There was a murder two nights ago in Westminster.
Ripped out his intestines and his heart and his lungs, I heard.
The Metropolitan Police have begun trespassing
on the murder of the Archdeacon.
The Home Secretary wishes to illustrate the competence
of his new police force.
Murder is definitely your talent.
I've another one with your name to it.
And that night also saw the escape of a dangerous lunatic from Bethlem.
His liberty is of concern to me.
So it is you, John Marlott.
I have seen the other side.
My past beyond God's kingdom.
Father Ambrose told me you could provide
a more suitable set of clothing.
That's right.
For a man who served his country.
John Marlott is dead.
Yet you walk in his image. Why?
To find Daniel Hervey and show him God's vengeance.
You must find him.
You must do this for me.
Coachman.
Coachman!
Let me out!
Stop the coach!
I gave you life.
Rise and shine.
Come on, out you go.
Ah.
Go on, clear off.
Get your stuff. Hurry up.
There's nothing to be afraid of. It's all under control!
-No, it ain't.
Now that's your final warning!
Come on, clear off!
You want to catch the blue fever?
Reckon that's the Bethlem Guard's cap, sir?
Take Reverend Ambrose's body to the back entrance of the station.
Don't let the public see.
Come on.
Peelers have no right setting foot in here. Get out!
-Parish Charley.
Good luck, sir.
This murder's the Parish Watchmen's jurisdiction.
You've no right being here.
The police's jurisdiction is everywhere,
that's the whole point.
-I am... -You're nobody.
I'd beat you black and blue if you weren't both already.
Order your men out.
Constable...
Please eject the Watchman from these premises.
-Forcibly. -Come on.
Come on. Let's go, move!
-Stay back.
-Oi!
-Watch it! Back! -Uh-uh!
I wouldn't if I were you.
The name's Boz, of the Chronicle.
You let me do my job,
I'll print more favorably towards yours. How about that?
You, sir, yes, you,
you're the Parish Watchman, yes?
Can you confirm this is the second murder of a clergyman?
That I can.
Saw him with my own eyes.
But it was no man, he moved like a beast.
He jumped the wall, else we would have caught him.
No doubt.
Hooves?
I know what I saw.
Piss off back to Grub Street, Mr. Boz.
Hurry up! Come on, men. Over here.
Let the Parish Watch do their job!
That's it! Come on, men!
Hey! Stop! Stop!
Get the body to the coroner, Mr. Dean's orders.
I warned you. You have no authority!
Get them out of here now!
That's about all we can do since the Parish Watch
keep usurping us.
The Bethlem investigation...
Something has turned up.
The inmate believed he was John Marlott.
Oh, that's Bedlam for you.
Some lunatic reckons he's John Marlott,
that's his problem, not ours.
This morning I discovered these in Father Ambrose's pockets.
Father Ambrose was Marlott's own priest.
They're of Marlott's wife and child.
What about the first victim, the Archdeacon?
Did John Marlott have any acquaintance with him?
None that I know of, sir.
But if the lunatic truly believed he was John Marlott,
then perhaps he will seek out more of Marlott's acquaintances.
Good. In which case you can put your feet up 'cause he should be turning up at your desk any minute now.
I know what he took from you.
But John Marlott took the drop in front of hundreds. He died, and died well.
Fill out your report.
And, Nightingale,
leave out the ghost stories, yeah?
Or else the next time you go to Bedlam,
you might not be coming back.
Sir.
Can I help you
It is.
It is most intricate.
I may require your services for a dress.
For yourself, miss?
It is for my friend, Mr. Dipple.
It would sound far less strange if you would
just come with me to St. James'.
It's a lot more fun to see than to explain.
-But you must come at once. -Oh.
My apologies, miss, but I cannot leave my shop.
You're working by candlelight in that dark little corner,
when you have a lace maker's lamp over there
that could illuminate the entire room...
It's broken, isn't it?
-And you can't afford another. -Yes.
I'll wager I can fix it for you.
If I can, you'll accompany me now.
I'm Augusta Ada Byron.
-And we're late.
-Tatty, save some for Joseph. -Mmm-hmm.
Where's he got to?
Suppose he's got caught up in them murders?
I couldn't catch a wink last night... There you are.
What took you
I got lost.
All these fancy houses look the same.
Who is the gown for?
It's for one of Mr. Dipple's many toys.
Stop calling them that, Ada.
You'll hurt their feelings.
What do you make of it?
-It's enchanting. -The gown, I mean.
Oh. It is beautiful.
One of a kind.
Frederick, may I introduce Mrs. Rose.
Thank you for coming.
I'm not convinced I had a choice.
A common predicament with Ada. I am keeping her occupied until she resumes
her studies in mathematics.
Advanced mathematics.
My apologies. Advanced mathematics.
They say it's the devil.
A woman doesn't feel safe walking the streets.
Ripped 'em both from nave to chops I heard.
Is that true, Joe?
You Peelers got a lead or what?
I'm not at liberty to say.
Sir Robert doesn't have a sodding clue, more like.
You all right, Joe?
I should, uh, think about going.
You don't still carry that round, do you?
You do.
