Ripper Street (2012) s02e04 Episode Script

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
It has been three months since my last confession.
And you come now to accuse yourself? I do, Father.
Of which sin, my son? I am a liar.
Climbed they up the ragged stair Rang their voices out in prayer God save Ireland said the heroes God save Ireland, said they all When for Erin dear we fall High upon the gallows tree Swung the noble-hearted three Climbed they up the rugged stair Rang their voices out in prayer Whether on the scaffold high Shut it! What are you doing here? Ireland! Sassenach! Shut up, paddy! God save Ireland said the heroes God save Ireland Does the bastard breathe? What was it struck him? Nothing.
Clutched at himself then fell.
There is a God.
Who here would help a true patriot? A humble man wronged by the cruel iniquities of this uncaring government? A brother - a warrior for justice! Who would help me? The keys? Will you not give me the keys? Are ye men, or are ye mice? Are ye Irish men and women or not? If not now, then never! Maith an buachaill.
Good lad.
Ah.
What do you call a dead Englishmen? A good start.
Maith an fear.
Eirinn go Brach.
Jesus.
Is this to be laid at your door? Huh? The balls on you would shame an elephant.
I hope you were not bored, Inspector.
Oh, by no means, Miss Cobden.
They come with a fervour, your friends.
They are not my friends.
They befriend me.
There is a difference.
The settlement movement - men and women raised in the gracious avenues of Bath or the rolling Surrey Downs, now making their home here.
In the hope that the benighted souls they now rub against might somehow be elevated by such noble contact.
And you doubt their sincerity? I doubt their efficacity.
If people wish to improve conditions And you do not wish for improvement in people's lives? No, I Of course.
I fear they will be disappointed.
Men, I find.
And women? Yes.
They too.
In my experience, humans more often choose to resist transformation than embrace it.
And you, Inspector.
I invite you to an audience with a over-educated cabal of reformers and idealists and you choose to attend.
Why, surely that is a transformation of sorts, is it not? Inspector Reid! You're wanted, sir.
Miss Cobden, my thanks.
Time with you is, as ever, educative.
Ah, Inspector.
Fresh from the admiring attentions of the councillor for Bow and Bromley? Sergeant.
This is our Newgate driver? Yes, sir.
Morris.
Fell from the seat of the Maria as it passed underneath a clothesline.
Moved no more.
Convict calls for assistance.
A boy obliges.
He frees himself - scarpers.
Any reports from the community on either boy or prisoner? Irish round there.
Shut up like an oyster.
This one, I pronounce .
.
dead.
No clubbing, no shooting, no stabbing.
Heart failure, most likely.
But I'm going to open him up and I'm going to get you sure.
So what was it - opportunism? A stroke of luck for the escapee? Do we have a name? We do, sir.
Aiden Galvin.
Incarcerated at our pleasure since 1868.
Irish Republican Brotherhood.
Sent down with eight other members of the IRB after the Clerkenwell bombing.
Flat-head Fenians tried to dynamite a prison.
Blew a crater out the street next door in its stead.
Murdered at his hand.
It is a pitiless killer who now walks free.
But, sir, he has not walked abroad in this city for over 20 years.
He will be swiftly found.
And your method in so doing, Flight? We roust the Whitechapel Irish, Inspector.
And the thought of that action sits easy with you, does it? I know what side I stand on, sir.
Sergeant, take a squad of men also.
The years roll round, yet it is ever Irish heads on the end of my club.
Police! Now, everybody stay calm.
We're just having a little look around.
Get out, English pigs! Evening, Irish scum.
Watch your mouth, pig! All right then.
And so it goes.
You! Bulldog Boy! Have you not walked the streets the last three years? The IRB has given up its guns.
The days when a Fenian could be found hid in a cider barrel are past.
We live in peace, now.
There's a prisoner on the loose, girl.
IRB with a taste for nothing but the bloody destruction of innocent life.
You're one to talk.
The look in your eye - you've quite a taste for it yourself.
His name is Galvin.
Once, he laid dynamite.
Now, we will search this house and you will move aside.
Or you will know prison life yourself.
Thank you.
Although one must be careful of these bohemians, Reid.
I mean, they promise much, certainly, but that casual air of impudence, it is more often a disguise, I've found, for what can only be described as a chilly disinclination when proceedings come to a point.
