SUSAN: People have died.

God damn you.

CAPSHAW: This is Whitechapel.

They die every day.

Fifty-five lives given up for $350,000 in unregistered and anonymous bearer bonds.

I imagine a man of my calling might find some purpose here.

You see he gets what he needs.

You are come home.

You were recruited by who?

We were chosen for one skill or another.

These men who now await their earnings, they have not seen you, you are sure?

Certain.

He looked wrong.

Like a village parson got off the wrong station, polished his shoes too bright.

-Your name again, sir?

-Capshaw.

(DRAMATIC INSTRUMENTAL MUSIC PLAYING) (INDISTINCT TALKING) -(PEOPLE TALKING INDISTINCTLY) -(DOGS BARKING) -MAN: Morning.

-(DOOR BELL DINGS) Clara.

Clara, my love?

Anyone, my love?

Not a soul.

Oh, good morrow and welcome thee both to our House of Curiosities!

May I perhaps interest you in... Mr. Buckley, please...

Desist.

My name is Mr. Capshaw, and I represent the interests of your creditor.

We have time yet to pay, sir.

And one day would, no doubt, make every difference.

Your current position, with interest.

Er, Mr. Capshaw, Clara's father was...

Dreadful train accident, you see?

And with the funeral costs, we have so little that... Are you able to settle?

I thought not.

And yet you continue to rebuff the wholly reasonable offer of your creditor.

This shop is my livelihood.

These four walls are my home.

I...

I cannot give it you.

I will not.

CAPSHAW: I expected as much.

Henceforth, I shall be passing your debt forth to this gentleman.

His name is Mr. Kendrick.

I suspect you may find his terms less amenable.

(CLATTERING) Small wonder you can't make ends meet.

(CLANGING) Well, now.

(DOOR BELLS CLANGING) Let's take a look, shall we?

(DRAMATIC INSTRUMENTAL MUSIC PLAYING) (PAPER RUSTLING) Is this where the treasures are kept?

There's nothing in there.

Please, Mr. Capshaw, I beg of you.

Open it.

Get away from there.

How dare you!

How dare you threaten and bully, and force... Clara!

Forgive her, sirs, a woman's grief.

(CHUCKLES NERVOUSLY) CLARA: Get off!

Get off!

Get off!

No!

(SCREAMING) No, get off!

(SUSPENSEFUL INSTRUMENTAL MUSIC PLAYING) You see?

There's nothing!

Tell me, Horace, is this where the treasures are kept?

-Get her away from here!

-(CLARA SCREAMS) Clara!

(SOBBING) Clara!

She fell, Mr. Buckley.

You killed her!

Go!

KENDRICK: (SHOUTING) Come back!

Come back!

GIRL: ♪ Come unto these yellow sands ♪ ♪ And then take hands ♪ ♪ Curtsied... ♪ (THEME MUSIC PLAYING) (DOOR BELLS CHIME) She's hit, falls...

Fractured cranium, maybe.

They say the Buckleys never traded a cross word.

Well, if it weren't a domestic, slim pickings for a hold-up.

-They were in debt.

-Who to?

REID: Only the figures.

Borrowing and borrowing to claw themselves from under and only bringing more down upon themselves.

They were buried alive.

Peaceful couples have broke peace for less.

(MUSIC BOX PLAYING SOFT MELODY) (MUSIC STOPS) (SIGHS) Policing together again... Mr. Drake, coppering thus.

Circumstances aside, it's something I have missed.

Your abilities will always be welcome at H Division.

Alongside your own, sir?

Oh, I am not made for the Yard, Inspector.

I am... Fred Abberline may have a bent for their politic, but I... You and I are Whitechapel.

And I intend to remain so.

Then long may we copper thus, Mr. Reid.

Screaming blue murder she was.

She was hysterical.

She was imprisoned in a cellar.

Such terror, she fainted.

Give me room.

-My God!

-CAPSHAW: It was a... A child's dungeon.

(INDISTINCT TALKING) (HORSE WHINNYING) (INDISTINCT SHOUTING) DRAKE: All right, soldier.

Keeping you busy, are they?

Inspectors?

