(thunder) (woman wailing) Nation Detective Constable Morse has to struggle to be taken seriously.

He has to struggle, period.

He's been shot, he recently lost his father, and now he may have lost his bosses' trust.

The world seems to be working against him.

He has to fight to regain his place in it.

But maybe that's just the way it's supposed to be for a man called Endeavour.

(birds cawing) (panting) (clicking) (gunshot) It gives me great pleasure to launch Burridge's "Spring into Summer" fashion collection.

(cameras snapping) (applause) The simple fact that King Harold had to straightway hurry south from Stamford Bridge to repel the Norman invasion is perhaps the decisive factor in William's victory.

D-A-F-T... N-U-P. RADIO ANNOUNCER: I have received a heartfelt appeal for Frida Yelland of Wantage in Oxfordshire to get in touch with her dad Bernard.

Dad says he loves you and misses you very much and just wants to know you are all right.

WOMAN: When my late colleague Tom Duggan took this seat in March, it may have only been by 18 votes, but let me assure you: this constituency is more to me than just a swing seat.

It's my home!

(applause) DOCTOR: In.

(deep inhale) Out.

(deep exhale) In.

(deep inhale) Out.

(deep exhale) DOCTOR: Smoking?

No.

Drink?

The odd glass.

Are you sleeping all right?

MURIEL: Diana?

(knocking) Diana, dinner, dear.

Yes, Mrs. Todd.

We don't want to make it too late of a night, dear, do we?

Not with tomorrow.

Just five minutes, Mrs. Todd.

MAN: Don't fret yourself, Moo.

It's a woman's prerogative.

(bells chiming) ♫♫ RADIO ANNOUNCER: Traffic news just in... Starts back again today, doesn't he?

Properly, I mean, at the station.

Well, if the medic's passed him A1.

Fred, remember what you said after that drink?

(doorbell rings) JOAN: I'll get it!

Don't expect too much.

Come in.

You've lost weight.

What have they been feeding you out at Witney?

Mockery and humiliation, mostly.

Morse.

Sir.

How's the leg?

Oh, fine, fine.

We'd have kept you on at the station if I'd had my way.

It was, um...

The budget.

I know.

Something about carrying dead wood, wasn't it, Mr.

Bright said?

(engine starts up) You might want to avoid The Broad.

Because of the parade.

(playing march tune) Today, this city celebrates 900 years of history.

900 years since these islands fell beneath the Norman yoke.

It says something, perhaps, for the Bulldog spirit that we have never been conquered again, though many have tried.

Ah.

I would also like to welcome back to the station DC Morse, who after four months counting paperclips at County returns to us, FME assures me, much restored.

Very well, carry on.

(music continues) (cheering) Well, then, Morse, you'll be pleased to be off Light Duties and returned to your more general responsibilities, no doubt.

Sir.

Well, an eventful year for you, one way or another.

Shot, the opera lunatic, and then to top it all, your father.

Damn bad luck.

But back on the horse, yes?

When you have a minute, Thursday.

I'll leave you to get settled in.

How is he?

I ask with no side.

He's young.

He'll mend.

(marching band playing) MAN: The ABC said that she handed in her cards the previous Friday.

I know my daughter.

Frida wouldn't just go away and not tell me.

It was planned, then.

Not like she just disappeared off the street.

Look... Leave it with us.

Any news, we'll let you know.

My colleague will see you out.

Morse?

(crowd cheering) It's Mr. Yelland, isn't it?

From Wantage?

You came into Witney last week.

I've been all over.

What makes you think that Frida's come to Oxford?

Well, I don't know if she has.

I'm just trying everywhere.

She'd have called or wrote sooner than fret me like this if she was going off.

Oh, damn.

I meant to give this to the other fella.

Can you help me?

Please?

Yes, of course.

Try not to worry.

Anything in it?

Two weeks.

Girl's free, white, single and over 21.

Probably run off with the milkman.

(gunshots) (screaming) Get off me!

POLICEMAN: It's just a bit of paint, that's all.

Stay calm.

Come along, miss.

(gasps) (phone ringing) Morse.

Hello, matey.

You're a sight for sore eyes and no mistake.

Back full time?

Looks like it.

What did I miss?

You heard about my Sergeants', I suppose?

Three lousy points.

If at first... Yeah-- give up.

All right, brace yourself.

It's a bit, uh... All right.

Wait a minute.

Name?

Take your pick.

There's about two dozen different business cards in his wallet.

Witnesses?

STRANGE: The traffic warden was writing a ticket when he hit, but nobody saw him jump.

The porter says access to the roof is easy enough, if people are of a mind to go up there.

Off heights, are we?

Lately, funnily enough.

deBRYN: Mmm.

Not how I'd "my own quietus make," but he wouldn't have known much about it.

Dead before his mind had a chance to catch up with the rest of him.

What do you make to these?

Commonly removed in suicides.

Automatic gesture.

And of course, the added benefit in this instance is that he wouldn't have seen what was coming towards him.

Cause?

Something of a salmagundi.

Multiple catastrophic injuries do you to be going on with?

Chapter and verse, once I've had a rummage.

Nothing suspicious?

Only you.

Morse.

They're just jealous.

Now what have I told you, hmm?

When people say or do nasty things, what do you do?

Stare back and smile.

DOROTHEA: Any word as to what was behind it?

Someone said perhaps there'd been a falling out over a boyfriend?

No, Diana doesn't have a boyfriend.

She's actually waiting for Mr.

Right, but... MAN: Mr. Todd!

TODD: What I can tell you is she's shooting a commercial for the television on Friday with the racing driver, Danny Griffon.

What's it for, Tone?

Sunlight soap powder.

Formula 1.

TODD: Very big new campaign.

It's very now, it's very "with it," and Diana's very excited about it.

As to anything else, we're just here to run a competition.

Oxford heat's still going ahead, then?

Absolutely, otherwise there would be dozens of disappointed young beautiful ladies.

So yes, the show must go on, and it will do at Cowley Lido on Monday night.

Thanks ever so much.

Thank you.

How is she?

I'd like five minutes with those stupid little bitches.

JAKES: We're thinking suicide currently, sir.

Obviously more news to follow.

What's the word on Icarus, then?

Multiple catastrophic injuries, according to Dr. deBryn.

But we'll know more once he's completed the postmortem.

You're up to that?

Wouldn't want to overface you first day back.

I'm fine, sir.

Once more unto the breach, eh?

Excellent.