Captain, tell me.
I am curious.
We are now both well enough known to each other, you and I.
Indeed, there are sides to our lives shared with few others and yet you persist in this ceaseless goading.
Why do you suppose this is so? Because we're men, Reid, and that is what men do.
We needle and we goad because if we did not, we would be forced to speak the truth.
Suppose for just one moment that was not the Suppose for one minute, that was not the case.
What would the truth say? The truth? That the good councillor fits with you.
That the two of you look right together.
And that I am sorry that your life is not lesscomplex.
And you needn't concern yourself with conspiracies.
At least, not as far as this man is concerned.
He got fluid in the lungs, atheroma of the coronary arteries, infarction of the myocardium.
His heart collapsed on him.
Your convict got lucky.
You have your mother's way with the pot still, I see.
Is it you, Aiden Galvin? It is, Evelyn.
My wee girl, Evelyn.
You're hunted.
It is a change to be wanted, I can tell you.
Yet another evil of this bastard government, that they kept me from you.
And this government you speak of, it prevents you from writing letters also? I am not the letter-writing kind, Evelyn.
No.
You are the gunpowder-plotting kind.
So what'll you do now, Aiden, before the police find you and tear your skin from you? There are one or two errands I must run.
And then there is you.
I would know you.
Help you, if I can.
Are you happy, Evie? Is your life what you would wish it? I live here, don't I? What do you think? You would leave this place? Who, given the choice, would stay? Aye, it is the arsehole of the world, is it not? With your permission, I will have to see about removing the pair of us from it.
Mr Parnell.
The acceptable face of Ireland.
A Protestant.
Trust him, we are told.
Trust an Irishman? I would sooner play chess with an Orang-utan.
I was 20 years with the Irish Constabulary and I will tell you this - the Irishman is a Negro turned inside out.
Given only to slavishness and violence.
The Irishman harps on freedom.
Freedom to do what, exactly? Shoot landowners, thieve livestock, explode dynamite.
Hear, hear.
The Irishman was put on this earth to be ruled and it is up to us, gentlemen, to rule him.
Quite so! Hear, hear.
I am for my rest.
Sleep well, Knightly.
Good night.
I wish agonies on you, Mr Knightly, and in hell soon.
Bastards.
Quick.
Need some help! Inspector Reid! This for your tame Pinkerton.
And you, Inspector, are with me.
A convicted Brotherhood man is sprung from these streets, and you thought not to say? Hardly sprung, Fred.
The driver's heart failed.
Galvin has been in a cell for over 20 years - I'm sure he can barely piss straight.
His physical condition is not germane, Inspector.
How do you think this plays? It is, "Whitechapel frees Irish dynamite "and blows it back to London.
" Michael Donovan, IRB.
Centre point of the Whitechapel Circle.
Mr Abberline, our masters meet in banquet halls.
The IRB is now a recognised political party that negotiates with your government.
The days when such men as ourselves convened in such places as this to take secrets off each other are in the past.
And yet, here I am, dragged from my breakfast to converse with you here.
Yourself, and? Reid.
H Division.
And you, boy, are not a man such as I.
We should have begun this task one day ago, Edmund! This is an act of war, sir.
No, Michael.
It is a retaliation.
This, found beside the charred remains of a Member of our Parliament.
A one-time Inspector General of the Royal Irish Constabulary.
His escape was not sanctioned by leadership.
The man Galvin is not affiliated.
Not no more.
The position of my leadership still stands.
We are for home rule by peaceful means.
Michael, your little knackers were still being felt by Father O'Hoolahan when Aiden Galvin was plotting to blow holes in my city.
Man like that is never for peace.
I am old but I know yet when an Irisher feeds me horse shit.
Where will he go? I don't know.
Please! Nyaaaaaarrrgh! Aaargh! He has a daughter! Gaaargh! Evelyn Foley.
Barmaid at the Black Rose.
Good lad, Michael.
Good lad.
No, Fred.
He is yet too green.
Nonetheless, in the time available, he is the best we have.
Detective Flight's face is right, his is voice righter still.
He may sit beside her, watch for Galvin, discern his purpose, if indeed he does seek her out.
I have not forgot the boy you lost last year, Edmund.
But you will lose more before this life is out and nothing to be done to change that fact.
