(opening theme playing)
(heavy breathing)
(suspenseful music playing)
(breathing heavily)
(crackling)
(officer) Next.
(officer) Next.
(train whistles)
(announcer) Platform one for
the next service to London Waterloo.
(conductor) All aboard!
(chuckles)
Ooh!
Oh, let me help you with your
Oh, thank you. Thank you so much.
(coughs)
Oh.
(unwraps paper)
Fudge?
Homemade.
Keep the paper.
I've chosen a horse.
- Sweet tooth, I see.
- (chuckles)
Are you going up to London to study?
No, my studying days are long gone.
Luke Obiako Fitzwilliam.
Soon to be of Whitehall.
Lavinia Pinkerton,
pleased to meet you.
You're Nigerian? I guessed.
Papa was stationed there.
Though why anyone
would leave such beauty
for these dreary shores,
I do not know.
Won't you miss home?
Won't home miss you?
I think I'm here to make home proud.
Sir William Ossington
of the Colonial Office,
I was his attaché.
Always said I was wasted
in regional government.
So, when he was recalled, he asked
me to work for him at Whitehall.
Whitehall, you say?
Perhaps you might happen to know
what time Scotland Yard closes?
It's vital I don't miss them.
You see, I must get back
to Algernon, but
I have to report.
m*rder.
m*rder?
m*rder.
Tommy Pierce, pushed.
(echoey yell)
I found him on the parapet.
Harry Carter,
the publican down in the next
village, Ashe Bottom, drowned.
- Two murders?
- Perhaps three.
If my suspicions are correct, but I
do know for certain there'll be more.
The m*rder*r has a point to make
and will keep k*lling
until it's made.
I must stop them.
But if you know the m*rder*r's
identity, why not tell the police?
I tried.
The village policeman
is fine with lost cats,
but to listen to an old "Auntie"
talking mass m*rder?
Especially when the suspect
is a respectable person.
No, not many people do, you know?
Listen.
Scotland Yard is my last hope.
But
Auntie (chuckles)
how can someone m*rder three people
in an English village
without it being noticed?
I noticed, my dear.
And m*rder is easy
for a certain type of person.
(train whistles)
Well
we mustn't miss the race.
Have you picked a winner?
I love the Derby. Don't you?
- Oh.
- (train whistling)
(suspenseful music playing)
(hooting)
It's absurd to think
a grown woman can't place a bet
without opprobrium
in this day and age.
Papa and I did
Port Harcourt races every week.
He could always spot a winner.
As indeed can I, I believe.
(Fitzwilliam) I've I've sent
my bags ahead. Can I
Can I accompany you to Scotland Yard?
No need.
Whatever happens now
someone else knows the truth.
Someone I can trust, can't I?
Yes.
- Yes, of course.
- (clerk) Last bets, last bets.
(Pinkerton) Ooh, hurry.
(clerk) Last bets, everybody!
40-to-1 on Jujube II.
- 40-to-1! Auntie, are you quite sure?
- Perfectly.
Twenty guineas on Jujube II.
And er all this on Never Say Die.
(race commentary plays on radio)
On second thought Jujube II.
Jujube II. All right.
(man on radio) The starter's giving
the nod. He looks happy.
And they're off first time
to a very good start,
extremely good start.
Moonlight Express
coming on the stand side,
then comes Arabian Phoenix,
and Never Say Die.
Star Corsair is very well-placed.
And it's Never Say Die
and Star Corsair.
Arabian Phoenix falling back.
And here comes Jujube II!
Jujube II coming on the wide outside
to beat them all.
Fifty yards to go.
Jujube II is going to win it!
Yes!
(tyres screech, metal crunches)
(car revs, drives off)
(horrified chatter and screams)
(ominous music playing)
(clerk) Here you are, mate.
Take your winnings.
(car pulls up)
(door shuts)
Officer! Officer, erm
I know this woman.
I have
I have her money here. See?
My name is Luke Obiako Fitzwilliam.
