Ripper Street

Your Majesty, the world has disembarked.

Here in London, Imperial Service Troops

from each and every dominion make camp in Hyde Park.

Your capital opens its arms to your empire.

And here, that empire will pay tribute to your reign,

to this Diamond Jubilee.

Er, from the palace, you will lead the procession, 45,000

men at arms, cavalry from your homeland,

Munshi, Bengal Lancers.

It will be a living gazetteer of your realms, Majesty.

The streets will be lined, the joy unconfined.

Following your lead up Constitution Hill,

St. James to Pall Mall, Trafalgar Square,

The Strand until St. Paul's where the Bishop of London...

_

_

Silence, silence!

Assistant Commissioner of Police Augustus Dove

will now give address.

Ladies, gentlemen, people of Whitechapel,

as the wider city prepares itself for celebration

the like of which we have never seen,

Scotland Yard invites you here today with double incentive

to introduce you to your new station house,

a magnificent building, I'm sure you'll agree.

But first, to congratulate Inspector Drake

and his division on their rigorous pursuit

and capture of the man who murdered

the Rabbi Leon Ratovski.

Here, here!

Sentence of death has now been handed down on his killer.

A sentence we at Scotland Yard

do, albeit with sadness, welcome.

Now come.

Mr. Drake is keen to show you his new home.

Mr. Drake, will you explain?

It is a telephone.

The line here is connected throughout the stations,

a system of communication, which allows

the Inspector and his men to speak to each other wherever they work.

Assistance may be requested, information passed on.

Young boys will go to school,

not run policeman's lunch orders for them.

Of this, however, we are particularly proud.

It was well known Mr. Drake's predecessor kept

a criminal archive in the rafters of the old Leman Street Station.

Sergeant Drummond.

Mr. Reid's files were photographed,

and their size then shrunk by a ratio of 160 to 1.

We now add to them daily, each and every reported villainy read here.

Imagine a stanhope, but of more applicable function.

What do you call it, Inspector?

It is the microreader.

_

I prefer these places empty, it must be said.

But it is not their place to be empty.

We laugh, I know, but there is a truth buried in that laughter.

We must not forget that the hoped for conclusion of police work

is not a prison groaning with convicts,

but no prisons at all.

Inspector Drake, no sooner does your new master

at Scotland Yard hand you down new premises

than he seeks to make you surplus to requirements.

It is a redundancy I would welcome, Miss Castello.

Wouldn't we all, Mr. Drake?

It is a utopia.

Inspector Drake, might I bring you back to less, ah, elevated matters?

Go on, Miss Castello.

As regards the murderer of Rabbi Ratovski,

Mr. Dove tells us the sentence of death

handed down on the Whitechapel golem is welcomed at Scotland Yard.

Do you here at H Division echo that sentiment?

I would prefer to call him by his name.

It was your newspaper dubbed him otherwise.

Not so, Inspector. We simply echoed the frightened voices

heard amongst the jury of Whitechapel.

Nonetheless, the inspector makes sound argument.

This borough here has a taste for monsters,

for their birthing and nurture.

Then let us here of the man behind that monster.

Will we have his given name from you, Mr. Drake?

You know it. It is Isaac Bloom.

A mathematician, part of the same Whitechapel

jury, and well known to H Division, was he not?

He gave service to your predecessor more than once, so I understand.

He may have, Miss Castello, but that does not alter the facts.

Men may change. Bloom is no different.

The rabbi Leon Ratovski visited London from Paris.

Isaac Bloom killed him in a Whitechapel laneway and will hang for it.

Let those facts be known, if you will, Miss Castello,

then let him be forgot.

_

Sergeant.

- Detective Sergeant. - I need to see the old man.

Mr. Drake has guests, as you know.

He must hear this, however.

Frank, save the shoe leather.

I'm sure it must be near run through, and new boots are costly.

Were it not for the fact I think you'd enjoy it too much,

I'd take this piece of machinery and I'd shove it up your...

Hello?

There's a murdered man washed up on the Western Dock, sir.

I'll be there, Sergeant.

- Sir, I... - You go, Inspector.

OK, excuse me.

Oh, Mr. Drake.

One moment, please.

This today, it is much appreciated.

I know such work is not to your taste.

I understand, sir. It is important.

The men feel their work is seen, and such witnessing gives encouragement.

You have me, Inspector.

Stand aside. Police, stand aside.

Mr. Drake, my men and I, we are happy to see you.

The elected steward for dock, wharf, riverside,

and general labourers union. Happy?

I shall remember the day, Mr. Teague.

You are?

Name's Croker, Croker's Wharf, two ticks upriver.

Where that reefer should now be getting its freight

unshipped if you will not say otherwise, Inspector.

Forgive me. I am brought here for a dead man,

not to arbitrate in a labour dispute.

Ah well,

allow me, Inspector.

Indian fellow.

Last guy working the sieves, most like, from his colouring.

It was him what has put him there.

That is slander, Roy.

Do you accuse us of murder?

Yes, Mr. Teague. Do you?

No, I say only that this wharfinger has found a floater

on the night tide, sought to gig it downriver,

and land it here, and see these men go work this come sunrise.

That is 500 frozen carcasses from New Zealand,

mutton, lamb, pig, 50 kegs of butter alongside.

As good a day's work as these men have known all month.

Booked for lumping right here.

But if you will now close this dock to mount investigation,

then he, who pays no dues to this union

and lives outside its regulation,

will have his lightmen out on the water in two jiffies

and take that cargo as his own.

This true, Mr. Croker?

It is not, Mr. Drake.

At least the first part is not.

The second, that those frozen carcasses

be brought ashore for warehousing and distribution, that is true.

And I shall certainly be bidding for such work.

You cannibal, Croker! This...

That murdered man is nought but some Indian googoo,

Inspector, for whom you would deprive London men of their work!

The man's origin is not pertinent, Mr. Teague.

You're right about one thing, however.

I shall be closing this dock for investigation.

As for who works and profits, well, that is not my lookout.

Sergeant, see this dockside picked

and cleared for evidence.

The murdered man to be untangled, careful like,

and conveyed to our deadroom. You understand?

And for yourself?

There's no time. I've go to drag our surgeon from his pit.

All right.

She-piggy, Captain Jackson.

Jackson.

Morning, Chief.

How are thee?

- One man. - Four crowns.

Best be quick. There's some place I need to be this afternoon.

One crown. You work efficiently, you will be free to leave.

Two crowns, two shillings, and a sixpence,

and I leave when I say I leave.

Jackson.

Drake.

Come on.

You have the look.

What look?

Bulldog swallows wasp.

Read all about it! Susan Hart to Hang?

This man.

_

Yeah, what of him?

In two days time, we are told.

Yeah, I can do math, Drake.

And yet you still make no plans to visit.

Visit whom?

Your wife, she who languishes in Newgate these three years,

she who'll soon no longer be your wife

- on account of the fact she will be... - No, Drake. No plans.

No surprises.

Do you understand, Inspector?

This week of all weeks.

Secretary Chamberlain, it is a happy occasion.

You relax, get yourself happy.

I shall get happy, Mr. Constantine,

when you have delivered to us what we have asked you to deliver.

This Munshi, the Queen's manservant, his influence might

be feared by her household, but my spies have no such worries, sir.

Could be he's cleaner than you gentlemen imagine.

By which you imply you are yet to find anything demonstrates otherwise?