You oblige me, Inspector.
Flight, this man, Galvin.
There is a daughter, we are told.
Her mother, a woman named Foley.
Bethan Foley.
I shall get to the archives, sir - see what might be found.
No, Flight.
Sergeant Artherton will manage.
Chief Inspector Abberline has work for you.
If you've the chops for it, son.
Yes, sir, I have.
What is it you do to our Newgate driver? There's a link here Reid.
Your detonator was charged with a Leyden Jar.
It's a glass bottle with silver sheeting around it, set to carry current.
Knightly lays back in his bed to rest, the bed springs depress, connects the circuit, then, boom! Electricity.
Which is interesting, because now we have to ask ourselves if our convict was freed with the design of laying this charge beneath Knightly's bed.
That, is a shock scar.
What, and sufficient to cause his heart to give up? Well, it is a vulnerable organ.
The charge would have needed to be significant, however, and conducted into him I know not how.
With me, Sergeant.
The Maria makes its way along.
Where did it stop? Somewhere here.
Let's take a look, shall we? Leyden Jars.
Attached to the washing line.
Pull it in.
So this falls upon our driver.
They would have needed, say, nine cells of two-pint jars each, to deliver a shock strong enough to kill a man.
And what we thought chance is now plotted conspiracy.
Quite so.
But by the IRB? No.
When they kill they do so to scream their grievance aloud.
They would never disguise their purpose in this way.
The murdered MP, Knightly, known for his vicious prejudice, certainly.
But I would like to know who else, apart from the IRB, might celebrate his death.
Yes, friend? Era lemonade.
Thank you.
Whatever's your poison.
Oh, father, dear I often hear You speak of Erin's isle Her lofty hills and valleys green Her mountains rude and wild They say she is a lovely land Wherein a saint might dwell Ah, why did you abandon her? Michael, what happened? Did your pigeons turn on you? A word with you, Evie.
In private.
As you can see, we've a crowd in.
Will you return in an hour? Now! Outside.
Well, if you'll make a scene Your pa will be needing food and shelter.
He will not be able to rely on the IRB for such support.
And where else will he come other than to see how his wee girl has grown? And not a single communication of affection is delivered to me from behind those bars.
Why would he remain in this city when a boat for Bantry Bay or Ellis Island might be his for the boarding? Because he has a taste for murdering Englishmen when the IRB dictates that such actions are of the past.
He may be an old, limp cock, tottering his way to the grave but there is a warrior in your pappy yet.
A warrior that needs pacifying.
Important, therefore, and I'm sure you understand, that it is me that finds him first, not the blues.
And why's that, Mikey? So you may put a bullet in his skull? Don't be forgetting which body of men it was that paid your orphan way in this life.
Your mammy dead and gone, the Brotherhood was more of a father to you than he ever was.
This the way you London boys hope to charm a lady, is it? Bring your boys to stand in threat then bully her? Did I ask for your help, country boy? No.
I did not.
So, Lemonade, away with you.
Go on.
That's right, muck-savage.
Back on the boat.
Now remember my words.
Aiden Galvin.
He comes skulking about, I'm the first to know.
Girl's mother, Bethan Foley - kept IRB men safe and secret off the streets.
Till she passed late '67 in a house fire Evening, gentlemen.
Imagine, Inspector, the dance I had to perform when it emerged that Whitechapel H Division had requested the personal and professional particulars of so recently deceased a dignitary as Cecil Knightly.
I do imagine it now and I am grateful.
And so you should be, Inspector.
The bloated fat-head sat on Commissions - chaired them also.
Parliamentary delegation to decide which and who might be offered government contracts for public work.
The power to make men rich.
Or otherwise.
Flight! Chief Inspector.
You are a poor, lost immigrant searching for a home amongst your own.
What do you do straying off the streets to fraternize with the Metropolitan Police? I made approach, sir, but was rebuffed.
II thought it judicious to retreat.
And you said you had the chops for it, son.
Gentlemen.
You get back on her, Flight.
Here.
This commission of Knightly's lobbies to have the Basin Slum at Shadwell torn down.
Central and South-East Electricity Commission wish the Basin to be emptied and re-purposed for a new power-station and has invited bids to be tendered for how that power station might be constructed.