Well, splendid you're settling back in.

Splendid.

Absence makes.

ENDEAVOUR: There should be a notebook.

There was a notebook at the scene.

JAKES: What's there is what came back, mate.

Receipts?

ENDEAVOUR: For petrol and motor oil from a garage out towards Shotover.

There's another for breakfast at Lyons on Carfax this morning.

What would a man planning on killing himself want with receipts, that it?

Force of habit?

He'd also tied a bit of string around his finger.

A reminder to do something, wouldn't you think?

All right, stick with it for now.

See what you can dig up.

Thank you, sir.

Not back off Light Duties five minutes and already it's foul play.

Just like old times.

MAN: All right?

Hello, sir.

Oxford Police.

Much trade?

(laughs) Not since the bypass.

Holiday camp round the back had it worse.

Closed now.

Sold three cans of oil yesterday.

Youngster round lunch, woman after tea, and Mr. Meeker about 8:00.

How old would he be, Mr. Meeker?

Reckon he was about early 40s.

Biggish fella.

What was he driving?

Lincoln... Continental.

Did he make any mention of where he was headed?

No, didn't need to.

Stopped here, didn't he?

How long was he checked in for?

Last night and tonight.

Did he give a home address?

In the register.

He's stayed once or twice, I think, the last few weeks.

Dentist.

Thanks.

WOMAN: 900 years of history, and the best that they can come up with to represent the contribution my sex made to this nation is Miss Great Britain.

You letting off your starter pistol like that put a lot of folk in fear of their lives.

Fear!

Do you know how many women are beaten or die in this country each week at the hands of their boyfriends or husbands or fathers?

As a matter of fact, miss, I do.

Probably better than you.

Fractured skull.

Lacerated aorta.

(sirens blaring outside) Any of which would've done for him.

Stomach contents?

The full English.

About an hour before he put Sir Isaac's Law of Universal Gravitation to the test.

Any word as to who he was?

Name's Meeker.

Dentist, apparently.

With teeth like that?

I've seen better gnashers running at Uttoxeter.

You didn't have a notebook come in, did you?

There was a notebook at the scene of the crime, on the roof of the car amongst his other personal effects.

I'm a pathologist, not a road sweeper.

If something's been pinched, I should call the police.

Good afternoon.

This is Detective Constable Morse, Oxford City Police.

Would I be right in thinking this is the dental practice of a Mr. Meeker?

It was?

The Jeremiahs say to me, "Barbara, three elections in two years?

"The voters have had enough.

"You know, we're sitting there in Parliament on a 90-odd majority."

I think you know exactly what the danger is.

We give an inch of ground back to the Tories and they'll thieve a yard!

CROWD: Hear, hear!

BRIGHT: Ah, Thursday, come in.

May I present Captain and Mrs. Batten.

Detective Inspector Thursday.

How do you do?

Mr. Batten owns the paint factory on the Botley Road.

The Saucies?

What?

The Worcestershire Regiment, Chief Superintendent.

My tie.

Burma?

You?

North Africa, Italy... Well, unfortunately, it appears Mr. and Mrs. Batten's daughter is amongst the group we're holding in connection with that incident at the Broad this morning.

Kitty.

She attends Lady Matilda's, but Captain and Mrs. Batten have brought with them a letter from her tutor in Medieval Studies at Beaufort.

He assures me she's a person of previous good character.

I think he says "exemplary."

A Running Blue, "Cupper," and likely prospect for Mexico in the 800.

MRS. BATTEN: If she's done something wrong... Barb... She should face the consequences, Archie, the same as anyone else.

Admirably expressed, Mrs. Batten.

However, not everyone else's mother has been selected to stand for Parliament.

They've been released?

All of them?

The quality of mercy, Mr.

Bright says.

The quality of Captain Batten's backhand, more like.

Assistant Chief Constable's doubles partner, isn't he?

In the Seniors' Round Robin.

His paint firm sponsors the Annual Police Winners and Orphans, doesn't it?

Yeah, well, there you go.

Same as I was telling Strange: not what you know.

Morse.

Pint of?

No, I'm not stopping, thanks.

I just wanted to report on the garage at Shotover.

How'd you make out?

Well, according to the owner, Meeker's stayed there three times this last month.

"Meeker" amongst his business cards, wasn't there?

Dentist, Swiss cottage.

He died two years ago.

Some sort of con artist?

Possibly.

I found this on his bedside table.

THURSDAY:"98018."

What's that, a telephone number?

It's unobtainable if it is-- I've tried it.

D-Day?

Friday?

THURSDAY: Well, you've got that wrong for starters.

D-Day was on a Tuesday.

Well, what's with the Friday, then?

Something he had to do tomorrow, perhaps?

I wondered if it mightn't be Friday at all.

Well, there's a young girl's gone missing from Wantage.

Frida Yelland.

I thought rather than Friday, it could be "FRIDA Y," couldn't it?

Or it could just be Friday.

You're keen to get back in the swing, I know, and that's to be commended.

But?

Tying in a suicide to a missing girl off the back of a single word?

Got to admit, that's a bit of a stretch even by your standards.

Suspected suicide, isn't it?

In any event, we'd be better placed to know if certain of his possessions hadn't taken a walk.

What's that?

Meeker's notebook has gone missing.

Somewhere between the scene and the Exhibits desk.

Could be the coroner's men swept it up with the rest of the detritus when they bagged the body.

Who was in charge there?

Strange-- although I'm not saying... (glass shattering) (sarcastic clapping) Right, then.

Let's see... Thursday.

Must be... Ham and tomato.

Kitty, Kitty!

What?

Didn't you think what this might mean... for you?

For the family?

I thought you might understand.

Approve, even.

Don't you want things to change?

Well, of course I do.

What the hell do you think I'm standing for?

My God.

You think you'd be standing at all if some old man hadn't died?

If the party really gave a damn, they'd have selected you to stand for the general in March, not in some bloody also-ran by-election.

Kitty...

It doesn't matter whether you win or lose.

It's just a game.

Yes, it's their game!

And you're playing it!

It's 1966, Mother.

You don't have to wait to be asked to dance anymore.

Why don't you wait with the car?

I'll see her in to her tutorial.

I'd sooner you didn't come in.

I'm a big girl.

Did Frida ever mention a man called Meeker, Mr. Yelland?

Raymond Meeker?

About 45 years old.

Might have described himself as a dentist.

Drove a Lincoln Continental.