That's O-B
I
My mistake. Never mind.
(man) Officer, I saw a car.
(Afro-jazz music playing)
(song concludes)
(Fitzwilliam)
A respectable, old woman, Jimmy
Talking one minute, dead the next.
While I stood there
with her Derby winnings in my hand.
Maybe I should find her village
pay my respects to her family
as the last person to see her.
Very admirable, cousin. But how?
And what about Whitehall?
And your old employer?
Sir William Ossington.
(Ngozi) Ossington?
That colonial butcher.
T'eh!
Behold the imperial African.
Self-colonised,
collaborating with his oppressors.
Eesh!
No wonder you sound like
an Englishman!
- He offered me a job.
- As what? His Man Friday?
(tuts)
I do hope you can type.
How is your filing?
As his attaché here in London.
It's a senior diplomatic post.
- There'll be no typing.
- Ngozi! Unh-unh!
(upbeat music playing,
people cheering)
- But that poor, poor woman.
- Obi, please, I beg.
Stop talking about this Auntie.
She was talking of m*rder
murders in her village.
She said he'd k*ll again,
and now she's dead.
Doesn't that seem?
Someone should go there and
Let me get this straight,
O Great Black Saviour.
You roll up to some deep bush place
- full of homicide
- (Jimmy) And start asking questions
(whispers) about m*rder.
Do you want to be arrested?
Shouldn't someone at least
return her money?
Shouldn't someone be in his
own village, helping his own people
gain independence back home?
When were you last home, Miss Ngozi?
You've been in England,
"studying," for years.
Or perhaps you've become fond
of the climate?
Ngozi, the hook only catches
the fish with its mouth open.
(tuts)
Or perhaps we both owe it
to our people
to do what's right
and make them proud,
whether that's back home in a village
or somewhere in England.
No!
No.
You're not going to any village.
You're going to bed!
And tomorrow, Whitehall.
Mm.
(heavy breathing, echoey, distant
Derby radio commentary from before)
(tyres screeching, crash)
No, that's fine.
Thanks for letting me know.
What did they say?
Sir William is away.
Nothing to worry about.
I have to wait for his letter
before reporting for duties.
Just a couple of days.
(suspenseful music playing)
(music continues)
(train whistling)
(birds chirping)
(car door opens)
(keys jangle)
Miss?
Miss, can you, er
Can you point me
to the family of a Miss Pink?
Hurry, or we'll miss the verdict.
(coroner) Lacking witnesses
to the demise of Harry Carter,
publican of The Seven Stars,
Ashe Bottom,
I am dispensing a verdict
of death by drowning
at Wychwood watermill
whilst under the influence
of strong liquor.
For the avoidance of doubt,
an accident.
Next case.
Tommy Pierce,
window cleaner of Ashe Bottom.
Major Horton to the stand.
(woman coughs)
(Horton) Well, he was
larking around on the balcony
balustrade at Ashe Manor,
East Wing, doing impressions.
Impressions of whom?
Well Lord Whitfield, I believe.
Well, I shook my fist
and carried on walking with me dogs.
Didn't see him fall.
(constable)
Calling Dr Thomas to the stand.
(Thomas) The impact of said fall
resulted in a complete bisection
of C3 and C4.
(murmuring)
(sighs) He broke his neck.
(shocked chatter)
Thank you, Dr Thomas.
Calling Miss Wayneflete to the stand.
So, Tommy Pierce had been employed
to clean the windows at Ashe Manor.
Where were you at this time?
I was working downstairs, labelling
Lord Whitfield's Anglo-Saxon goblets.
I heard his impressions,
but I didn't see him fall.
- So who found the body?
- Lavinia Pinkerton to the stand.
(chatter)
Oh, dear, old Pinkerton. She's
probably looking after Algernon.
(coroner) Not present.
- In which case
- (Rev Humbleby) Oh! Blast!