While the London County Council would prefer for more sanitary dwellings to be built.
Well, at least now you've got a fresh excuse to row yourself past Councillor Cobden's door, Inspector.
You, son.
Sit down.
No, thank you.
You know, Constable, I hate to chop your onions here The very thought of it(!) .
.
but you keep resisting drink, most men on this planet are going to have a hard time trusting you.
Never mind a piss-crew of Irish exiles.
You are to gain the trust of a girl who has known little else but the inside of a tap room.
And then, of course, there is the matter of how best to penetrate that frosty exterior and melt the fruitful vine within.
I wish it were not so but there is little Captain Jackson has left unlearnt in this subject.
Now, she's pretty.
Correct? She is.
Hmm.
Then she builds both crenulations and portcullis about herself.
No sorcery known will allow a man ingress until she first lowers that drawbridge down.
You need to make her start wondering after you.
Feel the twinge of intrigue.
Fellow feelings of vulnerability.
Here.
You see? Mother - cruelly killed when she was but a child.
Father in lock-down and a stranger to her.
You need to make yourself the same, Flight.
You need to build yourself a story - tragic loss, destitution.
It's got to be perfect, it's got to be detailed and most important, it has got to be felt.
Right here.
In your heart.
With your own secrets.
When you lie, you lie with your own hidden truth.
We do not have all year, however.
The woman still needs to somehow, notice him.
Then we mark him out.
Well, what kind of man would this woman most likely pity? A victim of police brutality, perhaps.
Hmm.
Well, I guess we'd have to find ourselves a brutal policeman.
Drake, any spring to mind? Now, put your hat down, Constable, come on.
Let's have you up.
Now this is with contrition, you understand.
Look at you, Flight, you're irresistible.
Good morning, Lemonade.
I'd take whiskey from you right now, Miss, were you offering.
Seems I need to find a new name for you.
You may have my real one.
I am Bertrand Doyle.
Then in you come, Bertrand.
I'm Evelyn.
Three of them, in uniform.
Accused me of vagrancy and did not care to wait for my defence.
You were their sport, nothing more.
What brings you here, Bertrand? The prospect of nowhere to sleep but the cobbles of Whitechapel? Work brings me, Miss.
The hope of it, at least.
Money.
Food in my belly.
And that's an improvement on home, is it? No home.
Never was.
Not much of, leastwise.
My mother, taken by typhus when I was five.
My father, taken by drink soon after.
I've no knowledge of him.
And that is why the lemonade.
You've no need.
Not to impress me.
Come.
Wash your face.
Take those boots off and rest.
I'll bring food for you.
Evelyn! Get yourself down here.
Do you think these pints pull themselves? Thank you, Evelyn.
Rest, Bertrand.
I'm sorry.
They're so beautiful.
One arrived for me each year on my birthday.
They came to me inside a letter from a man who claimed he was my father.
Was he that? If he is, then it seems I have two of them.
Then where is the other? Oh, I have not seen so much of him.
Not until recently, at least.
He is from home? From Ireland? He's been in London all my life.
Butout of reach.
I'm sorry.
I don't mean to be so obscure.
I feel without care in this life and yet am made claim on by two men who are entire strangers to me.
Even were my mother still here, she might find it hard to offer clarity.
From what folks here have said, she was not exactly exclusive in these matters.
If I had had a brother, or a father for that matter, I imagine I might have done this for him.
Woke him with milk and bread and butter.
The idea, the way other folk say it is, I mean it's our family instruct us, is it not? Tell us who we are, how we should be.
And .
.
without that instruction it's hard, sometimes, I find, to .
.
to make sense of ourselves - what we want.
What is right, even.
You You scare me.
Inspector, what a lovely surprise.
Miss Cobden, a moment of your time.
Of course, sir.
Would you like to follow me? Thank you.
St Paul's Wharfside - or what the people who must live in that slum call the Basin - is felt to be dead land, without purpose.
I would build new homes there.
For the men of the Central and South East Electricity Commission, however, there is opportunity there for industrial development.
It offers a convenient location.
Coal can be delivered from Northumberland, South Wales, and used to fire the power station they propose.
And the now-atomized Mr Knightly sat to decide on which party would be awarded the privilege of constructing it, giving a motive to murder him to any electricity supplier who felt that Knightly would not support their bid.