One of the girls she worked with at Aerated Bread said she thought she saw Frida in Oxford with an older man.

When was this?

Since she's been missing?

Few weeks before.

I told them at Kidlington.

I thought I'd told them at Witney.

It's got that I've told so many, I don't know what I've said and what I haven't, and to who.

Why?

You think you've got something with this Meeker fella?

Uh, for a moment.

It's just something I'm looking at.

It's probably nothing.

MURIEL: Diana?

(knocking) Diana?

(sighs) Don't let Muriel catch you.

Look who's talking.

(knocking) Hi.

Hello.

I'm Monica.

With the moped.

From across the way.

Morse.

Sorry to knock, but you haven't got a tanner, have you?

I've something on the stove to warm, and the gas has gone.

Come in.

I'll let you have it back.

Call it quits if you've a tin opener I can borrow.

How is he?

Bit ring-rusty, maybe.

Soon work that off.

Fred, when you came back from that drink with him, you were worried sick.

I don't know I'd go that far.

Yes, you were.

What was it you said?

"The light's gone out of him."

Has it?

So... What do you do?

What do you think I do?

(chuckles) A teacher, maybe.

In the Colleges.

All these books.

Are you?

I'm a policeman.

You don't look like a policeman.

Thanks for the opener.

Welcome.

I'll, um... Night.

Good night.

(footsteps approaching) Someone get the police!

There's been a robbery!

STRANGE: Theft was discovered shortly after 7:00 this morning, sir, by one of the porters.

When were they last seen?

Just before the college was locked up for the night.

Around 11:00.

Nobody in or out in between.

Inside job, then.

If the place was shut tight.

MAN: Since you're wearing a hat, might one assume that you're in charge?

DI Thursday, sir, City Police.

Might we assume the same of you, Mister... ?

MAN: Doctor.

Copley Barnes.

I'm the Macullen Chair.

Medieval Studies.

And this isn't a hat, it's a bonnet.

My colleague, Dr. Speight, Senior Research Fellow in Anglo-Saxon Antiquities.

SPEIGHT: How do you do?

THURSDAY: What's been stolen exactly?

Speight?

Come on, man, this is you.

Ah, yes, w well... We've an excellent photographic record of the exhibits, as you can see.

The quality of the objects together with certain runic inscriptions suggests they belonged to a thegn or high-ranking housecarl in the retinue of King Harold Godwinson.

King Harold that got it in the eye?

And people decry the merits of the Secondary Modern.

Yes, Constable,even he.

The centerpiece is a golden helmet, known by dint of the chief archaeologist's taste for Wagner as the Tarnhelm.

A spearhead.

A Dane axe.

Various arm-torcs... BARNES: What Speight's trying to tell you in his scenic way is that the swag constitutes all the major finds from the Second Wolvercote Trove, yes?

The which, sir?

You're familiar presumably with the dig of '31, which unearthed a late-Saxon belt buckle presently held by the Ashmolean?

Strangely enough, I can't imagine that a working knowledge of the Historia Ecclesiastica looms large in the Hendon curriculum.

I can't imagine it would do us very much good if it did.

I beg your pardon?

The Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum, to give it its full title, appeared 335 years before the events with which this exhibition is concerned took place.

Venerable the Bede may have been, but not clairvoyant.

Please, Dr. Speight, do go on.

I spoke to Mr. Yelland, the father of the missing girl, Frida.

He said one of her colleagues at work had seen her in Oxford with an older man.

I know what you said, sir, but what if that older man was the body that we found?

What if?

We've got three cases.

Three separate cases.

A suicide, a missing girl and now a robbery.

You want to lump all three together because the dead man had an exhibition guide and wrote "Friday" down on a piece of paper.

Well, it could be today, couldn't it?

Friday.

The day of the robbery.

Two minutes ago, you said it was this missing girl, Frida Yelland.

Which is it?

I don't know.

You don't have to prove anything.

Just having you back in one piece is enough to be going on with, all right?

I'm going to go and have a word with the porter.

Miss Batten?

Detective Constable Morse, City Police.

I wondered if I might ask you a few questions about last night.

Last night?

Someone stole a sizeable portion of the Wolvercote Trove.

Did they?

Well, there's one in the eye for Copley Barnes.

Quite literally.

My tutor.

Yes, I know.

You don't care for him?

Not as much as he'd like.

My God, you don't think I'm something to do with it?

Well, I think you made quite a spectacle of yourself on The Broad yesterday.

Perhaps you feel you didn't make your point strongly enough.

That was different.

Was it?

In 1913, Mary Richardson walked into the National Gallery and slashed the Rokeby Venus.

All in a good cause.

Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts yesterday evening?

No...

I don't know.

I just wanted people to see the truth.

There's more to women than an empty head and a Colgate smile.

But it's futile.

Nothing's going to change.

I'll walk away from Oxford with a degree, and for what?

Occupation: housewife.

THURSDAY: According to the neighbors, it's been parked here since yesterday morning.

Fishing waders.

But no rod or tackle.

Switchblade.

Risky old game, dentistry.

According to the Logbook, the car's registered to a Mr. John Pettifer, 11 Drexel Court, London.

That's Soho.

Pass it on to London, then.

He died on our ground.

I thought I might take a look.

Did you?

Listen, Morse.

Mr.

Bright's looking for a volunteer on this Beauty Contest.

I've put your name down.

To do what?

Keep an eye.

They're expecting you at Chipperfield Studios around midday.

Ask for a Tony Frisco.

I'm meant to be off Light Duties.

It came from the top, after all that hoopla with the pageant.

What if it wasn't a suicide?

What if his death is somehow connected to this missing girl?

Frida Yelland.

If you're looking to keep your mind occupied, it's this theft at Beaufort we could use a lead on.

You saw her, didn't you?

Kitty Batten?

What do you make to her?

Confused.

Sincere.

Angry.

Any chance the theft of the Trove could be part of the same stunt?

Well, anything's possible, but... (car backfires) It's all right, Morse.

It was just a car backfiring.

I wasn't...

I wasn't expecting it, that's all.

I know.

It took you by surprise, that's all.

Very close.

Made me jump.

♫So what are you doing Friday?♫ ♫Sounds like a good day to have some fun...♫ TONY: That was smashing, Diana.

You're a natural.

Hello there.

Tony Frisco, Mr. Todd's assistant.

Detective Constable Morse.

Please, come on over, I'll introduce you to Val-- Mr. Todd.

ENDEAVOUR: You been with him long?

