Penny Dreadful (2014) s02e05 Episode Script

Previously on Penny Dreadful: It's an autobiography.
The memoirs of the devil.
It's possible he wasn't just recounting the past, but foretelling the future.
- Whose future? - Yours.
Your wounds were likely inflicted by some sort of animal claws.
Will you describe what happened at the Mariner's Inn? I don't remember.
- Who was he? - Your intended.
- To marry? - Yes.
- Must I love him now? - That's for you to say.
You're raising a few eyebrows.
- Lf you don't mind.
- Let them stare.
Does this corset flatter me? Yes.
It's my cousin, she's coming to visit and she's a simple girl.
- From the country, you know? - Your cousin, how lovely.
- Who's the lucky lady? - You know her, in fact, Mrs.
Poole.
Oh, yes, our clairvoyant friend.
Well, proceed with caution, eh? We have no more children for you to kill.
- I love my wife.
- Will you divorce? - That's impossible.
- I appreciate your honesty.
Always good to have something to aim at.
Do you truly not believe in heaven? We're accountable to no one but each other.
That's a profound responsibility.
I'll prepare the enchantment for tonight.
- You know what to bring me? - Yes.
Don't disappoint me again.
You'll understand I find it difficult to accept.
I'm the object of an eternal satanic quest.
Mother.
Her hair.
May I? Daughter.
Lucifer.
I know what a siege is like.
I've been there.
You get the enemy when they're relaxed and making dinner or feeding their babies.
You get them concentrated in one location, you surround them and then you attack with every weapon at your disposal until every one of them is dead.
When were you in a siege? During the Indian Wars.
I was seconded to a cavalry unit that had as its goal the annihilation of the Apaches.
Dress it up any way you want, that's what it was.
We were in the southern part of the Arizona Territory and there's one little tribe we're supposed to send to the reservation or murder, didn't matter.
They were dug in on a cliff side.
We moved in at night, with our horses' hooves wrapped in burlap.
We surrounded them very slowly.
Hours of getting into position.
Some of us, lucky ones who spoke Chiricahua infiltrated the village.
We stood in the darkness while they talked and smoked and made dinner.
They had no idea.
They thought they were safe.
They had underestimated the ruthlessness of their enemies.
Sound familiar? What happened? One bugle call and we attacked.
We didn't talk.
We didn't negotiate.
My squad worked from the inside out.
They had nowhere to run.
In 15 minutes, that tribe had ceased to exist.
They were wiped from history.
We can't let ourselves be infiltrated and surrounded.
We defend our cliff.
- And we know what they want.
- Yes.
That we know.
Now, if we only knew why.
They're making a fetish.
Which is? - A voodoo doll.
- Very like.
The Nightcomers value simulacra those things that take the appearance of other things so as to more easily enchant them.
Your hair.
So they got what they came for.
Utterly.
I know totems like these.
It is the most important thing, to have the flesh of the enemy.
Consume it and you take their power.
What do we know about these creatures? We're safe during the day.
- They're only transformative by night.
- How do we protect ourselves? - There is lore to ward off witches.
- And rituals.
And sturdy locks, and a shitload of weapons.
Every weapon at our disposal.
Every superstition.
Every ritual.
We defend our cliff.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
What is it? They were here.
No, they weren't here.
- I can't tell anymore.
- Take it easy, you're all right.
I thought I saw them, but they weren't there.
I can't tell the difference, whether they're real or in my head.
I can't live with this anymore.
But they're in my prayers now.
It's okay.
- You're safe here.
- Safe? I wish I were going mad.
Then the doctors could lock me away and cut out the madness.
Anything to make it end.
You know the true path to freedom? Open any vein.
That you can't do.
No.
God has a plan.
God has a plan.
May I sleep here tonight? Of course.
You think me foolish, I know.
No.
No such thing.
I know what it is to be scared of the dark.
Sofa's pretty comfortable.
I'll be fine.
You were praying.
Old habits.
Don't lie to me.
I know you believe in the word of God.
I believe we make ourselves who we are.
The blood's on our hands, not God's.
And did you make yourself into who you are? First time I picked up a gun and decided my life was more important than anyone else's.
You never go back from that.