Indeed.
It just so happens there will be a practical demonstration this afternoon by one Charles Broadwick, who hopes to present his suitability for such privilege.
Broadwick is one of the many tenders to build it.
The theatre is on your beat, is it not? The light above your door, the fire in your stove, the miniature steam-train on your boy's bedroom floor - all will be brought into energetic purpose by your very own supply of electric current, arriving beneath the paving stones of your street and into the life of your home.
None of this is in question.
But yetthere is one debate left for us.
A debate which must be decided before this future finds you.
Where will this power be brought into being? How will it be delivered to your hearthside? Because for all its wonder, the electrical age is also one of profound danger, my friends.
The choice we all face is between currents.
Alternating current or direct current.
Both cages are set for identical voltage but differing currents.
The contrast between the two is alarming.
If you please? Behold! Behold, alternating current.
I send you away now, ladies and gentlemen, to ponder only this Which of these currents would you allow into your home? There can be only one choice.
And that is direct.
Direct current for London, ladies and gentlemen.
Good evening.
Charles Broadwick of Broadwick Machine Works.
If you have further questions, I'm only too happy to oblige.
Reid.
Police.
Councillor Cobden.
Ah, I am delighted.
A member of our august and newly minted County Council.
And a man whose mind is designed to see truth wherever it is hid.
And what truth would you have me describe here, Mr Broadwick? That animals and electricity do not make great bedfellows? You are not convinced by my demonstration, Mr Reid? I have asked myself if that cage was even charged.
Oh, come, sir! Of course it is not! These animals, whilst never dear, still cost.
And all men of science must economise.
Mr Knightly.
The man who was murdered this night last - I assume you knew of him.
Knew him in life, mourn him in death.
And currently await news of who next I must bribe.
Parliament passed a law last year, Mr Broadwick.
An anti-bribery law.
Perhaps you'd care to correct your last statement? Oh, come, Mr Reid.
This is priceless.
You are welcome to arrest me.
But should you do so you will be forced to do likewise to all men who ever bid for governmental contract! Every commercial body wishing to turn St Paul's Wharfside into a generating plant was paying Knightly.
The only secret you will discover from me, sir, is whether I was paying above or below his median rate! In fact, we should ask Mr Ferranti! Miss Cobden, you will, I am sure, be attending his exposition this evening.
Indeed.
It is the invitation of the season.
But Mr Ferranti's power station at Deptford is already constructed on the principle of alternating current.
We must admire our rivals, Mr Reid, if we wish to be worthy of them.
Of all the men who waited on Mr Knightly's influence, it is perhaps Mr Ferranti who placed the most at stake.
He would add to the power station he has already constructed at Deptford and, with his new design at St Paul's, make it is his exclusive purpose to power all of central London from within his halls.
But there is talk of trouble, of concerns over its scale and the scale of danger it represents.
Mr Ferranti.
Yes? Inspector Reid.
Police.
How can I help you, sir? You find us preparing this evening's exposition.
Yes, for men and women of influence.
Influenced.
You are cynical, Inspector? No, not of the science, but the means by which you purchase favour.
So I must ask you whether or not you bribed Knightly to support your bid for St Paul's Wharfside.
Yes, we gave the man money.
But so we might not be ignored.
The field of play thus levelled, we were to win, Mr Reid.
We are, yet.
My competitors cast spells of death and destruction as if they think the people of this city are Neanderthals to be terrified at the sight of fire.
I have no need of such strategy.
Electrical current is a fierce and unruly force.
What alternating power promises is the means by which such ferocity is made benign.
You drop the voltage using your transformer, then you hive it off for domestic consumption.
Indeed.
I have removed the beast from the machine.
Oh, I know what you wonder - whether I might have motive to do worse to a man like Knightly than meet his demands of bribery.
But I have no need to resort to murder when I have the perfect logic of science at my side.
Does he strike you as the breed of man to consort with escaped dynamiters? Not so much, sir.
No.
And yet Galvin is connected to this circuit somewhere.
And his beast remains intact.
You touch him and I'm straight to the blues.
Do you understand me? What's your name, boy? What's yours, sir? He is Bertrand.
And this, Bertrand, is Aiden, who somehow now believes he has a right to be my protector.
You do not.