Yeah, a few years.

Started out as his driver.

Worked my way up.

Is it interesting work?

Beats pest control.

That's my former vocation.

Vermin, pigeons, rats, wasps.

That's how I first met Val.

Squirrels in the loft.

Next thing I know, I'm wearing a chauffeur's cap, sitting behind the wheel of the Roller.

Sounds... fabulous?

Oh, it is.

I mean, take Saturday gone.

Diana opened a boutique in Marylebone.

They were all there.

Simon Dee asks me if I like his shirt.

You can't put a price on that.

Where are the cars?

I don't know how I'm meant to do it right if there aren't no cars.

"Any cars."

They will put them in later.

Val, Detective Constable Morse.

Thanks very much indeed for coming.

This is my good lady wife and the partner of my labors.

This is Muriel.

Mrs. Todd.

This is one of the nice young gentlemen who's going to be looking after us tomorrow.

Can we find him an evening suit?

He has an evening suit.

Don't worry about Muriel.

She's like a cat on a hot tin roof before a competition.

No smoking on the floor, please.

Sorry, that's me.

Let's go.

ENDEAVOUR: So what's the form with this kind of thing?

Traditionally, there's three rounds: there's day wear, evening wear and swim wear.

But this is not all about looks.

These girls are judged on having a personality as much as anything else.

Do you get many applicants?

Are you joking?

For the right girl, this competition is the chance at fame and fortune.

This is personal appearances, this is endorsements, all of which we take care of for them.

For a percentage, presumably.

As the man says, show business, not show friendship.

(door opens) Val, they're ready to go again.

Diana's playing up.

Oh, and Mr. Whe'e's on the phone from Play-Tone.

TODD: Right, listen, thanks so much for coming.

I really appreciate it.

You're going to have to excuse me, but Tony will see you out.

(sirens blaring) (thud, Endeavour groans) (groaning) Someone's beat us to it.

Right, get him up and cuff him.

What are you doing?

Look sharp, Mr. Pettifer.

Wakey, wakey.

(yelling in pain) Don't talk, listen.

Recognize Mr. Mallory here?

You know what we want.

What's the numbers?

(yelling) You are going to tell me those numbers.

Come here!

(screaming) Bring her in here now!

Who are you?

Lydia-- Lydia Martin.

Please, I'm just a secretary.

MALLORY: You come up with the combination for the safe, you might save yourself a atating.

I don't know it.

You'd have to ask Mr. Pettifer.

What do you think we're doing?

That's not Pettifer!

I'm a police officer...

Check him.

He's right.

Let's get out of here quick!

(phone rings) Thursday.

Is this Oxford City Police?

I'm Lydia Martin.

The bigger of the two is Mallory.

He's an Inspector.

Vine Street.

Mallory's wife thought he had a bit on the side.

Mr. Pettifer's main line was divorce.

So somehow Mallory's got wind of it.

Any idea what Pettifer was doing in Oxford?

He didn't tell me much.

Well, whatever Mallory was after is in here.

You sure you don't know the combination?

No.

Let's try 98018.

ENDEAVOUR: Try 15, 58, 16, 03.

Or some variation thereof.

The combination.

The string around his finger.

He had a bad memory.

Yeah, he was always forgetting to pay his bills.

He kept everything important written in his little black book.

15... what is it?

58, 16, 03.

How did you know that?

He hung the portrait to remind him of the combination.

The years of Elizabeth Tudor's reign.

Mallory?

Who wants to know?

Fred Thursday, Oxford City Police.

What can I do for you?

Soho this afternoon.

You and your pal had a rare old time at the expense of one of mine.

Suppose you tell me what that was all about?

Suppose we don't.

Then I'll have to take off my hat.

(yelling, punches landing) (groaning) How long have I been out?

Nearly back.

While you were having a doze, I dug out Mallory.

Turns out Pettifer was a shake-down artist.

Mallory's wife hired him to find out if her husband was seeing another woman.

He was.

Only sooner than come clean to his client, Pettifer put the squeeze on.

Only Mallory wouldn't roll over.

About the size of it.

Still doesn't explain who was waiting for me behind the door of Pettifer's office.

You sure it wasn't Mallory?

According to Miss Martin, no.

They didn't turn up till after.

Well, I fetched youthis out in any case.

Souvenir of London.

Do you need any help?

No, we're all right for the minute, Miss.

Thanks for asking; I've got him.

That's it, let's get you sat down.

Still think Pettifer was a suicide?

Some other husband had the same idea as Mallory, only this one threw him off the roof?

If whoever hit me was after the same thing as Mallory, then the answer's got to be somewhere in that lot.

You're in no state for bookwork.

Get some sleep.

And I don't expect to see you at work in the morning, all right?

Is he all right?

Touch of concussion.

Could you look in on him now and then?

Oh, I don't want to...

I know.

In case he needs anything.

And if he takes a turn for the worse, you call an ambulance, and then call that number.

Any time.

Are you family?

Colleague.

Good night, Miss.

Wotcher.

You walk into a door or something?

Your idea of a day off, is it?

You're meant to be laid up with a bag of ice on your head.

There's something you should see.

That is your signature, Mrs. Todd.

30 guineas to be drawn against the account of ValMu Promotions.

We know Mr. Pettifer's bread and butter was divorce work, Mrs. Todd.

It was silly, but can you blame me?

Surrounded by beautiful young women?

Who he is?

I thought maybe she'd got her claws into him.

Who?

Diana.

They'd been spending a lot of time together.

Promotional tours.

Val had become a little distant.

I was wrong.

Mr. Pettifer told you that?

Yes.

I'd no reason to doubt him.

When I first met Muriel, I didn't have a pot to piss in.

Do you know what I was?

I was entertainments officer at some two-bob holiday camp.

But she saw something in me.

I'd be nothing without that woman.

Because she's the brains.

She's the real business acumen.

Just as a matter of interest, where were you yesterday afternoon?

Well, you know where I was.

I was at Chipperfield Studios.

And the morning of the pageant?

I was in the Broad, keeping an eye on Diana.

Mu and Tony'll vouch for me.

Look, do you really think I would risk everything that we've built up together?

For what?

For some here-today, gone-tomorrow bit of skirt who's only interested in what I can do for them?

ENDEAVOUR: He makes a convincing show.

THURSDAY: I'd say a water-tight alibi for the time both you and Pettifer copped it is a bit more than show.

All we've got to go on is the wife's suspicions.