And are you sure that wasn't part of his plan? You've never killed anyone.
Talk to me then.
Whatever you have done, whoever you have made yourself I'm here to accept you.
We're together for a reason.
God's plan? Yes.
You need to sleep.
May we leave the candles? All night.
Enough.
I have lived with your evasions too long.
Don't think I can't look into your wretched black heart and see the machinations laid bare.
- Then do as you like.
I'm done with it.
Go rampaging up there like the unholy monster you are and let the consequences be on your head.
I'm powerless to stop you.
Yes.
Whatever power you held over me at the moment of my bestial creation is gone.
Then, you had a power, Frankenstein.
Had you only used it kindly what a different story we would be telling.
I will see her.
Then go.
You know the way.
What have you told her about me? No more than you know.
She thinks you were her fiancé before the accident that robbed her of her memory.
And how did you paint me? How did you limn the story of our romance? I told her nothing.
I thought it best you extemporize on that.
And her response when you spoke of me? She asked if she loved you before.
I said I didn't know.
She asked if she must love you now.
I told her it was up to her entirely.
Was I wrong? - Was I wrong? - No.
No.
No, she must care for me of her own accord.
And did she speak of my face? In what way? Such sadism even now.
She knows you look differently than she or I.
She's seen no one else.
If you come as the jolly wooer I wish you luck.
And I wish you and she gone from my existence as if you had never drawn breath.
- For once, we are both in agreement.
Then let it be done.
Cousin.
Mr.
Clare.
Good evening.
Miss Lily.
I've brought Mr.
Clare to entertain you.
You must be bored by my company.
I'll leave you to it.
Cousin Victor, you won't stay? I've work downstairs.
I'll come back.
Won't you sit, sir? Thank you.
And you may call me John, if you will.
That's a lovely dress.
What? Yes.
Victor picked it out.
And do you like it? Yes.
Victor picked it out.
You're looking at my face.
I don't mean to.
I can't help it.
Kind eyes can look on anything and find it beautiful.
I don't mean to be forward.
I'm sorry.
Ours is an exceptional history.
We were friends once, and And that friendship grew between us.
Victor told me.
Let me tell you, for I was there.
I remember one night, we were walking through the village and we came across some men outside a tavern.
Drunken, they were.
And they saw me with you.
And they laughed and pointed and said: "How could the likes of her be with the likes of him?" And what did you do? It was more what you did.
You took my hand, and you held it.
And you looked at them.
Then you raised my hand to your lips.
And you held it there.
I don't remember.
- And yet, it happened.
- To someone else.
I've no wish to cause you pain.
Let us start by being friends, Mr.
Clare.
I can do no other.
I understand.
Lucifer.
Mr.
Chandler.
Who's asking? Inspector Bartholomew Rusk.
Scotland Yard.
I should like a few words, if I may.
You may.
Perhaps my office would be more comfortable.
For whom? This way.
Miss Ives.
Doctor.
May I present Miss Lily Frankenstein.
Such a pleasure, miss.
Your cousin has told me so much.
How do you do, Miss Ives? What's the one thing a sharpshooter is sure to need? Bullets.
I've given up the theatrical profession.
- Oh, why? - Didn't suit my character.
Yes.
I see you don't seem made for the limelight.
- Then again, we just met.
- Indeed.
One wonders how you keep body and soul together without employment.
Bit of this, bit of that.
I lost it in the Transvaal.
Boer sharpshooter.
I think a carbine.
They never use long-barreled weapons.
They are so frequently on horseback.
Much like your Red Indians, yes? Is that right? I mean, you must know weapons, given your former occupation.
Just the theatrical kind.
I'm not that good a shot.
We used shotgun pellets in the show.
Well, these aren't pellets.
And I'm not in the show.
- You lived in the Mariner's Inn.
- Did I? You registered September 25th last year.
Must have, then.
Where do you live now? Elsewhere.
Are you aware of the recent trouble at the inn? No.
Don't you read the newspapers? No.
There were murders.
- Were there? - Many.
Shame.
All of the guests at the inn have been accounted for but for one Brona Croft and one Ethan Chandler.
And? And I'm bound to ask.
- And am I bound to answer? - Well, you haven't been remanded.