(coroner) With no more witnesses,
and given we have heard
ample evidence of the deceased
Thomas Pierce's history
of delinquent and foolhardy
behaviour,
I confidently bring
this inquest to a close
with a verdict of "accidental death."
(subdued chatter)
(footsteps approaching)
So, you're a journalist?
That explains it.
Oh, a rather bad journalist.
Me? No!
I thought you might have been.
Just your averagely observant
secretary.
I live in Wychwood,
so there's precious little
to challenge my powers
of observation.
Until you arrived.
Fitzwilliam.
Er Luke Fitzwilliam.
And what brings you to Wychwood,
Er Fitzwilliam?
- Our sparkling society?
- Actually, I'm
Because we haven't any.
Fresh air and exercise?
Convalescence?
Are you an invalid, Mr Fitzwilliam?
I find myself in excellent health.
I'm pleased to hear it.
Though I hope you have a reason
to be here in Wychwood.
Otherwise I am obliged
to inform the authorities.
(whispers)
What if I'm on a secret mission?
(whispers)
Blink twice if you're a spy.
(upbeat music playing)
Cultural anthropologist.
- Bless you.
- Thank you. No. Me.
I am a
cultural anthropologist,
researching a book.
Erm
comparing customs and folklore
in rural England and Nigeria.
I'll be in Wychwood a while.
Comparing the local customs
and folklore.
Hmm.
Well, satanic rituals are
every third Tuesday of the month.
(chuckles)
Very amusing.
Erm
My pleasure to have met
you, Miss, er?
Conway.
Bridget Conway.
(birds chirping)
(bell jingling)
Innkeeper's out.
Thank you.
(echoey, distant
Derby radio commentary from before)
(Pinkerton) (echoey, distant)
The m*rder*r has a point to make.
I must stop them.
(commentary fades out,
suspenseful music playing)
(suspenseful music continues)
(water flowing gently)
(red kite screeches)
(ominous music playing)
(screeching)
(suspenseful music playing)
(echoey yell)
(heavy, squishy thud)
I think you'll find you're
in the wrong place, sir.
"His Lordship" and the other guests
will be inside the house.
(suspenseful music continues)
(knocks on door)
(jazzy music plays in the distance)
(door closes)
(distant chatter)
(Fitzwilliam) Lord Whitfield?
I received your very generous
invitation. I just wanted to
(Bridget) Mr Fitzwilliam.
We have never had
a cultural anthropologist for supper.
So, we thought we'd have you,
for starters.
Mr Fitzwilliam, Lord Whitfield.
Hmm.
My Bridget tells me you are writing
a book on superstitions.
Yes, ha, yes
Similarities between cultures,
the remarkable universality of
Yeah, I've never approved
of superstitions.
Have I, Bridget?
Hmm
"Have nothing to do with
foolish and irreverent myths.
Rather train yourself for Godliness."
Timothy 4:7.
So, what sort of man are you,
Mr Fitzwilliam?
Old-fashioned?
Dark 'n' stormy?
A highball chap, I'd say.
I'll mix you one.
You recall Dr Thomas
from the inquest?
Reverend and Mrs Humbleby,
and their daughter Rose.
Delighted to meet you, young man.
Pleased to make your acquaintance.
Yes, some say that books
are the key to the castle.
And look where they have got you.
From your mud hut
to all this.
(Fitzwilliam) Thanks.
Dinner is served.
(Rev Humbleby) My love.
Thank you.
Bridget used to be his secretary.
Now they're engaged.
So romantic.
Come, Rose.
(jazzy music playing in background)
(Fitzwilliam) I'm comparing
everyday pagan practices
in a typical English village
to those in Nigeria.
(Whitfield scoffs)
You hear that?
Pagan practises. Huh!
In Wychwood, Reverend Humbleby!
(Humbleby chuckles)
This isn't the Middle Ages, my Lord.
The church is increasingly
forward-thinking.
So, Fitzwilliam?
Do you, do you, do you make
a decent living book writing?
- Never had to find out.
- How's that?
My father's village
is very fortunate.