She wouldn't be the first to put two and two and make five.

I thought I might talk to Diana Day.

Well, "D-Day."

Stretching a point, aren't you?

Besides, she's hardly likely to admit they were carrying on.

Miss Day?

Oh, if you want a signed picture, you'll have to write in.

Detective Constable Morse, City Police.

Oh, thank God.

I thought you were a fan.

You haven't got a ciggy, have you?

I'm gasping.

I'm afraid not.

Do you mind if I sit?

Please.

So what's this about, then?

What happened at the parade?

No, it's about another matter.

I wondered... Have you ever met a man called Pettifer?

Not that I know of.

What about a girl called Frida Yelland?

Do you know how many names I hear in my line of work?

She's a young girl gone missing from Wantage.

Like I say, I don't know either of them.

How would you describe your relationship with Val Todd?

Professional.

He's my manager.

Three years ago, I was just plain Betty Jones, working in a shoe shop in Croydon with no prospects beyond a couple of kids and a maisonette in Purley.

Val saw something more in me.

"A smile to build a dream on," he called it.

And he sent me to elocution lessons, gave me new hair, clothes, even a new name.

D-Day.

It's my birthday.

It's June 6.

Simple as that.

Simple as that.

Can I redeem this?

Yes, sir.

Thank you, sir.

Trill Mill Stream.

Runs underneath the city.

THURSDAY: At least we know why he needed waders.

ENDEAVOUR: The point is, it surfaces again inside Beaufort College.

THURSDAY: How far does this thing go?

About a quarter of a mile.

This must be the way the robbers got into the college.

Maybe Pettifer...

Hold on, what's that?

Look there, up ahead.

♫♫ Who was she?

THURSDAY: We're not sure yet, sir, but her outfit matches that of a girl reported missing out of Wantage-- Frida Yelland.

Age?

Early 20s, if it's her.

It's her.

Was she interfered with?

Know more once Dr. deBryn's completed his postmortem, but first impression says not.

Her underclothes are still in place.

How was it you happened to find the body?

A line of inquiry Morse was following, sir, to do with this suicide off the Rates Office.

Cause of death would appear to be a head wound.

Would have bled quite profusely if she were alive when it happened.

Right parietal.

Between the superior and inferior temporal line.

Someone hit her, yeah?

One might reasonably draw such a conclusion.

Pettifer had a fractured skull, didn't he?

Between the superior and inferior temporal lines.

ENDEAVOUR: Whoever killed Frida Yelland also killed Pettifer.

It would appear they are both connected to the theft of the Trove.

But what's behind it?

A falling out of thieves?

Perhaps.

But the girl was killed two weeks ago at least.

THURSDAY: Maybe she's not part of it.

Maybe she's heard or seen something she shouldn't, and they can't rely on her to keep her mouth shut.

So what's with the photographs?

And why leave the negs in the pawnbrokers?

Maybe he didn't trust his partner.

Or partners.

Maybe it was his insurance against a double-cross.

JAKES: Didn't work out too well for him, then, did it?

After Elspeth died, me and Frida moved here to be closer to my family.

From where?

London.

I'd gone there after the war to look for work, which is how I met Elspeth.

She was a widow with a young girl.

What happened to Frida's father?

The Japs.

Frida took to me from the off.

My little button, she was.

THURSDAY: This older man...

Does the name "Pettifer" ring any bells?

No, not to my knowledge.

What about Beaufort College?

Did she know anyone from there?

We've never had anything to do with anywhere like that.

Would you have a key for this, Mr. Yelland?

No.

That's Frida's bits box.

Belonged to my Elspeth.

I let Frida have it after Elspeth passed away.

You'd have no objection if we took it away with us and had a look inside?

No.

Take what you want.

Just catch whoever did it.

THURSDAY: These could be anywhere.

Find wherever this is and we might get some answers.

It's Pettifer's notebook we need.

Same again?

I'll have a large one.

He'll have a pint of Radford's.

I'm all for a beer at lunchtime.

There's nothing wrong with that.

But when you're on duty with me, you lay off the spirits.

You think I missed all the bottles round your flat?

Six months, the rate you're going, you'll have enough off the empties to put down for a second-hand car.

What's going on?

You all right?

Perfectly.

Why?

I'm just saying.

(sighs) Sometimes... with a shooting, there can be a delayed reaction.

Shock after the event.

Here, try this.

The FME's rated me fit.

In body.

Seen enough of it in the war.

Men passed A1 and returned to the front line, too soon for some of them.

I'm fine.

Thomas shot a couple of rolls with her earlier this year.

I sent the 10 x 8s off to ValMu.

ValMu Promotions.

The organizer of this beauty contest.

That's right.

They put her in the local heats at Henley, but she only came runner-up.

Which was about her mark, to be fair.

Did she have a boyfriend?

Not that I know of.

What about a man called Pettifer?

She ever mention anyone by that name?

Not to me.

PHOTOGRAPHER: That's it.

What was she like?

Not bad from a distance, you put her in the right clobber.

Good legs, decent bust.

She was all right until she opened her mouth.

Did you tell her that?

(sighs) Did she know anyone at Beaufort College?

That's lovely, Thomas, lovely.

No.

That wasn't her scene.

When did you see her last?

I couldn't tell you.

Try... Or do you want us to take this place apart and find out what's got her as high as a kite?

Babe, why don't you go and fix us a rum and coke, eh?

There's a good girl.

Couple of months, maybe.

Dropped me, didn't she?

How'd you feel about that?

That's the game, man.

Easy come.

Really?

She could've been your meal ticket, couldn't she?

I did all right out of it.

I sold her on.

I transferred my interest to ValMu.

And what could ValMu do for her?

You'd have to ask them.

We get hundreds of those through each week.

One pretty girl is very much like another.

This one took part in one of your local heats for Miss Oxfordshire.

Really?

What's your interest, if you don't mind me asking?

Our interest, Mr. Todd, is she was found murdered.

Oh.

I'm sorry, that's... That's terrible.

That's a tragedy.

Val?

It's Lane at SCDP.

East Coast.

Would you mind excusing me just for a moment?

I'm sure Muriel can help you with anything else.

What's this?

More about that nonsense at the parade?

No, no, some young kid's got herself killed.

What did you say her name was again?

Frida Yelland.

We spoke to a Mr. Delfarge, said he sold her on to you to manage.

Ah, yes, I remember.

We negotiated a percentage, but nothing was signed.

But she worked for you?