- Am I free to leave? - Any time you like.
We've had some trouble here in London.
It started in early September last year.
Is that so? According to customs records, that was when you arrived with your Wild West Show.
September the 3rd, to be precise.
How can I help? You can tell me why an American seemingly without employment and a place of residence and proficient in firearms is currently buying ordnance.
Is it illegal? Not in the slightest.
Were the people who were killed shot? Not a one.
Then, I'm not quite sure what I'm doing here, Inspector Rusk.
Because you're a mystery.
And you don't like mysteries.
I like order.
And peaceable streets upon which to walk.
As do I.
There was something different about the Mariner's Inn.
There was a survivor.
That must be useful to you.
People who were there seem to have a way of forgetting things.
Well, it was a forgettable place.
Not to me.
What's your name? - You know my name.
- I know your stage name.
We've been cabling American colleagues for information on an Ethan Chandler with few useful results thus far.
I have reams of documents on a farmer in Iowa and a cotton grower in Louisiana and a chemist in New York.
All men without mystery.
That must be frustrating for you.
Only temporarily.
Well, since I have nothing to tell you Of course.
Do you mind if I walk with you? - I never seem to get any air in this job.
- My pleasure.
He's been very generous.
Yes, the doctor is a kind man.
I think that rather comes with the job.
And are you intending to remain in London? - As long as she likes.
- As long as he'll have me.
Makes a change from the country, at any rate.
And how do you find London, Lily? The weather is challenging, but the excitement is palpable.
There's a lot to explore here.
Have you seen much of the city? Just the usual tourist spots, mostly.
It's very loud.
Loud.
That's silly.
Sorry.
No, you're right.
The din is everlasting.
- I think that's probably enough.
- Sorry.
These are fun.
They are, indeed.
Well, if you'll excuse me, I've an engagement.
I hope we'll see you at Grandage Place soon, doctor.
- We miss you.
- Of course.
Such a pleasure, Lily.
I hope we'll meet again.
You're very pretty.
Well, thank you.
As are you.
And thank you for the dress.
Next time, we'll go alone.
I think the doctor was mortified.
- Good day to you both.
- Miss Ives.
Did I do all right, Victor? You were perfect.
It's never what you think it's gonna be.
We expected a proper military engagement but the Boers didn't play along.
There we were in our formations and our scarlet uniforms while they were a guerilla force who struck at will.
Never seen better on horseback.
Like the Sioux Indians in your country.
- I read about them in dime novels.
- Your accent isn't from the East.
Aren't you a Westerner? You've been to America? I have an ear.
Works with the ladies.
Who doesn't love a cowboy? Or a soldier.
I suppose.
Your War Department hasn't been particularly forthcoming with records.
Too busy invading Haiti and killing Red Indians at the moment, I should think.
But I'll keep at it.
You do that.
It's been a pleasure, inspector.
But I've got shopping to do.
If you'd excuse me? Of course.
Be careful, Mr.
Chandler.
With the bullets.
Inspector.
Excuse me.
Thank you.
Mr.
Clare.
Miss Ives.
Do you know you share your name with a dead poet? Yes.
Do you like poetry? All sad people like poetry.
Happy people like songs.
I've always been moved by John Clare's story.
By all accounts, he was only 5 feet tall, so considered freakish.
Perhaps due to this, he felt a singular affinity with the outcasts and the unloved.
The ugly animals.
The broken things.
I am Yet what I am none care or knows My friends forsake me Like a memory lost I am the self-consumer of my woes They rise and vanish In oblivious host Like shadows In love's frenzied stifled throes And yet I am, and live - Like vapors tossed - Vapors tossed I long for scenes Where man hath never trod A place where woman Never smiled or wept There to abide with my Creator, God And sleep as I in childhood Sweetly slept Untroubling and untroubled Where I lie - The grass below - The grass below - Above the vaulted sky - Above the vaulted sky I wonder if he ever found it, his silent place with God.
The poem tells me that he did.
As you will one day.
Peace.
Is that the goal of religion? Isn't it? That can be found in the smallest details of life.
The kind touch of a hand.
I saw it earlier.
I was having coffee with a friend.
He's in love with someone, though I don't know he knows it.