Perhaps you might spare a moment for The Star, indulge our inquiries concerning the locomotive tragedy.

Sirs.

Will you not afford me modest audience?

-Not now, man.

-No?

For what right have the people of Whitechapel to understand why 55 now lie beneath the earth?

Why you send marionettes to the rope while a puppeteer wiles in shadow?

Unless the truth be that Edmund Reid cannot say because he does not know.

Any found with blood on their hands from that black day will know justice.

But, this morning, a woman lies slain in her shop and it is to that we presently attend.

Our work is not ended.

You, Mr. Best, you are not alone in losing one you loved to that train.

Of course you know.

Of course.

For is not Whitechapel's copper-in-chief also these days its file-clerk-in-chief?

Allow me to assist with the distracting business of Clara Buckley.

'Tis her, I assume?

The dead woman?

Kendrick, the collector, come for his dues.

Kendrick?

Kendrick killed Clara Buckley?

You saw this?

A reporter of mine saw Horace Buckley running for his life, Kendrick after him, wild as a dog.

FRAYN: She will sleep.

I gave her laudanum.

-Her condition?

-Malnourished, though no more so than any other child of this quarter, perhaps less than most.

Was she raped?

No.

Of that I'm sure.

The child has been cared for.

The only harm upon her, there is scarring on her back.

-She was beaten?

-No, burns, from some years past.

Mr. Capshaw says the Buckleys were childless.

Who is she?

Alice, she says.

Though her faculties are... Miss Hart, my concern would be more for the health of her mind than her body.

-She howls to be returned.

-Where?

To the Buckleys.

To her... She says pupa.

-I believe she means her chamber.

-The girl was... She was not their captive?

She is confused and afraid.

That is all I can presently say for certain.

She seems to fear everything but the Buckleys.

This man Buckley?

Kendrick lost sight of him in the rookery.

He'll be found.

Buckley shall not speak of what took place.

You believe that to be the matter critical?

It is, nevertheless, a matter of consequence.

And he shall be found.

Clyde Kendrick?

What have I won?

Horace and Clara Buckley, you collected rent from them this morning.

The Buckleys?

Mrs. Buckley is dead, Mr. Kendrick.

-I think you know that.

-How would I know that?

-You were seen.

-You're mistook.

I've been sat a-desk all this morn'.

You are a frequent caller in these parts, are you not?

There's a lot of debt in these parts.

And vultures will circle.

I'm no Shylock, gentlemen.

-You do not lend?

-Certainly not.

Then who does?

My clients are various.

The Buckleys.

Which client?

If there isn't a crime you wish to charge me with, Inspector...

I'm a working man with business to attend.

Now, you wait a bloody moment... DRAKE: Obsidian Estates?

The signature.

-DRAKE: Ronald Capshaw.

-He's the lawyer.

Susan Hart's lawyer.

Do you imagine Susan Hart complicit in Obsidian Estates practicing usury?

The Long Susan I knew was a mistress of whores, but a woman of decency.

I can't speak for the Susan Hart to whom I return.

Even so, Capshaw's mark on this paper...

There is a stench around this man.

If Kendrick ain't a moneylender, he may yet well be a murderer.

And we'll need more than Fred Best crying bogeyman to prove such.

We find Horace Buckley.

Only he can say what happened in that shop.

Not only he, Mr. Reid, Clara Buckley may yet speak to us.

But it is neither you nor I who have the learning to listen.

REID: Not the American.

Anyone but the American.

The Prairie Rose?

It is the, er, lowest form of reeking word swill.

It's pandering, confected, trivial [no audio].

There ain't an ounce of human truth in the whole godforsaken story.

You're a cynic and a charlatan.

Who told you?

I'll be sure to share your constructive analysis.

And if you wish to continue treating this playhouse as your flophouse, you'll collect me at 7:00, then feed me with roast meat, ply me with cheap liquor, and defile me in abject and merciless ways.

Hey, darling, what's wrong?

Your glittering find, brother.

He thinks it'll pack the house and make a fortune.

(CHUCKLES) Splendid!

-Perhaps it's one for you, darling.

-Mmm.

-Darling?

-You're a little early for a matinee, gentlemen.

The clown we seek cavorts everywhere but the stage.