She did a couple of exhibitions.

The boat show, motor show.

She wasn't really cut out for it.

She ever talk about a boyfriend?

What about Pettifer?

It's possible she may have known him.

Her father was killed in the war.

Yelland said as much.

He took on Frida and raised her as if she were his own.

It's not the official telegram, sir.

There's a letter there sent by his C.O.

after the war.

"Dear Mrs. Spurling, "You will by now have received notice from the War Office of your terrible loss..." So?

I've seen enough like it.

What's your point?

Well, lack of punctuation notwithstanding, it's more the signature that caught my eye.

"Captain Archibald Batten."

My father was a miner in the Valleys of South Wales.

He'd known poverty.

But it hadn't made him bitter.

He used to say to me, "Barbara, when the world shows you its worst, that's when people show you their best."

(applause) That was a very good speech.

Last chance to convince any undecideds.

At least nobody told me to get back in the kitchen, which is something.

I thought it was very passionate.

I can count on your vote, then.

I don't.

Vote.

People died so you could.

It's your birthright, paid for in sweat and blood.

BATTEN: All right, my dear?

Who's this?

Captain Batten.

I wonder if I might have a moment of your time.

City Police, DC Morse.

Police?

Is this about Kitty?

No, Mrs. Batten.

It's about another matter.

It won't take a moment.

I wrote many such letters.

Too many.

I've a vague recollection of Private Spurling, but sadly, I'm afraid, faces do start to blur.

ENDEAVOUR: We wondered if Miss Yelland had been in contact with you.

With me?

No.

To what end?

Some connection with her father, perhaps.

Something brought her to Oxford.

I see.

Then I'm afraid I'm sorry to disappoint.

I never met her.

I doubt I've thought about her name from the moment I wrote that letter until today.

You've never met or been contacted by a man called Pettifer?

He's a private inquiry agent from London.

No.

Good heavens, no.

I mean, the guttersnipes in the press are always looking for an angle to do Barbara down, but I can't see even them stooping so low as that.

Just for the record, where were you on the morning of the pageant?

Campaigning with Barb.

A speech to nurses at the Radcliffe Infirmary.

And yesterday afternoon?

Canvassing door to door, as my feet will bear testament.

I can slip my sock off, if you like.

No, that won't be...

Thank you for your assistance, and the best of luck to Mrs. Batten tomorrow.

Sir!

This is indeed the stolen spearhead.

Where did you find it?

In the tunnel, sir.

Close by Frida Yelland's body.

Looks like the thief stumbled over the corpse in the dark and lost it.

He was already inside the college.

He steals the goods, then makes his getaway under cover of darkness through the stream.

One of your uniformed associates mentioned in passing that you were an Oxford man, is that right?

I've always rather despised that phrase.

Chippy, are we?

What, poor Third?

You're tutor to Kitty Batten, aren't you?

What do you make to her?

Daddy issues.

Well, Mommy and Daddy issues to be precise.

Hence all this "Look at me!"

of late.

Nothing a good spanking wouldn't cure, I'm sure.

Oh, I see.

Turned your head, has she?

Touch of the barley fever.

Got you yearning for bouts of erotic gymnastics punctuated by Thomas Mann and the New Left Review?

Yum-yum.

The flesh is weak, I suppose.

ENDEAVOUR: I've seen all I need to, thank you.

There you go, sir.

Thanks.

Thanks, mate.

I hear it's off ration these days.

I've had enough advice for one day.

And how do you feel about giving some?

I've been invited to a meet and greet this evening with a view to being initiated into a certain ancient fraternity.

We haven't all got your brain, matey.

Never will have.

Some of us need a leg up.

A man can't serve two masters.

Sooner or later, you'll have to choose.

Just don't lose your way.

It's easily done.

(thunder rumbling) (clock ticking) (opera music playing) (music continues) The Trill Mill is out of bounds to undergrads and staff, Dr. Speight, is that right?

SPEIGHT: Yes, yes indeed.

Students once used it to get in and out after curfew.

The less murophobic, at least.

But after the rat infestation of '63, we had it sealed.

Dreadful, pestilential pit of a place.

You wouldn't catch me down there for love nor money.

Sir?

Was there something else?

You again?

Don't you people ever rest?

I've already told your colleagues the night the Trove was stolen, I was in my rooms at College.

Was that usual?

My wife had taken a pupil up to London for their Grade something-or-other at the Royal College.

You don't expect a man to cook for himself.

Im!

Try cartwheels!

But there's no one can vouch for you at College?

Actually, I had Imogen on a put-you-up, but she slept through.

Something wrong?

"8, 10, 86."

What?

Are you quite well?

August 1086.

The date of the first draft of the Domesday Book.

That's right.

We have some pages from the original Oxfordshire returns on display.

Stop there, everybody freeze!

What are you doing?

What the hell is going on?

City Police.

Open it up.

Is it all there?

Sir, it's Delfarge.

Get after him!

Where were you on the morning of the pageant?

In my rooms at College.

Alone?

And Friday afternoon?

What is this?

Keep on him, Jakes.

You think I'm somehow involved in the theft?

Worse.

Much worse.

Frida Yelland.

Whom?

The young woman we fished out of the Trill Mill.

You killed her, didn't you?

We've got you now, Justin!

Give it up!

It's over!

You're delusional.

Or drunk.

I think you should go now.

Quite excellent, Thursday.

Thank you, sir.

It was Copley Barnes.

What was Copley Barnes?

That stole the Trove from Beaufort and murdered Frida Yelland and Pettifer.

Morse...

He was the older man.

It's not 98018, it's 81086: the month and year in which the Domesday Book was completed.

Pettifer was blackmailing him.

He found out somehow that Copley Barnes was involved with Frida Yelland.

That's why Copley Barnes stole the Trove: to pay off Pettifer.

Pettifer?

Who was already dead?

What?

We've got the thieves in custody.

It's nothing to do with Copley Barnes or "Doomsday" or any of the rest of it.

It was Justin Delfarge and his photographer mate Thomas.

Thomas, it turns out, is the Right Honorable Gideon Bartholomew Thomas Fyffe-Drummond, youngest son of the Marquis of Stanhope.

He was also a graduate of Beaufort two years since.

JAKES: Which is how he got the job taking photographs of the Wolvercote Trove.

THURSDAY: His name's on the blow-ups and on the exhibition guide.

There's got to be more to it than that.

It's just circumstantial.

