Ripper Street

Will you offer a prayer for my soul

as you stand over my corpse and confirm my passing?

Oh, I shall.

That is Samuel Drummond. His friends call him Drum.

And that is Francis Thatcher. Which do you consider the more handsome?

- Drum. - Yes.

Miss Reid.

This is the only peace he's known.

I don't think Mr. Drake would care for that very much.

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Mathilda, you'll be late.

Tild... wait. Have you been sat here this whole night?

What is this robs you of your rest?

Vampires? Really?

Go. Ready yourself.

When the Count comes to London, he makes his lair in Whitechapel like you.

It's just a bad dream.

What was that song, my love?

Hm?

The silly thing before.

You know, the one about the little girl. You were teaching me.

- Um... - It's all right.

- It's all right. - Um...

What sort of song is that for a child?

It works, though, doesn't it?

Croker!

What?

She's gone.

What are you? Simple? You didn't keep lookout, you goddamn imbecile.

Careful now, Captain.

Nathaniel isn't fond of such invective.

Besides, your lady is no rash girly.

I doubt she now rows a skiff to Dunkirk. She will not be far.

You best hope he's right.

Jesus Christ, Caitlin.

Have you lost your mind?

I awoke.

I reached for my son.

And my son was not there.

He is safe, and he is cared for. And he will be yours again. Just time, darling.

- Come here. - The burden of it is all.

The sun is out, girl.

And that face shines out like a ruby in the rubble.

I cannot shield you if you will not confine yourself to quarters.

Do not lecture me, Abel. I know the risk I take,

and it is a breath of dockside air, not tea at the Savoy.

All fine and fair and understood.

Could you not snarl? We are fond of you.

We prefer you safe where we can see you.

Not back on a gibbets where we cannot.

Now will you return yourself to your bunk

or will Nate here put you over his shoulder?

You just let him try.

Ah. Come on. Business to run.

Hurry.

Oh, Inspector Drake, Inspector Reid.

It is the new cold stores, sir. It's this way.

They may keep meat for six months before it spoils.

Six months?

Who wants mutton that's half a year old?

Number 25.

Sirs, a word of caution. It ain't pretty.

God's teeth.

- Jackson. - Jackson.

Oh, the American, sir?

Yeah, I've... I've banged that drum, Mr. Drake.

Ordered that, the, uh, carbon lights be brought and all, sir.

The man learns.

The hanging man's wrists are bound.

And someone else restrained here, therefore.

Here's their spray... a lot of it, too.

- Mr. Thatcher! - Yeah?

Whoever sat here was either spirited away or left on their own engine.

If the latter, having lost this weight of blood, they will not have gone far.

I'll have the men pick the market clean, sir.

- You do that, Sergeant. - (Thatcher) Yeah.

Skin penetrated at the jugular,

at the radial beneath the bicep.

- This? - It's another lancing.

Older, however, less precise instrument.

And this is what killed him? The bloodletting?

No, ligature marks.

Then he was strangled, killed.

And only then is his blood let.

To what end, however?

The blood is the end.

This poor bastard's cadaver's been exsanguinated.

Every last droplet syphoned out of him.

Why, do you suppose?

The other party... bound to that chair... she's found, sirs.

Get more. Get everything.

Another puncture wound.

Same method.

But no ligature marks, however.

She was alive while they tried to syphon blood from her.

- But escaped. - She held her neck.

She hoped to staunch the blood flow even as she ran for her life.

No defence wounds.

Downside pillar...

inner mucous membrane undamaged.

No hemorrhaging of the capillaries.

Third and fourth. Oh, shit.

What's up? What more?

What do you think this is? A crystal ball?

Did you find the other?

Young woman, puncture wound here.

No strangulation, however.

Well, have Thatcher bring 'em home.

I need my knives.

Where do you go?

About my work, Drake.

_

The hematoma about the man's neck is from a rope.

The insides of his cheeks are unbitten.

There are no burst capillaries in his eyes. Therefore, he's not strangled.

His neck is fractured clean at the third and fourth cervical vertebrae,

and he's at least 120 pounds.

Do you see where I'm going yet, Doctor?

Now such a break on the neck of a man of such weight, that's a drop of around,

what? Seven feet, at least.

Professional work.

The kind of work that puts me in mind of you, Probyn.

Standing over your hangman's recent execution, pronouncing 'em dead.

Ah, that's, uh, impressive police work, Captain.

Yet no policeman you.

I wonder have you shared your expert

imaginings with your friends on Leman Street?

No?

I wonder why that might be.

If not because you fear what I might choose to tell them.

Do you not recall my promise to you? Or is that you doubt my sincerity?

Now will you assist in my inquiry or won't you?

Which recently hanged cadavers have you

seen diverted from burial pits no longer than two days passed?

Two details.

His name and where you sent him.

Meet Percival Monks.

He staved his mother-in-law's head in with a fire iron.

Got the rope for his troubles.

Newgate hanged him yesterday, sent his body to the London hospital for evisceration.

How have you done this, Jackson?

Just merely read the signs, Inspector.

Now are we moving on, or do you wish me to showboat further?

Oh, no. Please, move on.

Right, see...

Uh, scorbutic tongue.

Teeth as loose as the keys in a saloon piano.

Drake?

Scurvy.

Privation suffered on a migrant's passage perhaps.

Polish. Prayer card.

It's Mark 3:11.

Curious it is in English.

It said Mark what? 3:11.

There we are.

"And unclean spirits, when they saw him, fell down before him."

There's more here, however.

You see here? This is indigo staining in here.

That's the model scarring of seamstress needles.

- She's been sweated. - That'd be my assumption.

Polish Catholics are only recently so visible in the city there.

And the numbers are not so swollen that finding one

such from a Whitechapel sweatshop should be beyond us.

Might you say what made an end of her, Jackson?

I'm at a loss, Drake.

Genuinely.

It's not the bloodletting that done for her, then?

No, not at all. Point in fact, she ain't been bled at all.

Can you account for the blood that covered her?

I cannot.

The sole wound on her is the exact same puncturing