Two thousand square miles of arable
land and, er
mud huts.
Oh
and oil.
(Rev Humbleby) Ha! You'll be running
yourselves before you know it.
Well, Fitzwilliam I'm in cement,
which holds the modern
world together.
My father was the village cobbler,
but I just pulled myself up by
A spot of wartime profiteering?
My bootstraps
(chuckles)
(Whitfield clears his throat)
righteous hard work,
and the grace of God.
(squelching, cutlery clattering)
(Fitzwilliam)
The chapter I'm working on now?
Well, it concerns popular beliefs
around violent death (chuckles)
falls, or accidents.
Many cultures believe
when a life is cut short,
its spirit lives on,
restlessly walking the earth.
Goodness. How terrifying!
Quite right.
No one wants the likes of Harry
Carter restlessly walking around.
Mr Carter was rather a terror.
That drunk violently accosted me
on my own estate.
Didn't he, Bridget?
Hmm?
And as as for Tommy Pierce
Oh! Impertinent devil.
Voice of an angel.
(Thomas) In my medical opinion,
the lad was unbalanced
in more ways than one.
You didn't mention that interesting
detail at the inquest, Dr Thomas.
(suspenseful music playing)
Sad, many deaths recently.
Yes. And now, Miss Pinkerton.
(cutlery scrapes)
(Bridget) What?
Dead? How?
Struck down.
Yesterday in London.
What?
I should have been notified
of any accident. It's protocol.
Dead? Are you absolutely certain?
Yes, Mr Fitzwilliam,
how could you possibly know this?
"Woman struck down by car."
It was in The Standard, late edition.
They don't deliver it here?
Poor, dear Lavinia.
Another tragic accident.
(Rose gasps)
(Rev Humbleby) Such a shame.
(Rose) Impossible.
(ominous music playing)
(red kite screeching)
I'm sorry.
I still don't quite understand.
What was it that drew your attention
to the death of a perfect stranger?
Happened to notice her address
Wychwood.
Such a coincidence.
Such.
How did they identify her?
Her name was engraved
on her umbrella, I believe.
Miss Pinkerton left no relatives?
Only Algernon Jones.
Her cat.
(Whitfield) Poor, old Pinkerton.
Not living to see
my Whitfield New Town.
None of us shall, Providence willing.
(Bridget) Gentlemen.
No business talk now.
If I'd had my way,
Whitfield New Town
would be fully erected by now,
the cement beacon lighting our way
to a brighter future.
If some people
weren't dead set against me.
A brighter future for whom?
Certainly not the people
of Ashe Bottom.
You sit here in your mansion
drawing up your elaborate plans
instead of building
some decent, affordable homes!
This is a new town, carrying my name.
No one gives a fig for your name!
- Steady on, Vicar, old chap.
- (Rev Humbleby) And you, Doctor?
What exactly do you do on the board?
Apart from toady
to his Lordship's pipe dream?
I said at the last board meeting,
and as your priest,
it's pure vanity.
It won't do!
It won't
- (Mrs Humbleby) Arthur?!
- (Rose) Father!?
(suspenseful music playing)
(Mrs Humbleby) Arthur?!
Arthur, what's wrong?
Stand aside, man.
(Thomas) He's just fainted.
We'll get him home safely. Goodbye!
(groans)
(door opens)
- Well.
- (door closes)
Hope all's well for Saturday.
(laughs)
We need the Humblebys
for the mixed doubles.
You too, Fitzwilliam.
Too much of your excellent port,
my Lord.
Nothing a strong coffee
and an aspirin won't fix
(door opens)
(door closes)
Thank you.
Miss Conway?
Good night.
(suspenseful music playing)
(woman) Help! Hurry! Hurry!
(woman wailing and sobbing)
(woman) Help!
(tense music playing)
Constable Reed! Anyone! Help!
It's my maid, Amy. She's in her room.
Something dreadful.
The door's locked from the inside!
(Wayneflete)
It's the first door on the left.