(SIGHS) Bennet, er, Inspector Drake, Inspector Reid, may I present Mr. Edgar Morton, proprietor of Blewett's and... (LAUGHS) And I'm proud to say, Ms. Erskine's intended.

(BOTH LAUGH) Congratulations, sir.

She's, er... Ms. Erksine is... You're very lucky.

(CHUCKLES) Is he here?

Straighten your wits, Captain.

I was trying.

They say if the doctor is not to be found in his rooms, he broods these days at the Pavilion of Varieties.

From the body physick to the dreaming mind, truly, Whitechapel's very own da Vinci.

Well even God takes a day of rest, Reid.

But then again, I guess you don't believe in either of us.

We've need of your services, sir.

You might.

He doesn't.

Whatever may have passed between you... Whatever may have passed?

You mean Dolly Do-right here didn't give you a blow-by-blow?

-You helped before... -A civic emergency, Benito.

Why don't you just come back next time a train ploughs off the rails?

We've come to you because we know of no other with your skill.

-There will be coin commensurate.

-Commensurate?

For a degenerate unfit to serve the law... No man is fit to work from the bottom of a bottle.

My wife walked out on me, goddamnit.

I'd have thought you understood the hole that tears.

There was work needful of you.

And if there is one thing the three of us excel at, is it not to fail whatever is most needful of us?

We're wasting our time here.

Drake.

No other with my skill, huh?

Well, I don't need your goddamn money, and I don't need you blowing smoke up my ass neither.

But I want to hear it from him.

I know that I'm -- at a lot of things.

In fact, most everything.

But your work... Sniffing out a trail of dead... Well, God help me, that's something I've got a holy talent for.

And I'm gonna hear you say it.

I want to hear him say that I'm not a [no audio] streaked scud of shoe [no audio].

-That I ain't some [no audio] chasing gutter rat... -(KICKS OBJECT) with a heart of scorched turd.

That's right, Reid.

I remember every word, every goddamn rock that you threw at me from your polished pulpit.

I could've used a friend, not a one-man Temperance Movement.

I am a decorated United States Army captain and a doctor, and I want to hear this stuffed-shirt [no audio] say it!

You are not a... [no audio]-streaked... (SIGHS) With a... Of scorched turd.

You... You are a doctor.

Yeah, I figured that's as good as it was gonna get.

All right.

7:00 sharp, darling, and, er...

Put your hair up pretty.

(DOOR OPENS AND CLOSES) Happy days are here to stay, huh?

Frontal fracture, orbital margin.

Punched, full fist.

Kendrick wear a ring?

-Not that I saw.

-Well, whoever hit her does.

This incision here, index finger, maybe.

-The husband?

-Remains abroad.

By all accounts, violence is most uncharacteristic.

Well, maybe there was someone else there, then.

We need Jackson at the Buckley shop.

Yeah, well, maybe Jackson's got affairs of his own.

Was she holding onto something?

The lesions on her palms and her nail beds are torn.

Nurse, tweezers.

No glare?

No grimace?

No "Shut up, Yankee"?

(SIGHS) I'm gonna have to shoot him.

What is it, man?

JACKSON: It's a splinter.

Varnished wood.

This bruising on her arms, fracture to the metacarpal.

She was grabbed hard and dragged from something.

They have anything worth gripping that tight?

(INDISTINCT SHOUTING) Okay, she's hit.

Bang.

Yes, we got that much, Jackson.

JACKSON: Is this Buckley some kind of mudlark?

I mean, have you checked down by the river?

It's a bloody long river.

REID: This.

This.

She was gripping this.

DRAKE: Jesus.

REID: What is this place?

Who was kept here?

Buckley must have a workshop.

This wood's salvaged.

It needs to be dried and treated.

And he builds, cuts.

Man needs tools for that.

Space to work.

That box upstairs, that's fresh river pickings.

I once saw you inspect dirt like you was reading tea leaves.

I'll try it on.

-And this.

-Butterfly wings.

But the patterning on each one, it's the same.

Catching the same breed.

Nothin' about this is right, Reid.

Nothing.

From the candles and the food, the room was inhabited until morning.