But she touched his hand.
And on his face something I'd never seen before.
A kind of peace, anyway.
The cruelest kind.
It's lethal, that touch.
For it leaves your heart at the mercy of another.
You're so unprotected.
We're all awkward in love.
Mine has always gone awry.
When I've opened myself to it in the past, it's left me damaged.
The consequences are too grave.
And what is our recompense? We who cannot cast our boats on that sea? And how are we to navigate the waters when they are so alien? I've met a woman recently, in fact.
But I don't know how to behave.
As yourself.
Or as anything but.
I'm so maladroit, Miss Ives.
I can speak poetry to the end of days but I cannot take her hand in this hand so pale and ugly.
All the stratagems of the battle are unknown to me.
When to laugh.
How to laugh.
How to stand and sit and bow and dance.
There at least, I can help.
See this woman in me, Mr.
Clare, and follow your heart.
It's the curse of my class.
I was taught dancing from a very young age.
No.
Please, I can't.
Come on.
No.
Mr.
Clare, the sea is waiting for you.
Set sail.
And try not to look at your feet.
Follow gently in this, as you do in all things.
One, two, three.
One, two, three.
That's it.
One, two, three.
I'm sorry, I think it's highly improper.
They're brother and sister, after all.
I finally found something that shocks you.
If it were possible for me to blush, I'd be as red as an apple.
God, it can't be.
I know you.
- I think not.
- Oh, yes.
Hold on.
This is the little minx I told you about.
In Belgravia.
- Excuse us.
- Hold on, friend.
This is the little freak that took 40 pounds off me.
Quite a surprise in store for yours truly.
- Wasn't there, dear heart? - Take your hand off me.
Or maybe you like that kind of thing.
It's a complete myth.
Quicksand can't actually swallow you up.
You can struggle and get trapped for a while, that's all.
It's just like love.
Better not to struggle, dear.
I can honestly say I've never met a woman like you.
You have no idea.
You're a breath of air in a complicated life.
Well, let's hope we can simplify it someday.
Here's your brandy.
Oh, my ring pricked you, I'm sorry.
Oh, it's ridiculous jewelry.
Foul baubles of our vanity, aren't they? You were saying, dear? Well, I'm damned.
Well, I'm sure of that.
Mr.
Chandler, you dazzle me.
I always expect you to be so fiendishly manly then out come these soupçon of wit.
You inspire me, Mr.
Lyle.
So, what's damning you tonight? Well, look at this.
Our narrative proceeds along at a stately pace without a trace of Dickensian flourish or Thackerayan japery.
Then I come across this.
A phrase repeated in a variety of languages seemingly at random, like a poetic repetition.
I can't make fit anywhere.
I'm boggled.
What is it? Here it is in Greek.
And in Latin.
The Hound of God.
Yeah.
Or something very like.
Sir Malcolm will have to help us with the Arabic.
I can't endure dangling repetitions.
It's like a poem waiting to be rhymed.
It makes me sad.
But we'll get it, Mr.
Chandler.
For we are what above all? I haven't a clue.
Tenacious.
We keep after our quarry until he, she or it is ours.
The Hound of God.
I borrowed your clothes.
Why are you doing this? Being what I am? That's not what you are.
You prefer the freak.
It adds spice for you, doesn't it? From the moment I was born, I was not as I was meant to be.
No one spoke of it.
My parents ignored me as best they could.
So I came to London and created Angelique leaving me fit for no trade but whoring and myself fit for nothing but degradation and ridicule.
Have you ever known that? No.
You've led a charmed life here.
We're not all so lucky.
Or so normal.
Do you think I don't understand what it is to be different? I think I'm tired, Dorian.
I've been fighting so long.
You're not fighting alone Angelique.
And if I chose always to dress like this? Would you care for me then? I care for who you are.
Not what you wear.
Quick.
Quickly.
- I'm sorry, Mrs.
Poole.
- You mustn't be.
I don't know what got into me.
Must be the Wagner.
No.
Not that.
I have to be with you.
Yes.
Lily.
- What is it? - The storm.
It's all right.
Don't worry.
You're safe.
You're safe.
Thank you, Victor.
I'm so silly.