(gasping, wheezing)
(Fitzwilliam) Amy! Amy! Amy!
Stay with me. Amy, stay with me.
Amy.
(gasping)
No!
(music stops)
(Wayneflete sobs)
(suspenseful music playing)
I'm sorry.
I was just too late.
Couldn't have saved her, anyway.
Oxalic acid. Red hat paint.
Her internal organs
must be liquefied.
Poisoned?
You think someone might have
Forced her to drink hat paint?
I gave her some cough linctus
yesterday.
She must have mixed up the bottles.
A very silly girl
had a very silly accident.
What a frightful morning.
Poor Amy.
You knew her?
An orphan.
The Carters took her in.
Sent into service at 15,
but she was too free-spirited
for the work.
What a tragic life.
Wychwood can be welcoming.
But it rather depends.
Depends?
On what?
Where you came from.
I hope the Vicar is recovered?
An infection.
Dr Thomas has given him penicillin.
Take care, Mr Fitzwilliam.
Constable!
(suspenseful music playing)
- This village really is
- A deep bush place full of homicide?
Exactly.
(Ngozi)
Were there any relatives there?
No, there's no relatives
to return the money to.
A girl just died
right in front of me,
and everyone's insisting
it's an accident.
Please do forward the letter from
Whitehall when it arrives, Ngozi.
But now I must go find out
how to drown a man.
(suspenseful music playing,
wheel creaks)
(Pinkerton)
m*rder Harry Carter
The publican down in the next
village, Ashe Bottom, drowned.
(gasping)
(suspenseful music playing)
(thud and rattle)
(gasping)
(panting)
(gasping)
(creaks)
(gasps)
(Bridget) Mr Fitzwilliam?
I've stopped the water
But that's quite a pickle
you've got yourself into.
(Bridget)
Now that I've saved your life
Perhaps this might be the time to
(upbeat music playing)
to ask you, Mr Fitzwilliam
what it is you are doing here?
Me?
Nothing.
I could ask you the same question.
Well, I'm here
because I am always here.
Lived here all my life.
Whereas you
Are you one of those men who never
know when to leave well enough alone?
You clever women are the cruellest.
Well, there is precious little reward
for our cleverness.
So we must get our small pleasures
where we can.
So spanking, new tweeds,
turning up at a stranger's inquest,
spurious book on folklore about
which you know virtually nothing.
The only area in which
you seem to show any expertise
is Miss Pinkerton's death,
a subject on which
you are so well-informed,
I can only conclude
that you k*lled Miss Pinkerton!
I know she was k*lled. Deliberately.
- And even if Carter wasn't pushed
- He drank.
Fell. Drowned. Accident.
All right.
What about Amy Gibbs
and her red hat paint?
- (laughing) Amy Gibbs and her what?
- Amy Gibbs and red hat paint.
Amy Gibbs mistook
her cough linctus for oxalic acid.
She most certainly did not.
You accuse me of k*lling old women
but draw the line at hat paint?
Only a man wouldn't.
(scoffs)
And that is because no one
has used hat paint since the w*r.
And if Amy Gibbs wanted a different
colour hat, she'd buy a new one.
And it would never be red!
- Why not?!
- Amy Gibbs had flaming red hair.
And redheads don't wear red hats.
You
You're right.
That never would have occurred
to a man.
Right.
I'm going to pay
Miss Wayneflete a visit,
get an explanation for this
cough linctus, hat-paint nonsense.
Are you coming?
(knocks)
(Fitzwilliam) I was concerned for you
after this morning's tragic events.
Thank you, Mr Fitzwilliam.
(Bridget) I thought she might
help you with your research.
Miss Wayneflete is quite
the history buff.
Amateur curiosity.
(chuckles)
I curate Lord Whitfield's
private collection and library.
- Sugar?
- Yes. Four, please.
I've no wish to upset you further,
Miss Wayneflete.
Could I search Amy's room?
I just, I may have lost my watch,
this morning.
(suspenseful music playing)
(Bridget) Her door was locked?