A girl, fair, given the brush.

The clothes, I don't know, 10 or 13?

But you see here...

They've been darned over and over, made bigger.

As she grew.

JACKSON: So she's been here, who knows, years?

Then there's this.

You see these?

Scratches and scuff marks.

There was a struggle, by the door.

-Fighting to get out.

-No.

That's the thing.

These are her marks.

But the impact... She wasn't fighting to get out.

She was fighting to stay in.

DRAKE: Fighting who?

Best said Buckley and Kendrick ran from the shop.

So either Kendrick came back... Or there's your third man.

Mr. Kendrick has not afforded us full candor.

I want Horace Buckley found.

Alice.

It's all right.

Good girl.

(SHUDDERS) Please take me back.

To my pupa.

Please.

The Wicked King will take my wings again!

-I must be in my pupa!

-(SHUSHING) Daddy!

I must...

I can't... My wings... (SOBBING) (SHOUTING GIBBERISH) (SHUSHING) And when she wakes, what then?

I will not have the girl doped.

There must be more we can do than stupefy her.

There is a new thinking, on the Continent.

This man, Breuer, calls it the cathartic method.

A therapy for the mind.

The parts of the mind beneath the mind, you might say.

With your permission, Miss Hart, I should like to essay these new techniques on Alice.

And do you believe it will help her?

I do.

Then proceed.

Mr. Kendrick thought it best to take a prolonged sabbatical.

Er, Glasgow, I believe.

-And Mr. Buckley... -(BALL BOUNCING) Mr. Buckley has sent a proposal.

Offers all he has in the world, of chief interest being the deed to his premises and his lifelong silence, in exchange for the girl.

With whom he shall leave our fair city on the morrow, never to darken our alleys again.

Your response?

As you'd expect from a reasonable fellow, I agreed to every term.

My wish is to know the truth about the girl.

The truth, madam, shall be dragged forth.

By its very throat, if need be.

JACKSON: All these goddamn bugs just look like... Bugs.

Keep that cooking.

-Sir?

-I'm going to the zoo.

(DOOR OPENS) ARTHERTON: The map, Inspector.

All properties owned by Obsidian Estates, sir.

I had the constables go door to door and wired the Land Registry.

-Everything you wanted.

-Thank you, Sergeant.

REID: She has acquired whole swathes of Whitechapel, shop, cottage, tenement.

Here, here, here.

These entire streets, all of this, the expansion of Obsidian Estates' portfolio.

Defaulting debtors, like the Buckleys, forced to forfeit all they own.

And the likes of Kendrick, no more than blunt tools to gouge out a foul empire.

I believe it's time I took tea with Miss Hart.

Follow me, sir.

-Inspector.

-(DOOR CLOSING) What a rare pleasure.

But I sense little joy on your part.

Your time is appreciated, Miss Hart.

Oh.

What might I help you with?

A woman, Clara Buckley, was killed in Whitechapel this morning.

A debt collector, Clyde Kendrick, implicated.

Are these names known to you?

They are not.

Perhaps to you, then, Mr. Capshaw.

Given Kendrick acquired the Buckley debt from Obsidian Estates, with your mark.

There.

On occasion, it is more profitable to offer a debt to market than to pursue it fruitlessly.

But if this man, er, Kendrick, has involved himself in an ugly episode, it is to my shame and regret our company associated thus.

"Shame and regret"?

Buckleys' ledger show interest inflated week on week.

Loan to pay loan to pay loan.

The debt accrued not to Kendrick, but to Obsidian Estates.

Such dealings with this company are, I gather, not unique hereabouts, so how fares your regret and shame, Mr. Capshaw, and yours, Miss Hart, were I to posit that Obsidian Estates lends purely as a mechanism by which it may bully, extort, and finally acquire?

CAPSHAW: There's no coercion, Inspector Reid.

It's merely legal transaction.

Perhaps you find the trade distasteful, but the day righteous distaste is grounds for prosecution, this borough shall see its jails burst asunder and its streets bare of life.

That's an impressive ring, Mr. Capshaw.

Looks very solid.

I shall look into every detail of this matter, Inspector.

Myself.