THURSDAY: You remember the model he was taking photographs of when we visited his studio?

Yes.

The bracelets she was wearing?

That's lovely, Thomas, lovely.

The Torcs from the exhibition.

But what about Frida Yelland and Pettifer?

Justin and Thomas both knew Frida.

Pettifer, early days.

You're not actually serious?

Unless they've confessed.

Have they confessed?

Morse, remember who you're speaking to!

Have they confessed?!

Morse!

A man should be big enough to admit when he's wrong.

Trove has been recovered.

BRIGHT: It won't do, Thursday!

It simply won't do!

Who the hell does he think he is?

Be this blow on the head he got in London, sir.

A slight concussion, that's all.

Put him out of sorts.

Yes.

Yes, a slight concussion, that'll be it.

A few days off?

I just got back.

Does it sound like a request?

You're not right.

Go home.

(knocking) Your friend asked me to look in.

You shouldn't have gone to all that trouble.

No trouble.

I'm used to it.

You're a nurse.

(chuckles) Is it the uniform?

I just wanted to leave you something before I went on shift.

I tried the other morning, but you gave me the slip.

Try and eat it while it's hot.

You need feeding up.

Hey, now.

You're shaking.

What's so bad it's got you this way?

A father has lost his daughter.

That has to be put right.

If I can't do that, there's nothing.

There, see?

You can add cowardice to my list of offenses.

When your friend brought you home the other night, I didn't see a coward.

Just a man beat up too often and for too long, maybe.

You're not yellow.

You're just blue.

Morse?

You know your moped?

I need to ask a favor.

Hello?

Anyone here?

♫♫ Vote for Barbara Batten, your Labour candidate!

This way, please.

Lovely.

Can we have one of you as a couple, please?

That's it, big smile.

(birds squawking loudly) (gunshot) It's you.

Who did you think it was?

Some couple of bastards from a few weeks since.

What bastards?

Never got a good enough look.

Two of them, though.

Big saloon car parked up back by the cabin.

It's all right.

It's licensed.

You're licensed to own it, Mr. Fisher, not to take pot-shots at strangers.

Trespassers.

My old man bought the land when the camp closed.

Not that it's worth anything.

But I like to come fishing.

When was it, these two trespassers?

Uh... fortnight last Friday.

One of them was down by here, lobbing sommat into the water.

I give him a warning shot.

Should've seen the bugger run.

Would you recognize them if you saw them again?

The one by the water, probably.

Mmm... what you got there, then?

TONY: A hearty round of applause for our lovely ladies!

(audience cheering and whistling) And as the competitors make their way around the pool, let me introduce you to tonight's judges.

Star of radio and television, it's What's My Line's Lady Isobel Barnett.

(applause) Racing driver Danny Griffon... Who do you fancy to win?

Hmm?

The competition.

TONY: Miss Great Britain, Diana Day!

When I was a child, my father took me to a County Show.

The stockmen led beeves around a field.

The winner got a rosette.

The loser got a bolt through their skull.

It's just a bit of fun, Morse.

First up, number one... Oh, yes, it's all fun.

Till the music stops.

WOMAN: Mr. Todd?

All right, take care.

See you later.

STRANGE: Morse.

Any news on Justin and his photographer friend?

Mr. Thursday's still sweating them so far as I know.

What was all that about... with Todd?

You seemed very pally.

Val?

Yeah, yeah, he's all right.

I probably shouldn't say, but, uh... That social event we were talking about.

The meet and greet?

Todd was there?

All right.

Keep it down.

It wasn't anything like you said.

It was no different to a sort of rugby club do, really.

All very relaxed.

Where was this?

Pub out at Thame.

Yeah, the Lodge meets above the saloon, apparently, every Wednesday.

Doomsday Arms.

It's very picturesque.

We should take a run out there sometime.

BATTEN: I think the returning officer is ready.

BARBARA: Okay, just one moment.

Just give me a moment.

Captain Batten.

I wonder if I might have a moment of your time.

I'm afraid I didn't know her name.

So far as I'm aware, she was just a contestant.

How was it you were on the judging panel?

I was invited.

They sometimes ask local businessmen to take part.

Counselors, that sort of thing.

So you've no private or personal association with Val Todd?

I might have run into him here or there.

When might that have been?

The last time, say.

Oh, not for some while.

Recount.

38 votes in it.

Everything all right?

Perfectly.

Thank you for your time.

Doomsday, right?

If I can ever be of service.

So here we are!

The moment we have all been waiting for.

The returning officer for the Oxford South Constituency hereby give notice that the total number of votes...

Number 7, Cheryl Atkinson from Gagingwell.

Well done, Cheryl!

(applause) The total number of votes recorded for each candidate is as follows... Operations Room?

Can you put me through to MOD Lydd Barracks, please?

Greville Horatio, Conservative: 26,326 votes.

Yolande Barton from Cuxham, well done, Yolande.

(applause) And finally, your winner is... And I hereby declare that Barbara Batten is duly elected Member of Parliament for the constituency.

(applause) Thank you.

Well done, Georgia!

They say behind every great man, there is a woman.

I would just like to take this opportunity to thank my husband Archie and our daughter Kitty.

Without them, I would not be standing here today.

(knocking) Evening, sir.

Morse, what is this?

Telling us to park up out of sight?

BRIGHT: Thursday, you in on this?

More or less, sir.

It's the Frida Yelland killing and the man off the Rates Office roof, Pettifer.

I thought we were holding this Beaufort robbery pair for that?

THURSDAY: In the clear, sir.

Of the killings, at least.

Delfarge and his mate knocked off the Trove by themselves purely for gain.

Frida Yelland passed through their hands, but that's their only connection to all this.

Morse.

ENDEAVOUR: You were right, sir, yesterday.

I was wrong, spectacularly so.

Worse still, I was disrespectful to you, to Inspector Thursday and to Sergeant Jakes, and for that I apologize unreservedly.

You were not yourself.

Thank you for saying so, sir.

But I suspect the truth is I was myself all too much.

It won't happen again.

I was wrong about most all of it.

81086 wasn't 8, 10, 86, but I couldn't see past the theft at Beaufort.

I overthought it.

It was 98018 all along.

It's a lodge number.

Captain Archie Batten and Val Todd are members of lodge number 98018, sir.

Also known as the Doomsday Lodge.

D-Day.

You had that right.

If I did, it was by luck, not by judgment.

I misread the context.

Val Todd and Captain Batten?