(Wayneflete) Strange girl. Insisted
on shutting herself in at night.
- (cat miaows)
- Ahh, oh poor Algernon Jones!
He has a nasty ear infection.
But he was Lavinia's.
So I can't let him go to strangers.
(Fitzwilliam) Ah, Algernon.
- Oh, look! There's your watch.
- Oh! Thanks.
Well-spotted, Miss Wayneflete.
- Had Amy been with you long?
- No.
It's unchristian to speak ill
of the dead,
but Amy was a far from ideal maid.
Lord Whitfield dismissed her
because her tongue tended
to run away with her, I'm afraid.
Still, I doubt she died of insolence.
- Yes.
- (Algernon miaows)
(chuckles)
Dr Thomas said Amy mixed up
her bottles,
but there's only the one here.
(tense music playing)
Even in the dark,
Amy couldn't mix up one bottle.
If there is a m*rder*r, why didn't
Miss Pinkerton give you a name?
She only said the k*ller was a
respectable man with a point to make.
We know that he was in London
when Miss Pinkerton was k*lled.
- What about the car that k*lled her?
- It sped away.
The police at the scene
were rather
I was unable to identify the driver.
So, who was out of the village
on Derby Day?
(Horton)
Augustus, come here, sir!
Nelly!
Nelly, don't be a madam.
- Hello, Major.
- Hmm
Hmm
- Is that gentleman perfectly well?
- Major Horton?
He has been a tad peculiar
since his wife died last year.
Though she left him all her money
and was, quite frankly,
a bit of a gorgon.
Even the dogs have had a spring
in their step since she died.
Now, Miss Pinkerton
did mention a third victim
How did Mrs Horton die?
A horrid gastric bug, so they say.
What if there is a m*rder*r
walking among us?
And what if he finds out
you aren't who you say you are
and you know what you know,
and then he comes for you and
(she clicks; ominous music playing)
There's something
I'd like to show you.
Miss Conway, can I escort you home?
- If you like, Luke Fitzwilliam.
- Obiako.
Luke Obiako Fitzwilliam.
Oh.
I'm sorry to have to ask,
but where was Lord Whitfield
on Derby Day?
Don't you worry about Gordon.
He has the perfect alibi.
Me.
The parapet
Miss Pinkerton said
she found Tommy's body
here.
Tommy's body couldn't fall from here
and land there
without considerable velocity.
- In other words
- Tommy was pushed.
It wasn't an accident.
None of them were.
No.
It was m*rder.
We need to find a link,
a connection between the victims.
Well, none of them were saints.
They had enemies?
Perhaps.
Though I wouldn't honestly know
because they
All three are from Ashe Bottom!
Down by the brickworks. Sort of
the other side of the tracks.
Then I need to go there.
Find out what point this k*ller
is trying to make.
And who was out of the village
on Derby Day.
(suspenseful music playing)
(children chatter)
(metal sizzles)
(background chatter)
(chatter stops)
(door closes)
Could I, er could I see a menu?
Then a pint of your finest
and some pork, erm, scratchings.
My condolences for Amy Gibbs.
What's that about my niece?
I'll thank you not to come here
and stir up feelings.
(crunches, gags)
Oh, what is this diabolical stuff?
(Fitzwilliam laughs, others follow)
Blech
(background chatter resumes)
(Rivers) (mimicking Horton)
"Nelly! Come here, Madam."
- "Augustus, I say!"
- (woman) It's Horton!
"It's my moral duty to name this pub
after me, isn't it, Bridget?"
- Lord Whitfield.
- Yes.
Our capitalist-running
dog lord of the manor.
I hear it all, driving,
his schemes and plans.
D'you know what I don't hear?
Any work in Ashe Bottom.
He'll have his shiny, new town
and we'll have sweet FA. Like always.
But Lord Whitfield's
a respectable man. Surely he'll
(Rivers scoffs)
Respectable?
No more respectable than
anyone else from Ashe Bottom.
