Harold Sneed?

Oh...

Oh, you've heard of him.

Yes.

Oh, well, remarkable man
is Mr Sneed.

Mm.

I talk to my Alf regular now,
through Mr Sneed, of course.

Great comfort, it is.

We're believers, too, Mrs Dredge.

Aren't we, Jack?

Oh... yeah, big fans.

Of the dead.

That's not quite the way I'd put it.

Of course, Mr Sneed caters to
a very sophisticated clientele.

Uh, I don't doubt it.

But if there were any way of, erm...

Getting you on the list?

MRS DREDGE GIGGLES

Well, I do pride myself that Mr
Sneed and I are on very good terms.

I'll see what I can do.

Well, thank you very much again,
Mrs Dredge.

And if we are fortunate enough to
attend, is there anything

we need to do to prepare?

Well, Mr Sneed does sometimes ask
his sitters to bring an object

closely related to the dear
departed.

A keepsake or some such of the one
you have lost.

Do you have anything like that?

I'll have a think.

Good day.

Cheerio.

Cheerio.

DOOR SHUTS

GLASS SHATTERS

My plan was gradually and subtly
to unpick his schemes.

Well, someone's unpicked him
unsubtly, and for good.

This window.

Is it always open like this?

Yes, why?

You think someone chucked
the knife through it?

So, six persons present,
excluding the deceased.

All of them swear their hands were
joined at the moment of the m*rder.

Well, they would, wouldn't they?

What's this?

Bracelet?

Napkin ring?

Oh.

Shall we?

Oh...

Got a print?
Oh, a couple of beauties.

Ah, excellent.

Do we know if they were regulars,
the ones at the seance last night?

Looks like it.

Uh, first up, there's the factotum,
one Ayesha Jean-Baptiste.

Then Miss Geraldine Mercer.

Our old friend, Mrs Ada Dredge.

Yeah, she has no luck, does she?

Lastly, a professor.

Ved Chopra.

And the spinster Misses
Plumchute, Clara and Emilia.

Looks like the usual collection of
lost souls in search of some meaning

in their pointless, miserable lives.

Dear me, Inspector, we DO have
the glums today.

How is, erm...

Mrs Bliss?

Much the same.

Ernie, forgive me.

Were you ever...?
What?

Happy?

I, I...

I seem to recall an afternoon,

just around the time of the
abdication.

It doesn't have to be like this,
you know.

There is such a thing as divorce.

I couldn't.

Just wouldn't sit right with me.

So, you're condemning yourself to
a life of...?

The question is one of motive, then.

Yes.

Well, you met the man.

Why would any of these people want
to k*ll him?

DISTANT THUNDER RUMBLES

How long have you got?

Yes.

Uh, would you be so kind as to
clear away the gin

and biscuits now, Ayesha?

Poor child is mute, alas.

But loyal.

Loyal to a fault.

Where did you find her?

Well... Charming name.

"She who must be obeyed."

Have you read Rider Haggard?

It's a corker... Sh!

Sorry.

Again, we're, uh... we're very
grateful.

I found Ayesha on the Old Kent Road,
would you believe, in a circus?

Now, would you be so kind as to
lower the lights, Ayesha?

Brightness, as we know...

is anathema to those from
the land of mists.

Now, then, any mementos?

A special something?

As we know, this will help in
summoning the loved one

from the...

from the beyond.

SNEED INHALES RASPILY

FAINT INDISTINCT WHISPERING

Now, my friends, old and new,

small in number but stout of heart,

let us join hands in the prescribed
manner.

Hold on your right.

Be held on your left.

SNEED GURGLES

SNEED MURMURS INDISTINCTLY

There he goes.

Chap's going under.
Witnessed this before.

Malay walla out foreign.

The spirits will be coming through
now from Summerland.

Sunderland?

It's SUMMER-land.

It's what they call the
spirit world.

Oh.

This isn't your first time?

No, no, no, quite the old hand.

TABLE RATTLES

They're here.

Oh. Listen.

FAINT CHIRPING

-What is it?
-Birds!

There are birds on the other side,
it's a proven fact.

They go to heaven, too.

And dogs.

That's reassuring.

SNEED GASPS

HE EXHALES RASPILY

HIGH-PITCHED: Mum?

Oh.

Mum? Are you there?

Oh, Alf!

Oh, Alf, is that you again?

Yeah...

Yeah, Mother, it's me.