Conspired to murder Frida Yelland and John Pettifer, sir, though I doubt either of them committed the act themselves.

That fell to another.

But Frida Yelland was killed right here in this cabin.

Val Todd knew the place from his days as an Entertainments Officer.

Morse, are you sure about this?

These men are pillars of Oxford society.

Proof of the pudding, sir.

Best get out of sight.

Well?

What's so important?

You wanted to see me.

Eh?

You're the one who called this one.

"We must meet up 0400.

"You know where.

Don't call me."

That's the message you sent me.

Actually, it's the same message that I sent both of you.

One signed with an A and one with a V. What is this?

This, Mr. Todd, is conspiracy to murder.

The three of you plotted and executed the killing of Frida Yelland and John Pettifer.

(laughs) This is madness.

THURSDAY: That's what I thought at first, but we spoke tonight to the matre d' at the hotel where the Henley heat of the beauty contest was held.

He confirmed a record of a dinner reservation for two made there in your name on the night of the competition.

ENDEAVOUR: We showed him a photograph of Frida Yelland.

He confirmed she was your dinner companion.

It was just supper.

I felt sorry for her.

She'd taken not winning the competition quite hard.

There was more to it than that.

She'd remembered your name from the letter you had written offering your condolences upon the death of her father.

When did she bring it up?

Before or after?

You knew my Dad.

In the war.

Private Spurling.

You sent my Mom ever such a nice letter.

(retching) I don't doubt you denied it.

But Frida wasn't the kind of young woman to just leave it at that.

She wrote to the regiment, seeing if they had any photographs in the archive of you and her father together.

They've kept her letter on file.

Of course, having taken her stepfather's name, you'd no way of knowing before you slept with her that Frida Yelland was in fact Frida Spurling.

Your own daughter.

You couldn't risk her finding that out.

See, it wasn't Private Spurling who died in the war, but Captain Archibald Batten.

You'd got Frida's mother pregnant and done the decent thing, but you didn't love her.

So when Captain Batten died on long-range patrol, you saw an opportunity.

You took his identity, his rank, created a new life for yourself.

Married-- bigamously.

You even wrote home as Captain Batten to offer your condolences to Elspeth Spurling.

Your own widow still mourning for you.

THURSDAY: If Frida had discovered the truth, it would have brought ruin not only upon yourself, but also upon your new wife and family.

You couldn't let that happen, so you approached Mr. Todd to get you out of a hole.

And why not?

By introducing you to Frida Yelland, it could be argued that he'd got you in that hole in the first place.

Wait a minute... You needed someone you could trust.

Someone you could rely on to keep their mouth shut.

Who better than a member of a society who relies upon secrecy for its very existence?

(sighs) Your Brother Mason: Val Todd.

You misunderstand the nature of our fellowship.

But not the nature of business.

If Mrs. Batten were elected, she'd be well placed to further your interests.

THURSDAY: You might've got away with it, too.

But murder will out.

We've got your wife to thank for that.

She thought you were having an affair with Diana Day, so she hired Pettifer to keep tabs on you.

He saw you collect Frida from the station and followed you here.

TODD: You go in there, darling.

I'll be with you in a second.

Okay.

ENDEAVOUR: I imagine she thought you were giving her another shot at fame and fortune, but she was walking to her death.

Don't bring me into this.

You are in this.

Up to your neck.

ENDEAVOUR: You'd planned to dump her body in the river.

Only you were disturbed.

(gunshot) (splashing) So you had to think of somewhere else.

Somewhere with strictly controlled access known only to a few academics at Beaufort.

And of course yourself, the pest control officer hired in '63 to rid the college of its rat problem.

Evening coming on.

Light fading.

A flashbulb would have betrayed Pettifer's presence.

But this was an opportunity too good to miss, so he came back in the daytime to make his record.

He took just enough photographs to make you think that perhaps he had more he was keeping back.

So you arranged to meet for the payoff.

With all eyes on the pageant on The Broad, it was the perfect opportunity.

If the roof of the Rates Office seemed an odd rendezvous, Pettifer wasn't concerned.

He'd already left his evidence in a secret place.

In exchange for the money, he'd hand over the pawn ticket.

But he never got the chance.

So you sent someone to his office to see if there were any copies.

Luckily for me, Mr. Batten isn't quite so well versed in wielding a cosh as Mr. Frisco, else I might not be here.

I didn't want...

Shut up!

They'd have nicked us by now if they had any proof.

Proof?

Beyond the fact that you came here this morning?

Morse's message made no mention of a rendezvous beyond "You know where."

Decent brief will rip that to shreds.

Perhaps.

But he'll have a harder time with your cigar.

You didn't think we'd come looking for a scene of crime.

But I doubt anyone else in the past two weeks has smoked a Romeo y Julieta here.

It wasn't meant to happen like this.

Shut your mouth!

He was just meant to scare her off.

Maybe, but that's not how it went.

You think... My own daughter.

My daughter.

BRIGHT: All right, take them in.

All this over some little nobody from nowhere.

Everybody's somebody.

Frida Yelland had people who loved her.

Look, that cigar butt could go missing, couldn't it?

Evidence disappears all the time, right?

What I'm trying to say is it's still not too late for you.

It just depends.

On what?

On whether you want powerful friends or powerful enemies.

A bunch of overgrown schoolboys playing with the dressing-up box?

You really don't have a clue, do you?

You cross these people, they will bring you down.

But not before they've destroyed everything you hold dear.

Colleagues.

Friends.

Family.

(phone ringing) (paparazzi shouting) DEAN OF THE COLLEGE: And it would be inopportune not to thank Oxford City Police for their vital role in restoring the Trove to its rightful place.

♫♫ Copley Barnes gave me an earful.

Said he'd remember you.

ENDEAVOUR: Vainglorious fool like that?

I doubt it.

Too self-obsessed by half.

I can't help feeling like I've missed something.

You have.

Your round.

And it wouldn't be the first time.

You don't want to let a little tripehound like Todd bother you.

I'm not.

Good.

Right.

Luncheon meat.

CUMMING: Next time on Masterpiece Mystery!

WOMAN: The legend is as old as the school.

THURSDAY: Downright peculiar, if you ask me.

Hundred-year-old unsolved murder.

ENDEAVOUR: Death is the end.

Believe me, I've seen enough of it.

What comes after?

In my experience, the police.

CUMMING: Endeavour, next time on Masterpiece Mystery!

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Captioned by Media Access Group at WGBH access.wgbh.org