"So that we may be useful to ourselves."
Brings me luck.
Why'd you bother, Joe?
Sorry. I didn't...
-I thought you still kept yours. -No.
Mr. Dipple's given me the day off. Are you sure you can't stay?
How long will it take you to repair it?
-I'd say at least eight days. -You have five days.
-That's not possible. -At a crown a day.
I will take it home and start immediately.
No. All work must be completed here, or not at all.
I'll keep you company.
I'm under the same deadline.
I accept.
Any business, sir?
Piss off! You are not welcome here!
Joseph. Joseph.
Who are you?
You know who.
Joseph.
How can it be?
I'm here, Joseph.
Devil.
Devil. Devil! Finish it!
Finish it how you did your own priest, how you did Flora!
It's Daniel Hervey you seek for Flora's murder, not I.
Where is he Where is he?
His sister is in danger.
Tell me.
Danger?
She's dead!
Did she die at her brother's hand?
Tell me.
Murderer. Murderer!
Murderer...
"Second unholy murder of Westminster Clergyman
as police pursue incurable Bethlem lunatic
in desperate manhunt,
the evisceration of Reverend Ambrose as diabolical as the Archdeacon."
"The Archdeacon's body is currently in the keeping
of the Church coroner..."
-I haven't got anything. -Huh. Get out.
"Both clergymen decapitated,
limbs torn asunder as if for the Devil's own slaughterhouse.
Dean of Westminster announces intended evacuation
of the Pye Street area
amidst fears of public safety and plague..."
Here, what do you reckon, gents?
Shall we make our exodus to Mayfair?
Do you think the rich will share
Read that out loud again.
You was never invited to listen, friend.
-Give it to me. -No, no, no.
I have ambitions for it.
Reading it on the pot for one, bum fodder for another, eh.
Now, come on, Blackwood, cough up.
I have taken the time to draw up your papers.
And these'll get me back in service?
I beg your pardon,
with glowing personalized endorsements such as these,
you'll be bringing up crumpets to King George himself.
-Mmm.
Let me have a look.
Letters of recommendation you say?
This recommends a housemaid called Elsie for service.
You wouldn't get a job in a bone house with that.
-Why you...
He's a disgraced servant.
What's it matter what the letter says?
-Spence I warned you. Out!
-I told you! -I'm going.
You, out!
Oh, you need something?
You cost me two nights' rent. Your troubles are your own.
I'm intrigued by a man who can read and write
yet can't afford to wet his whistle.
Don't snarl at a man who can find you work, Navvie.
Well paid.
For a cut.
What work?
Do you gag easily?
I've come to collect.
They were well enough a week ago,
and then they just fell ill like the others.
They're in through here.
They said we should leave. But where will we go?
They say, um, you take 'em to the pits.
You throw them in...
They will find heaven.
I promise you that.
Why'd he choose them and not me?
Why would God abandon us
Your predecessor took a whole day
to haul a cart full of corpses.
He's under that pit over there now.
Hurry.
What are they doing?
God's will, what's it look like?
This epidemic has devastated Pye Street.
The church yards are so full
you could get your boot stuck in a pelvis.
So the church encourages gormless louts like these
to dig the bodies up from the yards and cart them here.
Thereby freeing up more of the church's holy soil
for celestial fees.
-That's desecration. -That's business.
Church business. Oi, you two!
You know how dangerous it is! Tap the lids.
There you are. Spend it quickly, not wisely.
"Blessed are they that do his commandments.
That they may have right to the Tree of Life...
They may enter through the gates into the city..."
You were a priest.
You're far too shrewd to be a corpse-bearer.
Agh, come on.
Let's go to the tavern, give that bottle a black eye.
Hey!
Hey, Lass!
You fools! What did I tell you? Tap!
Oh, God.
You've got a coffin lid sticking out of your ribs!
No, don't pull! Don't do that!
You got to get that seen to.
Forgive me. Can you help me?
What happened?
I didn't know where else to go.
You're bleeding.
The thing about skin is it's all different textures,
not just one...
Trust me, I have done this before.
-You've got a visit-- -Shh.
Almost done.
You hardly bled.
-I must go. -No. No.
-I must go. -No.
Please.
You must rest. You must rest.
That's it. That's it.
Begging your pardon, sir.
I'm just shutting up for the night.
Is there anything else I can fetch for you?
No, Miss Pickett. That will be all.
Good night.
Right, gents, lend me your ears.
Sergeant Nightingale reckons the escaped lunatic
could be hiding out in Pye Street.
Parish Watchmen says he's strong as an ox,
with some sort of a spring in his step.
So if the fever won't kill you, he might.
Volunteers?
I'll go, sir.
One man worthy of the uniform.
Come on, lads, don't break my heart.
Popkin, Jones, Myers, keep 'em company.
What's the matter? Wrap a handkerchief
round your moaning gobs and hold your stinking breath. Move!
Search every room, every cellar, every attic.
Lodging houses first.
And if perchance you find him and you're on your own,
just use your rattles, do not take him on.
What's the point of that, sir?
You'll lose.
Your stitches, are they holding?
Yes, very well.
In fact...
I'd like to compensate you for your trouble...