Do not weep for me, Mother.

I'm happy.

I'm truly happy.

Oh, Alf, I wish I could see you.

Aw.

Oh, but I'm so very weary now.

But...

perhaps I can linger just,

-just a moment more.
-Yes...

Good Lord.

MRS DREDGE GASPS

Touch...

Touch my hand, Mother.

Let me feel your touch...

just once more.

Oh!

Oh, it's cold. So cold!

Oh, Alf!

Oh, Alf, did I do right?

Did I do the right thing?

MRS DREDGE SOBS

SNEED GRUNTS

SNEED GASPS

HE GROANS

Jack...

Jack!

Yeah?

Trauert nicht, mein Sohn.

Ich bin glucklich.

Wirklich glucklich.

What's he saying?

"Do not grieve, my son."

"I am happy."

"Truly happy."

SNEED WHEEZES

Ah...

HE BREATHES UNEVENLY

Thank you so much for coming.

The spirits work...

You heard what he said.

How did he know, about my dad?

Fascinating, fascinating.

I'd love to hear more, Mr Sneed.

Perhaps you could pop over and
see me, uh, tomorrow?

My card.

Oh.

Book's Books.

How charming.

No, no, no, keep it, please.

Oh, well, you're very kind.
I'm all right now.

Ladies.

Shall we say 11-ish?

Ish.

Of course, erm, I always...

like to spread the word.

Goodnight, then.

Well, thank you again, Mrs Dredge.

Most enlightening.

Will I see you here again?

Oh, I should think so.

-And you?
-Oh, of course.

Well...

Night, then.

-Goodnight.
-Goodnight.

Night-night.

Ta-ra.

Did you locate the autopsy report on
her boy?

Accidental overdose.

Hmm.

There was something else very
interesting in it, though.

Oh?

The boy's fingers, splashed
with ink.

He'd been writing.

Nothing at the bedside,
no pen, no paper.

"Did I do right?" she said.

"Did I do the right thing?"

Well, what could that mean?



I think we should treat ourselves
to a cab. Don't you?

Poor Jack.

And he got out that photo.

Yes, that was, as they used to say,
a bit of a facer.

We need to look out for him,
Trottie,

make sure he feels involved.

He's obviously desperate for
answers.

Like me.

Where's he got to?

Gone for a smoke.

And how's that all going, finding
out about what happened to...

SOFTLY: Felix?

You can say his name, you know.

I know, it's just...

We progress.

Time for bed, I think.

You sure you'll be all right
down here?

Oh, yes, perfectly all right,
at least until my ceiling's fixed.

Whole place is crumbling, Trottie.

Like the empire.

Don't shut me out, Book.

Shut you out?

I know how delicate all this is.
I know how much it must all hurt.

It's fine. I'm fine.

I just want to help.

You ARE helping.

It takes time, that's all,
getting us into Germany.

Strings must be pulled.

You'll know everything just as soon
as I do, I promise.

Be careful, my love.

It's not always a good idea,
disturbing the dead.

Goodnight, Mr Book.

Goodnight, Mrs Book.

Felix?

I never had his name.

Just that.

Just that one picture.

Your father was a German.

German?

I last saw your father,
Felix von Bode,

in a Berlin railway station in 1935.

According to the information
I received,

he was sent to a sanatorium shortly
afterwards, and died there.

I was sent the death certificate.

And?

Some sort of tumour on the brain.

I wrote to his family,
expressed my condolences.

But I never had any reply.

And then, one day, only last year -
just after VE Day, in fact...

You heard from him?

Not exactly.

A photograph came into my
possession.

That's him.

That's my dad.

Yes.

Dated December 5, 1936.

So?

The day I was told Felix died...

in the sanatorium.

SNEED CHUCKLES

Amontillado.

Only a glass, not a cask.

Ah. Poe.

Poe.

So early in the morning.

One does feel a little naughty.

You prefer something milder?
Tea, coffee?

We have only chicory, alas.
The ration.

No, no.

Mm...

We could all do with a little
cheering up, don't you think?

The w*r does cast a very long
shadow.

Quite.

Bugger Attlee!

Mm.

Do I find myself in a socialist
household?

I try not to be too tribal about
these things.

The Prime Minister's doing
a very good job

in difficult times, is all I think.

Bring back Winston, I say.

He does have his uses.

Speaking of the w*r, Mr Sneed.

Last night... Yes?