(KNOCKING AT DOOR) (DOOR OPENING) Jackson needs more time.

His filtrations, he says.

Kendrick is missing.

Buckley is missing.

The girl he kept in his cellar for years is missing.

We are being played for fools by this Capshaw.

And here...

These streets...

These streets we vow to protect, these people to whom we promise safety, order... Susan Hart crows of her good work for these streets, but at what cost to them are her new Whitechapel?

People extorted from their homes, terrorized by debt collectors.

When these streets belong to Obsidian Estates, what is our promise worth?

Do we police for them?

I used to argue with a man who believed that chaos was the natural state.

All things doomed to fall apart, and a... A fissure splitting wider day by day, set to swallow the gossamer dream that we make of order.

I argued with him, then.

But, er, now I feel the gossamer fray, Bennet.

I feel the fissure yawn into abyss faster than we can weave afresh.

Mr. Reid.

You used to tell me our work, that order, was a fight without end, but a battle worth the blood.

You believed that.

And I believe it still.

And so we weave on, thread by thread.

And we hold to the promise that we have made.

Ronald Capshaw thinks to tell us what he may undertake in Whitechapel within the law.

Then we shall show him likewise.

Five weeks past, you will recall, we foiled a snidesman who sought to pass his paper hereabouts.

Counterfeit money, as you see.

Slick.

Like a scum of oil on our streets.

And there is reason to believe that some remains in circulation.

Now, these hostelries, here, all owned by Obsidian Estates and all so the narks and blowers will whisper, all given to the conducting of business illicit.

Now, constables, it falls to you this night to see that these premises know our law.

Do not spare your billy clubs.

-Go!

Now!

-CONSTABLES: Yes, sir.

Police!

Will you close your eyes for me, please?

And imagine a garden, a beautiful garden just for you, where you're safe and happy.

And look!

A butterfly, the most beautiful butterfly you've ever seen.

And I want you to watch her drift and soar, just watch the lovely, slow beating of her wings.

The Greeks believed that... the dead drank from the waters of the River Lethe.

The Lethe, "Forgetfulness."

Flowing through the underworld, into the cave of Hypnos.

And in so doing, they forgot forever their waking selves.

Thus the superstition that it ill becomes he who toasts with water.

Sir, all these years policing together hereabouts, there were times we had to go further than we... Well, than the law allowed.

Mr. Reid, tonight, what you told those men, what they are now carrying out, rousting legitimate businesses and innocent people... What you asked of them, that ain't policing.

I must offer my gratitude that you come back after four years to teach me how to police.

When Fred Abberline asked my return here, there was talk of that Inspector Reid had made of his desk and his office a bunker.

Patrolled these days his archives, not his streets.

But what I saw this night was the Inspector Reid I saw some four years past at the ropes of a fighting ring.

A man driven by rage.

And when I left this city...

When I failed you as a friend, I did so only that I might survive as a man.

You do not need to justify yourself, Bennet.

It is not my own peace which concerns me, sir.

We battle monsters, we become monsters.

And that abyss, which you speak of, it is not only around us, it is not only out there.

It is inside us.

And it bleeds a blackness that swallows all light.

Do you imagine Horace Buckley endured a battle with himself, day by day, to keep a girl locked in his cellar?

Or is there a true nature to ourselves, Bennet?

Is the truth that the abyss is not within us, nor without us?

We are the abyss.

I appreciate your visit.

Till the morning.

-Inspector Reid, sir, I... -Thank you, Bennet.

Till the morning, then.

ALICE: I was his prisoner.

The Wicked King.

He made me his prisoner.

And he made me forget.

FRAYN: Forget what?

ALICE: Who I am.

FRAYN: And who is that, Alice?

ALICE: A princess.

Of the Feeorin.

FRAYN: Feeorin?

ALICE: Fairies.

The winged ones.

My daddy helped me to remember myself.

Your daddy, Mr. Horace?

After the sprites brought me to him and he made my pupa, and he taught me about the Wicked King.

But I... -I knew the King's secret.

-(CREAKING) I knew why he became sad.

FRAYN: Sad?

Why?

He was... -(MUSIC BOX PLAYING) -...hurting them.

I can see.