And do I deserve the right to a word with you in private? Please, darling.
I leave this city tonight.
One way or another.
Will you give us a moment, Bertrand? The MP exploded in his rooms.
That was you.
Don't tell me you weep for him, Evelyn.
I care not a thing for him.
But somehow, fool that I am, I care for you.
Know you will now be pursued and hanged right here in this city that you hate so bitterly.
I do dream that, Evie.
But I have one last task I must perform.
And then Look, my love.
New York.
One for you.
And, with this task achieved, one for me.
and with enough folding to see us righter than a dosshouse in the Five Points.
Now, I know this is strange for you, Evelyn.
I am unknown to you.
And yet, this - to provide this for you - is like a dream for me.
You don't have to befriend me, girl, nor call me Father, nor even look at me when we sail.
But you'll take this chance.
Take it.
Aiden.
Darling.
This task that you go to? Not for you to worry over, darling.
I'll see you here later, all right? Wait.
Do you know a man called Holland? Do you? He writes to me.
And these letters - what do they say? Well, he sends one every birthday.
He says that he's my father.
Oh, does he now? You take this to Inspector Reid of Leman Street.
I am Flight.
You do it now.
Sergeant! Message for Inspector Reid.
Urgent! He found letters, he says.
Important to the girl.
From America.
A man laying claim to her parentage.
But Galvin is her father, is he not? And he was reclined in a cell at Newgate.
This man's name, Holland, however.
Letters to the girl since 1868.
The year after her mother's death.
And Galvin went down.
All right, so he's made note of the different postmarks, different towns and states till 1881, then his travels cease.
Cease there.
Raritan, New Jersey.
Raritan? Letter after letter to the girl, so we must assume this man Holland settles there.
Menlo Park is in Raritan, is it not, Captain? It is, Reid, and thus the circuit's made.
Menlo Park is an industrial park created by one Thomas Edison.
The inventor? Also a man of business.
More patents filed in more fields of inquiry than any man alive.
And yet his one ardent pursuit - to secure the means by which the United States of America distributes its electricity and to secure it for his own chosen charge and current.
He is for direct current.
Unlike Ferranti, who is for alternating, is he not? But akin to another man I have met recently, Dr Charles Broadwick.
Captain, you would trust Edison to own a telegraph machine, would you not? The leanest and fastest, Reid.
Edison did indeed employ James Percival Holland - English physicist.
Alma mater - University College London.
And wanted by us as a known IRB collaborator in the Clerkenwell bombing.
The same circle as Aiden Galvin.
Wanted but never brought to ground.
He got on a boat, then.
Made his way and his life in America.
Receives employment at Menlo Park, education at the feet of Thomas Edison.
The letters to the girl - they ceased in 1887, did they not? Indeed.
Because I am beginning to wonder if, in fact, this man Holland left America when those letters stopped and travelled here to London, travelling beneath a different name.
Broadwick Machine Works.
Instituted September 10th 1887.
Charles Broadwick, like Holland, a champion of direct current.
Charles Broadwick was once James Holland, he who sprung Aiden Galvin from his prison wagon and set him to kill Knightly.
And just what business of yours is she, to be writing to her all the way from America? I knew her too, Aiden.
Remember the girl fondly.
Why should I not ask after her? Because she is not yours to ask after! Did you write from your cell? I did not.
Then is it not better that one of us did? One of us? Do not make me the same as you.
One of us(!) Dynamite.
That's all we ever shared.
Dynamite and a woman.
Bethan Foley was mine! She was not, Aiden.
Not alone.
Do you forget? She was never particular.
And Evelyn? Tell me, you bastard.
You'd been jailed.
I was bound for New York.
Bethan found me.
Told me that I am Evelyn's father.
Asked if I might make myself known to the girl.
But I could not - would not.
I may send her presents but I do not have the strength to be a father.
And is that why you broke me out? So that I might finally have the truth from you? I released you so that you might know freedom and vent your rage against this country once more.
Don't come the charitable English rebel with me, Jamie.
It is a venting designed to suit your purpose and ambition.
This task you would set me on is not for ideas but for your own advancement and profit.
Perhaps.
But you're well paid for it, Aiden.
And it is that profit which will see you to New York.
Before then, however, half of the London County Council waits on Sebastian Ferranti's word.