-That photograph the young man gave you?
-Oh.

Oh, yes.

How did you know all that?

SNEED CHUCKLES LIGHTLY

The ways of the beyond are
a mystery,

even to Harold Sneed.

I am a mere vessel, Mr Book.

Come now, Mr Sneed.

We are not children.

I knew I'd heard your name before,
so I asked around.

You've been a professional medium
since the '20s.

But during the w*r... Yes?

Your powers were utilised by
the authorities.

Oh, how did you know that?

Because I was pressed into service, too.

Oh, I thought you were a mere
book-seller?

-I read.
-Books.

And people, like you do.

Very useful method of acquiring
information.

According to my sources, you were
very helpful in laying hands

on all kinds of undesirables.

Miscreants, black marketeers,

fifth columnists,

fascists, like Sir Gideon Fay
and Harrison Hopper.

I did what I could to serve
my country.

And the spirits were kind.

You used the same crooked methods
you do in your so-called profession,

but, for once, on the side of
the angels.

Did you invite me here just to
insult me?

No, that's just a bonus.

Ha-ha.

"Crooked methods."
Well, explain it, then.

Explain what happened last night.

"Trauert nicht, mein Sohn."

"Ich bin glucklich."

"Wirklich glucklich."

It was rather touching, I thought.

A fatuous platitude.

But then, you people always deal in
generalisations, don't you?

Oh, we people do, do we?

You'd heard Jack's name already
when we arrived.

You asked him for a memento.

Obviously, it would be something
linked to a meaningful loss.

A quick glance at the photograph
told you it was of some age,

so probably not a brother.

"My son" could merely be a term
of affection,

or more specifically,
a father talking to his child.

Worth you taking a punt.

But the German, now, the German.

How did you manage that? Ah, yes.

There's a number on the back of
the photo with a crossed seven

in the continental manner.

Could have been French?

And, presumably, you would've
tried that, too,

if Jack hadn't reacted the way
he did.

Ah...

All I offer...

is a little comfort.

A little hope.

Uh, my clients...
Your customers.

Well, hardly. I don't charge.

They see me as a confidant.

A father confessor, if you will.

Balderdash.

Don't bring heaven into this.

We must make the best of what
we have.

And if there is a God, he is a cruel
and abhorrent thing, is he not?

No, Mr Sneed, no gods, no ghosts.

Consider this a warning.

SCOFFING: Warning...

I'm not about to let you get your
claws into Jack Blunt,

nor into Mrs Ada Dredge.

You, sir, are a grief leech.

I beg your pardon?

Psychics, mediums - whatever you
choose to call yourselves -

grief leeches.

Peddling a few tatty ancient
parlour tricks,

and passing them off as supernatural
powers.

Feasting off the bereaved
and fleecing them

so they can never move on.

Filthy, crooked, mendacious,

disgusting pigs!

BELL TINKLES Can I help you?

Good morning.

I'm here for the book.

Thank you, Mrs Fung. Cheerio.
Thank you.

The sight of that picture
did provoke quite a reaction

in you, too, Mr Book.

Perhaps you were expecting a message
from the beyond that was...

less platitudinous,
and more, uh, intimate?

What exactly are you suggesting?

We all have our secrets, Mr Book.

Perhaps you'd be so good as to keep
your nose out of mine.

Thank you for the Amontillado.

Sorry.

What for?

That it wasn't what you hoped for,

and it wasn't Felix who came
to you last night.

That's OK, Mr Book.

We need to concentrate on
what's real.

Don't we?

Yes, Jack.

Yes, we do.

PHONE RINGS

Hello? 3-8-6-5.

Oh.

Oh, Mr Sneed.

Oh!

How lovely to hear from you.

Oh...

Oh.

Ooh...

-Good evening.
-Good evening. -Good evening.

Who knows what tonight...
Tonight might hold.

Yes, indeed.

Oh.

Dear friends... let us begin.

BLADE PLUNGES

ADA SCREAMS

Could you tell us about what
happened to your daughter?

There is little to say.

Lakshmi was the light of my life.

After my wife passed over,
my daughter was all I had.

You're a professor, sir?

Chemistry, University of London.

I came here before the w*r.

Which was a distinguished one,
by all accounts.

I did my bit.

May I ask you, miss,
the nature of your loss?

My mother.

She had rather an unhappy end.

I... I suppose I've been going to
the seances looking for

some kind of answer.