He's one of us.
Well, he used to be.
- Born and raised on this street.
- Mm-hmm.
He paid for his peerage
from his wartime profiteering,
a few backhanders
in the right people's pockets.
He climbed
the greasy pole to respectability
and pulled the ladder up behind him
quicker than he could yell,
"Bridget!"
Come on, your turn.
- (Mrs Carter) Yes, let's hear it.
- I can do Dr Thomas.
Nah, not him.
Nothing funny about Dr Thomas.
He's only got time
for his private patients.
And nothing but linctus for us.
- (suspenseful music playing)
- Linctus? What kind of linctus?
Cheap codeine. It's the only
medicine we ever get from him.
Even children?
He put Tommy on it.
The lad was leaning
like the Tower of Pisa.
Just another brown bottle
for Harry to drown his woes in
until he drank enough
to knock himself out.
Amy was coughing like a consumptive
before he saw her.
And what did he give her?
Codeine linctus.
Bet they won't look into Amy's death
any more than they did Tommy's.
Huh.
Welcome to Wychwood.
(suspenseful music playing)
(birds chirping)
(Thomas)
Keep taking the penicillin.
It'll mop up the last
of the infection in your hand.
Dr Thomas!
(Fitzwilliam grimaces)
I wonder if you might
check me over?
Reverend Humbleby!
Not still unwell, I hope?
Don't let that one fleece you.
He charges extra for the good stuff.
- Father!
- What?
- Dr Thomas is only
- Oh, all that flattering and fawning
doesn't fool me, greasing his wheels.
There's nothing that young man won't
do to get what he wants.
I was hoping to be in shape
for tennis up at the manor.
(Thomas) Mmm
An old rugby injury playing up.
Probably the weather.
Okay well, walk
to the window and back.
How's the book going? Did I mention
I'm writing a book myself?
Oh, really?
On what topic?
Leg seems fine.
Yes, a scientific guide
to improving society.
Fascinating.
How?
Judicious elimination.
Of whom?
Oh, you know the sort. People like
Carter.
The wife-beating drunk?
No loss there.
Didn't Tommy's death save us all
from his inevitable future life
of crime?
Interesting thought, no?
I'm not sure your patients
would agree.
How would they know?
It's one thing you Africans
have right.
The power of life
and death lies solely
- in the hands of Chief Bongo Bonga.
- (Fitzwilliam scoffs)
It's not that simple.
We have laws.
Laws, of course.
But now you take me
for a mass m*rder*r.
(both force laughter)
Would a m*rder*r be so frank?
I'm merely making a scientific point.
A point? Yesterday,
you said Amy mixed up her bottles.
Unpleasant accident.
Miss Wayneflete only found the one.
I kept the other for testing.
You see? There's always
a scientific explanation.
Some would call that tampering
with evidence, Dr Thomas.
I'm a doctor.
Criminology is my hobby.
I always follow protocol.
Protocol?
- (dog barks)
- (Horton) Augustus!
Conduct yourself properly
in your proper manner, sir.
(Fitzwilliam) Which wasn't followed
after Miss Pinkerton's death.
Where were you on Derby Day?
Three villages away,
attending a birth.
Here we are.
Kreuzhammer's
"Inferiority and Crime."
Translated from the German and
"Race Hygiene."
A scientific programme
would weed out the degenerates.
(Fitzwilliam)
You keep these in stock?
Aren't they on prescription?
Just a codeine linctus.
Cures most common ills.
One step up from a placebo, really.
Why? Want some?
(scoffs)
Kedu.
You speak
Igbo?
And Efik some Ijaw.
I've been trying to ascertain
your precise tribe since the inquest,
before extending a proper greeting.
- (laughs)
- Glad I backed the right horse.
Let's go to a proper pub.
Cannot believe you built
the rugby pitch I played upon.
With these very hands, my son.
Your headmaster was
a very dear friend.
He was a huge influence upon me.
- Yes, I can hear that.