The King is so sad, so I go into his throne room to sing to him, but he is gone, and I...

I see... FRAYN: What do you see, Alice?

Pictures.

I find pictures of them, all hurt and... (GULPS) Who?

Who are they?

Dead fairies.

I am in his room of terrible secrets.

And he...

The Wicked King punishes me.

FRAYN: How does he punish you?

ALICE: He takes me on his ship.

The water.

All glitter in the sun, and so bright.

And then... Then what?

-Alice?

-Fire.

Fire.

My punishment.

I am burning.

The Wicked King wants to burn me so my wings will never grow back and I will never fly away.

Alice, can you tell me what the King looks like?

A man on fire.

He screams my name, but not my name.

What name does he scream?

He is...

He is crying.

And I am falling...

Falling... And now the sprites have me.

FRAYN: The sprites?

ALICE: The river sprites have me, and they carry me, and their arms are so cool on my back, and they... ♪ Come unto these yellow sands ♪ ♪ And then take hands ♪ And my daddy Horace finds me.

Alice.

Alice, can you look at something for me?

Can you look at this picture?

No!

No!

What is it, Alice?

The Wicked King!

You're safe now, Alice.

You're safe.

(INDISTINCT SHOUTING) Two trains mangled, dozens dead, five men hanged.

For what?

A robbery, yes, but naught claimed amiss.

Strange days, would you not agree?

If you come to berate my investigation afresh, I shall shackle you for a month.

Your investigation, indeed.

Poked your snout around the goods yard, I hear, but truffled thus in vain, because no stevedore wished to implicate himself to a copper in acts illegal.

What acts?

Levying what one might call an unofficial handlers' fee.

-They skim.

-Some, with rigorous efficiency, which is why they remarked upon the sea cans.

The sea can what was robbed.

Hoboken, New Jersey, to Whitechapel, London.

And for a year now, month on month, sea cans just like it arriving on the same shipping ticket.

Locked up like a safe.

No dice, thus, for our skimmers.

Except one time.

The sea can was damaged in transit.

Locks smashed, doors warped.

The stevedores, well, they're giddy for a peek.

And what do they find?

Carpet bags.

A few bloody carpet bags filled with... Well, they called it money that weren't money.

Not good old readies, Inspector.

This was paper-marked bearer bonds.

In United States dollars.

Bonds?

That's what it was all for?

Bags stuffed, Inspector.

Picture and count.

Hundreds of thousands gone and unreported.

Why?

You intend to print this?

What, and blow a trombone to startle those behind it?

Give them cause to scarper?

No, sir.

I shall continue to inquire on the hush.

And now, so may you.

And you seek what in return for this?

You think me a muckraker, a Peeping Tom, a sniff at the knicker drawers of this town, but I... You are aware a friend of mine perished for the greed of those bloody bonds.

I would not fail him as I once... (SIGHS) What do I seek?

I seek justice done in Whitechapel, Inspector Reid.

That and nothing more.

Mr. Best.

Follow the bonds.

Now, I took the mud apart every way I could.

And it's sodden with chromium, chromium sulphate.

They use that in tanneries.

And ammonia, in these quantities, I'd say it's the run-off of a dye works.

The butterfly wings, it's all the same breed, right?

Old World Swallowtail.

Lepidopterist at the zoo identified it.

And they feed on milk parsley.

My guess is he catches these on account that it's right on his doorstep.

It's the best I can do for an X and Y.

Fine work.

Have at it.

Inspector.

Buckley's place.

They know it.

Buckley.

Horace Buckley.

CAPSHAW: Is it true?

The girl is Reid's daughter?

I believe so.

Edmund Reid becomes a danger.

I've a man at the East London Bank.

He tells me a police wire was sent across the city, enquiring after bearer bonds.

And Reid has found Buckley.

The man draws ever closer.

However, there remains, I believe... A means of deflection.

We are, after all, not without collateral.

We are not.

CAPSHAW: What we ask, we ask only for the sake of the girl.

Her confusion, after all, remains.

Dr. Frayn, all of us know too well what befalls lost children on these streets.

I will do right by the girl.

You've my word.

What is it you ask of me?

Who did you keep in your cellar?