What happened to Lakshmi?

A car... it struck her.

TYRES SQUEAL

Hit-and-run.

We were taking a little holiday
in Scotland.

One moment, everything was fine,
and the next...

my whole world changed.

Very sorry.

The police, they said they could do
nothing.

The driver...

There were no witnesses,

so it was impossible to trace her.

Well, the seance had been proceeding
as usual.

Mr Sneed was sitting next to me.

All our hands were linked.

Well, technically, I suppose,
our wrists.

Yes, we did the same at the one
I attended.

It had been a very successful
session.

Mr Sneed had made contact with
Professor Chopra's daughter,

Mrs Dredge's son,

a high priestess from Atlantis,

and, uh, Mr Bonar Law,
the late Prime Minister.

Busy night.

I know what you must be thinking.

"He's a rational man, a scientist."

"What's he doing messing about
with table tappers?"

Well, I can't answer that.

I only know I needed...

solace, in whatever form I could
find.

I tried my faith, and found it
wanting.

When one loses a child,

one descends into a particular kind
of hell.

And that's when you came across
Harold Sneed?

In hell.

Uh, was there anything unusual about
this particular seance,

this particular group of people?

Well, I... I don't think I'd met
any of them before.

I just got a phone call confirming
I was on the list.

Uh, there was...

nothing unusual other than that.

There was a rota, a schedule?
Yes.

I went every other Thursday.

Although my, uh...

invitations had increased somewhat
recently.

And the phone invitation,
a voice you knew?

Yes.

Yes, it was Mr Sneed himself.

And that was unusual?

Well, it's usually a letter.

It's never happened before.

I go quite regularly. I was simply
informed that it was my turn again.

By letter?

No, by telephone.

Sneed called you?
Yes.

That was unusual.

Right, who's next?

Well, uh... No point.

No point?

Well, we got statements from
the others,

but it's got to be Miss Mercer
or the professor, isn't it?

Has it?

They were the ones sat either side
of the victim.

Stands to reason, doesn't it?

One of them must have stabbed him.

It's just a question of proximity.

Well... Ah.

I think he's right.

Sneed was stabbed front on,

so, yeah, it must have been one of
them.

You don't think so?

We're in the land of mists,
Inspector.

We're dabbling with the dead.

Perhaps not all...

is what it seems.

Very good.

Hello, there.

Oh, you don't remember?
How wounding.

No. Erm...

Yes, yes, from the, erm...

Yes, the seance.

Good Lord, did you hear?

Oh, yes. It was dreadful.

Poor old Sneed.

Sorry, I didn't mean to distress
you, Miss...?

Uh, Trottie.

Book. Trottie Book, Mrs.

And you don't need to worry about
me. I'm made of fairly strong stuff.

Reggie Winters, Colonel. Delighted.

Wish we could have met under more
pleasant circumstances.

Not at a bus stop, you mean?

About the, erm, seance,
how did you...?

Oh, somebody got me on the list,
friend of a friend,

and I thought I'd give it a whirl.

And how did you find it?

Very entertaining, actually.

Well, more than that.

I suppose, it gave me...

-something.
-Hmm.

Forgive me, what was the nature of
your bereavement?

Well, I lost a lot of pals during
the w*r, obviously,

but more particularly...

the memsahib.

It's my wife, she...
Oh, I'm so...

I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to...
No, it's quite all right.

We're also made of stern stuff

in the Argyll
and Sutherland Highlanders.

Perhaps we'll run into one
another again.

Yes, perhaps we will.

This is my bus.

Cheerio.

How long have you been in
Mr Sneed's employ?

Five years come Christmas.

You met at the circus, I gather?

I had an accident...

on the trapeze.

And then Mr Sneed offered you a job
with him?

Happy in your work?

Happy as a sandboy.

And you were in charge of
the appointments?

You arranged who was to come to
each seance?

Mr Sneed selected the patrons.

I just contacted them.

By letter, clearly.

Ayesha...

I may call you Ayesha, mayn't I?

How did you feel about your
employer's profession?

The flummery, the mummery,
the tricks of the trade?

Like that?

Is that how Sneed made all
the lights go out?

It's a living.
BOOK CHUCKLES

Well, thank you very much.

Oh, finally, Miss Jean-Baptiste...

how do you feel about the death of
your employer?

"Out of a job, aren't I?"

DOOR SHUTS

Well, how would you refer to it?

A calling, perhaps.