- (Fitzwilliam laughs)
(laughs)
- Did you know Miss Pinkerton, sir?
- "Pinky"? Of course.
We used to pour over the Racing Post
together every week.
Loved the gee-gees, did Pinky.
- How was the Derby?
- Ah, Jujube II.
Winged feet!
I said to the vicar
(taps the table)
"Back the nag!"
We were there, Humbleby and I.
(suspenseful music playing)
Raise your glass.
Here's to my dear wife.
Her loss must have affected
you deeply.
Well, she was getting so much better.
Then sudden relapse, wasn't herself.
She told Amy she was being poisoned.
- Amy Gibbs was your maid, too?
- Mm. A nasty business.
By the way, Major
who was the doctor
that treated your wife?
Why, that young snapper, Dr Thomas.
(tennis racquets thwack)
Ha! Well, that was a breeze.
(Rev Humbleby)
That last ball was definitely out.
It was halfway to Chipping Norton.
Sorry, erm
What did you say?
- What did you say?
- I don't think so.
Chalk flew. Didn't it, Gordon?
Yeah, like a bird.
(chuckles)
Ha! Good.
- Like a dead bird.
- (Rev Humbleby chuckles)
Dr Thomas treated Mrs Horton.
She was his first victim.
The one that Miss Pinkerton
wasn't sure of?
She told people she was being
poisoned, and Amy was her maid.
She must have known too much,
so he k*lled her, too.
Dr Thomas had opportunity
and means to k*ll Amy.
Gave Carter and Tommy
codeine linctus like Amy,
and he was out of the village
on Derby Day.
Where is the good doctor?
With a patient?
Or murdering one.
The thing is
Mrs Horton wasn't from Ashe Bottom.
- Which means the next victim
- Could be anyone.
(suspenseful music playing)
(Whitfield) Oh, come on!
That was clearly my shot.
- Miss Conway?
- Hmm?
Bridget, why are you
marrying that man?
Do you know what a secretary earns?
Of course you don't.
Well, pennies compared
to Lady Whitfield.
For very different duties.
Really?
I doubt Gordon will even
kiss me good night after a year.
Why do you care?
You'll be in Whitehall.
Because it's not what you deserve.
- This is not
- What?
Love?
Have you tried it?
Loving until it hurts
only to be jilted
for some millionaire widow?
A broken
engagement
is the perfect cure
for dangerously romantic tosh.
I simply want to be safe.
Not just from being poor.
From feelings.
(Whitfield) Fitzwilliam,
you're up next with the doctor.
(dramatic music playing)
Knee's better then, Fitzwilliam?
Yes.
Thank you.
Only I cannot stop thinking
about your theory, Doctor.
Not a theory.
Science!
Tommy. Carter. Amy.
So, who's next
for judicious elimination?
Degenerates.
Was that the word you used?
Humbleby!
Listen, these pagan rights
that Fitzwilliam and my Bridget
are busy uncovering,
I want them stopped.
So, who's next, Doctor?
One of the lower races. Me?
Well, Scripture instructs us to
rebuke those who persist in sin.
He who casts the first stone.
(groans)
Mrs Humbleby?
As Wychwood's leading citizen
Rose?
(strained)
God has more to worry about.
So, who is it going to be, Doctor?
(Rev Humbley) In Wychwood
(groans, coughs)
(grunts)
- Arthur?
- (Rev Humbleby groans)
(Rev Humbleby) In Wychwood
(groans, grunts)
(Mrs Humbleby) Arthur?!
(grunts, sputters)
(tense music playing)
(Mrs Humbleby cries) No!
(fire crackling)
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01x01 - Episode 1
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In 1954, Luke Obiako Fitzwilliam is a Nigerian attaché on his way to Whitehall when he meets the mysterious Miss Lavinia Pinkerton on a train to London.
In 1954, Luke Obiako Fitzwilliam is a Nigerian attaché on his way to Whitehall when he meets the mysterious Miss Lavinia Pinkerton on a train to London.