(STAMMERING) Mr. Capshaw...

He struck my Clara.

He killed her...

He killed her.

I'm...

I'm not a brave man.

Capshaw?

Ronald Capshaw?

He was there?

He ruined our world.

Will this be your testimony, Mr. Buckley?

Will you speak up for your wife in court so that we may punish her killer?

Yes, and then I shall be free... Who is the child?

We take Capshaw first.

Buckley's going nowhere.

CHARITY: I couldn't stop them.

Take him in for the murder of Clara Buckley.

Where is the mistress of this house?

Good day, Inspector.

Before you take Mr. Capshaw, I beg you to hear me.

I have not afforded you the full candor I... We have both... always strived, above all else, to make safe this small quarter, made our mission to protect.

But today you protect the wrong man.

Horace and Clara Buckley were not victims, Inspector.

You saw the cellar.

Mr. Capshaw and Mr. Kendrick found her.

Where?

Where is she?

I summoned doctors, but her suffering was too great.

Doctor... Dr. Amelia Frayn, Inspector.

She strived her utmost, but...

Her suffering had been too great and for too long.

The trauma, I believe, of taking her from her... From her dungeon.

I...

There was nothing that could be done for the child, sir.

Her peace came swiftly.

For that, at least, we may be grateful.

Where is she?

She was buried this morning.

She could not speak, Inspector.

Could not walk, for rickets.

Had been starved, tortured, forced.

And it is her rescuer, Mr. Capshaw, you now seek to shackle on the word of the monster that made her slave and plaything.

But why... Why did you not bring this to me?

(SHOUTING) Why?

Because, Mr. Reid, I could not be sure this poor, broken girl was not your daughter.

Jesus Christ, Susan.

How dare you.

Her burns, Dr. Frayn.

There was scarring.

Scars of fire, all upon her back.

-Her age was... -This ain't right, woman.

I am not claiming it is so.

But if she were your Mathilda, I would not have had you look upon her in that way.

I sought to protect you from that horror.

But she was someone's child.

-If you still wish to charge Mr. Capshaw... -Take him in.

But if it were Mathilda kept by Horace Buckley, what then?

What vengeance could there be that would not destroy you?

Buckley.

I will know the truth.

(SHOUTING) Who was she?

HORACE: Sir?

The girl in the cellar!

What cellar?

What cellar?

What cellar?

I shall show you what cellar.

I beg... Ah!

-Get up, Buckley!

-(WHIMPERING) Open the door!

-Please!

I didn't mean to... -What cellar?

Please.

Please, I did not mean to... She was my little fairy.

-The river's precious gift.

-The river?

The river?

Who was she?

Alice!

My princess!

I never stole!

(STAMMERS) The Wicked King, his ship of fire... She was burned, so burned, and I... (GRUNTS) JACKSON: Reid!

(DRAKE GRUNTS) -Who was she?

-(GRUNTS) We just wanted a child, sir.

We so wanted a child.

I... You tortured her and then you murdered her!

No!

No!

No!

I love her!

I loved her!

She's my little princess!

-Where is she?

Is she safe?

-Her name!

-Alice.

-Don't lie to me!

-Who was she?

-Reid!

When I found her, she never knew, and I made the stories to help her.

And then she remembered... Remembered what?

(STAMMERS) I made them to... To help her.

I knew she... She wasn't a real fairy, but...

But I made her believe.

She remembered what?

Who... Who she... (STAMMERING) Her name.

(STAMMERING) Mathilda.

Mathilda?

M... Mathilda Reid.

She was my daughter.

(VOICE TREMBLING) The day she said her name, I...

I...

I knew she was yours.

How... How could you keep her from me?

She feared you.

The death around you, like a black halo.

Your own daughter had (STUTTERS) terror of you.

You... Never loved her the way I did.

You couldn't love her enough to keep her safe.

Reid.

Reid, do not do this, brother.

Do not do this.

Listen to him, Edmund.

Edmund!

-Don't do it -JACKSON: Reid.

-DRAKE: Listen to him.

-JACKSON: No.

No!

(GRUNTS) (HEAD SQUISHING) Inspector, you may have five minutes.

I can give no more.

♪♪