A vocation, rather.

Yes, perhaps the better word.

You see, after Emilia and I lost
Teddy...

-In the w*r. -The previous w*r.
-The Great w*r.

The w*r to end all wars.

-Oh.
-Oh, the horrible irony of that.

If any of us had known...
How could we have known?

That a few wretched years later...
It would all happen again.

And poor Teddy's sacrifice.
All for nothing.

Nothing.

So, we do what little we can to
alleviate the sufferings

of this world.
And here you find us.

Oh, but to get back to the seance.

Do you want bread with that, dear?

-Yes, please.
-Over there.

Thank you.

Well...

You see, we've been in touch
with Teddy ever since...

Ever since he passed over.

We know all about his last moments

on the western front.
Western front.

Terribly distressing, of course.

But, then, how much more wonderful
to know that he is happy

-on the other side.
-The other side.

And Harold Sneed, you've been
attending his seances...?

-Oh.
-Oh, my.

-Forever.
-Forever.

Since 1928.1928.

In fact, oh, very impressive was
Mr Sneed.

There has been ectoplasm.
Mm.

Really?

And an angel's feather.
Feather.

And he didn't charge you for this?

No, nothing.

-Nothing at all.
-Nothing at all.

Only a... Voluntary contribution.

Money was of little interest to...

-poor Mr Sneed.
-Poor Mr Sneed.

And I have to ask, can you think of
any reason

why anyone would want to k*ll him?

-None.
-None.

Well, thank you, ladies.
You've been most kind.

Fascinating.

Handiwork as distinctive as
the brushwork...

of an old master.

Eh?

Profitable day, dear?

Exhausted.

Jack and I have tramped miles,
haven't we, Jack?

Miles.

Inspector Bliss is focused on
Professor Chopra

and Miss Geraldine Mercer.

The police mindset.

But it does leave us a pretty clear
field to investigate

the other suspects.

So, perhaps, maybe it's time.

Oh.

The pattern book?

Oh, good, it's been ages.

The what?

The pattern book.

What's the pattern book?

Well, no man is a hero to his valet,
Jack. Isn't that what they say?

The same thing is true of commerce.

Right...

It's really quite simple.

We, all of us, develop habits.

We tend to go to the same grocers,
cobblers, bakers.

We wear a groove into our own lives,
a groove that can be analysed.

And after numerous years in
this business,

Trottie's become rather good at it.
Haven't you, dear?

I'm not bad.

Uh, gossip, you mean?

Uh, intelligence, Jack.

We need to find out everything
we can about all the people

who attended the fatal seance,

and there's really no better way
than by scrutinising

their spending habits.

We call this the pattern book.

You and I shall adopt the guises of
twittery persons,

and go about our business.

-You and me?
-Of course.

You're one of the family now,
aren't you?

PHONE RINGS

Anything else to go on at
the moment?

Oh, no, it's far too soon
to speculate.

Nonsense, I know you.

-Three things?
-No.

Heaps of things.

This is a rum old case,
and no mistake.

I would offer these up, Mrs Book...

an unbroken circle,

a hit-and-run accident,

and a pioneering plastic surgeon.

Sorry.

Uh, Inspector on the blower.

He wants to see you in the morning.

Well, we got prints off
the m*rder weapon.

Professor Chopra's or Miss Mercer's?

Neither.

Wh... what?

Neither.

A totally different set of prints.

Whose?

The fingerprints I took off the
dagger were very distinctive,

an odd double-loop whorl pattern.

They seemed familiar, rang a bell.

So, I went looking.

Harrison Hopper - remember him?

Of course. Blackshirt, interned
during the w*r,

escaped to Germany,
then arrested in '44.

They hanged him, didn't they?
Earlier this year.

On evidence provided by
Harold Sneed.

What?

Yes, I did some digging, too.

Sneed was co-opted by British
intelligence.

The w*r was a murky time,
made strange bedfellows of us all.

No-one around to clean the sheets.

Sneed used his tricks to get
all sorts of shady contacts.

As a result, he knew where lots of
n*zi sympathisers were hiding.

Doctor, where's all this...?

Harrison Hopper had very unusual
fingerprints.

Double loop.

No two sets of fingerprints
are alike, Inspector.

The prints on the dagger belonged
to Hopper, an ex*cuted n*zi.

What?

You heard what she said, Inspector.

Harold Sneed was m*rder*d...

by a dead man.