Please. No.
I would never accept payment for that.
Perhaps you could tell me your name, though.
J... Martins.
Jack Martins.
You're staying in Pye Street, is that correct?
Yes.
You could have bed and board here.
It's hardly Mayfair,
but there are no vermin as far as I know.
For the same price.
I can't accept more of your charity.
It's not charity, Mr. Martins.
With all this talk of the Devil in Pye Street,
I would prefer to have someone here.
How do, sir?
Flora.
You must be dreaming, sir.
Forgive me. I...
I...
I could not protect you.
Why have you brought me here, Mr. Marlott...
when you don't see me,
hear me...
touch me?
Is it because of what I done?
Is it because I was bad?
You said you'd keep me safe, Mr. Marlott.
You promised!
Hands where I can see them.
I should put a bullet between your eyes.
Make sure you're not a ghost,
catch the killer myself.
If I were guilty... why would I come to you now?
You have the pox, you don't know your own mind.
It made you kill Flora, and now your own priest.
Do I?
Men have survived the gallows before.
And you will hang again, I'll make sure of it,
or I will shoot you where you stand.
When I swung from the rope...
did it bring you peace?
-I did not take Flora's life. -I saw you.
You saw what Hervey wanted you to see.
It's his lies.
Spare me your mad ravings.
You've no proof.
Hervey and I are all the proof left.
-He made sure of that. -I will not hear it.
I trusted you. Flora trusted you.
Aye...
As she entrusts me now.
I did not survive the gallows, Joseph.
I felt the drop.
I had my glimpse of God.
And Hervey wrenched me back.
I'm Hervey's miracle...
born from a hundred deaths.
I am made of the men, women, children, unborn children...
Floras.
I feel them.
There will be more.
These wounds are by Hervey's hand...
just like Father Ambrose.
Only Hervey's sick enough to think of this...
only he wanted take the hearts.
He's using them to resurrect the dead.
And the dead demand justice. Not just them.
For me. For Flora.
You dare... Dare say her name again.
Dare to, yourself.
She's behind you.
Sir?
Got a bunch of tip-offs for Pye Street suspects.
We're going to drag 'em in. Are you coming?
Sir?
Yes.
Yes, I'll... I'll meet you in the station.
Right you are, sir.
Mr. Renquist?
Sergeant Nightingale, Metropolitan Police.
Indeed.
On whose authority are you here?
Inspector Treadaway.
He's instructed me to recapture the escaped Bethlem lunatic.
Jeffries, is my carriage ready?
As he is the main suspect in both murders,
as the Church has declined permission for us to see--
Your opportunity to see the body has passed.
You're far too late for a viewing.
And it's the Archdeacon's funeral at St Margaret's,
which you are now making me late for.
Then perhaps I can take sight of the autopsy reports, sir?
The autopsies carried out by me are private inquests
conducted by the Parish of Westminster.
And these murders of our very own brethren
are far too sensitive
for Sir Robert's militia to cut their teeth on.
May I suggest you do what the rest of London does
in these matters.
Read the newspapers.
Come back in five minutes, I'm on a tight deadline.
How's your thumb?
Castle. Castle?
Yeah.
Very good. Off you go.
Last time I saw you, you were...
How in God's name did you...
A doppelganger? No, no, no.
So, the pipe down the throat?
-Yeah, something like that.
Indeed.
Let me just...
Christ... -These murders in the church.
Says here that two men were torn apart,
but Father Ambrose wasn't.
His heart was cut out.
Who's your source? You know, I...
I never give up my sources...
Especially not to dead men.
Where's Daniel Hervey?
Lord Hervey? I have only heard rumors.
Tell me where he is.
Yes.
Some say he died in a fire, along with his sister.
Others that he left London in his grief,
fled to the continent.
You have some interest in these particular crimes?
Mr. Marlott, your story, may I have it?
I assure you, you'll profit from it.
Marlott is dead!
You print one word otherwise...
I'll take this quill, stick it in your tongue
and pin it to that desk!
Do I make myself clear?
Most eloquently.
You might at least tell me where we're going.
St. Margaret's.
St Margaret's
The church has been lying and is still lying.
Church'll turn a blind eye to digging up bodies in Pye Street,
but St Margaret's is where they bury their own.
We're not digging.
This is the clergy's vault.
That's the Archdeacon.
What are you after
I'd say don't forget to tap the lid, but you'll never lift it.
It'd take six men to lift that. You'll die trying.
Oh, dear God. He's all in one piece.
Head, arms, legs...
Why on earth say otherwise?
He wanted to cover up the one thing that was taken...
His heart.
Who are you?
Who?
Another murder.
If you still suspect the killer to be a Bethlem lunatic,
how difficult can it be to find him?
Pye Street's emptying fast.
The plague's scaring 'em off.
Read the bible.
Only God can send down a pestilence to punish us sinners.
How come you're still breathing?
I could ask you the same.
Billy Oates.
Roll up, Roll up!
Mrs. Wild's Penny Exhibition.
-He's trouble, Mrs. Wild.
And a dead man for that matter.
I think perhaps I am afraid to live.
You are not alone. There's much to lose.