And on your dynamite.
Your last chance to spill the blood of British politicians.
And mine, to extinguish my competitors.
The Aiden Galvin I remember would never have declined such an opportunity.
Eirinn go Brach? Eirinn go Brach.
Flight? Sir, you need to see this.
The device described here - Galvin has it.
Another electric circuit to detonate the explosive.
But this - what is this within? A wax stem? That's a delay.
It allows him to get clear.
See, the wax plug keeps the electric contact plates apart.
No circuit's made, therefore the device is harmless unless you put it beside a heat source.
Or inside one.
Ferranti's transformer.
The transformer melts the wax, allowing the plates into congress.
Boom.
Councillor.
Hello.
How wonderful to see you.
Oh, my pleasure.
I'm thrilled you could join us.
I'm looking forward to it.
Wonderful.
We have a fine show in store.
Thank you.
Good evening.
Good evening, Miss Cobden.
Mr Broadwick.
Ladies and gentlemen.
I could, of course, wish you welcome to the future but, whilst this most certainly is the future I am to show you, I would not do so with fireworks.
Although such things are certainly within my gift.
I will show you.
Here, piped from our power station at Deptford, I may deliver almost 800 kilowatts of generated power.
Enough not only to kill whichever dumb animal my competitors would use as slanderous scaremongery, but to stop a stampeding herd of bison, if need be.
But no.
I do not hope to impress you with such power, but rather with the means by which such power is mastered - transformed by alternating current .
.
and put to whichever peaceful purpose we choose.
I will bring light to your streets and peace to your homes.
The city illuminated, ladies and gentlemen.
Bravo! Ferranti! Shut it down now! Mr Reid, explain yourself! Shut it down.
Do it now, sir! Everybody out, now! Get up and get out, nice and calmly.
This must be dismantled.
Why? Because we believe it may have been sabotaged.
It should have blown by now.
You go back in there and you fix it! No.
I am no longer your dynamite delivery boy.
You do it yourself, Jamie.
I go now to let Evelyn know the truth of who she is.
She might be your flesh and blood but she's my girl and I will see her right in this world.
Eirinn go Brach, Jamie.
Everyone out now! Come on.
Let's get up and get out of here.
Come on, ladies and gentlemen, move along.
Keep moving.
You looking for this, brother? James Holland.
Good evening.
Inspector Reid.
You are under arrest.
Murder and attempted murder.
Multiple counts.
You are for the rope, sir.
Infernal machines.
No! No! Don't touch him, sir! God bless you.
Safe journey.
Take care.
Take care of yourself.
I thought my father had scared you off for good.
Perhaps he did.
Still, my courage is found now.
Should I prepare myself to fight him? Perhaps.
You leave with him, I think.
I do, Bertrand.
America.
I understand, Evelyn.
May I wait with you? Perhaps shake his hand? Think you're leaving, do you, Aiden? And you are? I am your centre.
Your colonel.
Colonel? You're milk piss, boy.
There will be peace.
There'll never be peace.
Does he not come? Well, he was never reliable.
Perhaps you should sail with me.
Ah, send me an address and I'll come find you.
But who should I send it to, Bertrand? Whoever you are, that is not your real name.
Who are you? Go.
Take your boat, Evelyn.
And did you lose your mother? And your father too? Those things are true.
And the rest? Take your boat.
One might say you saved my life, Inspector.
That being the case, I have put my mind to how I might thank you.
I thought I might allow you to walk with me this Sunday afternoon.
At Hampstead, perhaps.
We could take a blanket and some cold wine.
Miss Cobden When will you call me Jane, Inspector? Miss Cobden, I I do not know what you think it is has passed between us.
I am married.
Mr Reid.
Edmund.
I am, as you know, for the present and the future, but never the past.
There is nothing but black magnetism there.
Allow me and I will help you to resist it.
I am sorry, Miss Cobden.
You run them - confess it.
No, sir! Yes, sir! You pander and pimp those boys who ought to be safe in your care.
I want you.
Tell me we can do this.
We can do this.
He'll pay.
He has to.
These are mine.
Silver and copper.
Within a week - 200.
And the value just soars.
How would you like the Star to turn the biggest bank in London upside down? I acted in the best interests of my bank and its investors.
By lying to them.
What is the purpose of our work?