(thunder) (whimpering) Funding for Ma 25 years ago, a police detective named Morse drove his vintage red Jaguar through Oxford and into our hearts.
He was moody and difficult.
He wasn't good at friendship or intimacy.
His emotional life was limited to the space between his ears.
He loved opera, poetry and crossword puzzles.
We didn't learn his first name for years.
He joked that it was Inspector.
But we liked him so much that Inspector Morse became one of the longest running detective series on television.
When Morse died in 2001, it was a shock.
Tonight, it's 1965, and it's the first day on the job for a tall, skinny, unimpressive Oxford dropout.
He's carrying his collection of opera music and a cheap record player.
For some reason, he thinks he can be a police detective, though he has this thing about dead bodies-- he tries to avoid them.
His name is Morse.
His first name, by the way, is Endeavour.
RADIO ANNOUNCER: Good morning, everybody.
It's 6:00 on Sunday morning, and the BBC Light Programme is beginning another day's broadcast.
Double?
(door opens and closes) SOPRANO: ♫ Un bel diì, vedremo ♫ ♫ levarsi un fil de fumo ♫ ♫ sull'estremo confin del mare.
♫ ♫ E poi la nave appare... ♫ (typewriter keys clicking slowly) ♫ Poi la nave bianca ♫ ♫ entra nel porto ♫ ♫ Romba il suo saluto ♫ ♫ Vedi?
EÈ venuto!
♫ ♫ Io non gli scendo incontro.
♫ ♫ Io no.
♫ ♫ Mi metto la sul ciglio del colle e aspetto ♫ ♫ E aspetto gran tempo e non mi pesa ♫ ♫ La lunga... ♫ McLEASH: "Mary Tremlett, age 15, left home on Saturday "at approximately 4:00 in the afternoon "for a trip to the cinema.
"Last seen wearing an orange top, "green three-quarter length trousers "in a fashionable Capri pants style.
"She has not been seen since.
"Anyone with information pertaining to her disappearance "should contact Detective Inspector Fred Thursday "at Cowley Police Station, Oxford.
"It is believed extra officers from Carshall Newtown are being drafted in to assist in the search."
Well, that's us, that is.
Here, what's this I heard you tried to get yourself taken off the inquiry?
Morse?
♫♫ LOTT: Wilcox, Duffel, Ellis, Woods, you're assigned to Banbury.
DS McBain.
He's waiting for you through there in the canteen.
Cullen, Boyle, Madden, Mitchell, Kidlingon-- DS Anthony.
Transport's through the yard.
Hurry it up.
Finger out your ass.
You two follow me.
I suppose you're feeling very pleased with yourselves, dreaming of cracking a great big juicy murder case, eh?
Get your name in the papers.
Yes, Sarge.
Well, you can forget it.
There's only two detectives in this nick-- me and the governor.
And that's Mr. Thursday to you, or "sir."
Get in, go on.
You're here to take up slack.
Any questions?
No?
Good.
I thought this was a missing persons case.
You said murder.
Oh, it's murder all right.
Sex case, like as not, the way they go around with all on show these days.
Just not found her body yet.
So, duties.
McLeash, office-- duty log.
Telephone calls, any and all information received.
Sarge... E. Morse.
Your governor says you know the area.
College boy.
That right?
Right, door to door.
Get that lot circulated.
You can't tell from those, but she's a redhead, well developed for her age.
Someone will have seen her.
Sharps, officers, railways commuters... Commuters?
If she left Oxford by train on Saturday afternoon, well, it's unlikely she'll have been seen by the weekday crowd, wouldn't you think?
Well, I don't think.
I follow orders.
Anyone want me, I'm with the governor.
Kept that under your hat, didn't you?
Bloody Oxford.
(bells chiming) STROMMING: His verse notwithstanding, Ibycus is perhaps most famous for the manner of his death, at the hands of robbers.
(door opens and closes) Wounded and dying, Ibycus looked up to see a flight of cranes... a flight of cranes passing overhead, at which he cried out, "Those birds will be my avengers."
His murderers repaired to Corinth, where, Plutarch tells us, spying a flock of the same birds, one of their number exclaimed in jest, "Behold, the avengers of Ibycus."
MRS. CRABBIN: The bathroom is on the first landing for proper washing.
But you've a sink up here for shaving, and the necessary is where it should be.
First time in Oxford?
Not exactly.
Well, that's nice, dear, isn't it?
This was Mr. Bleaney's room.
He stayed here the whole time he was at the Bodleian.
Do you know how long you'll be in residence?
I'm afraid not.
No.
Well, it's just yourself and two other gentlemen at the minute-- Mr. Goldberg and Mr. McCab.
Very nice, they are.
Tea's at 6:30 as a rule, but I can do you a boiled egg.
Oh, that's very kind of you, Mrs. Crabbin, but I'll...
I'll get something out.
Then I'll let you get settled.
(door closes) (tower bell striking the hour) THURSDAY: There's no overtime.
I realize that.
So what is it?
Brown nosing or sucker for punishment?
There's no other kind of bloody fool still in the office at this time of night.
Just us?
I thought I should take a look at the Tremlett case files.
Which one are you?
Morse, sir.
Carshall Newtown.
So?
Mary Tremlett, 15 years old.
Last seen by her parents Saturday 4:00 when she left, supposedly to go to the pictures with another girl, Valerie.
Valerie... Quillen.
Who denies any such arrangement.
No boyfriend, no troubles at home, so it's unlikely she's a runaway.
That's it.
Not much to go on.
It really is this kind of case.
But we keep looking.
Good night, then.
There is one thing, sir.
Going through this list of her belongings at home, she has a copy of the Oxford Book of English Verse by her bed, together with A Shropshire Lad and the Betjeman Collected.
Young girls like poetry.
Young girls like Mary Tremlett?
Too highbrow for a girl whose father works on the GMC assembly line?
That's your point?
No, my point is that they're hardbacks.
Beyond the pocket of a schoolgirl, I'd have thought.
Just struck me as odd, that's all.
Maybe they were a present.
Her parents, school prize even.
There's official lines of inquiry we're following, Morse.
Poetry books isn't one of them.
Is Mary fond of poetry, Mr. Tremlett?
She has nice handwriting.
(door opens, closes) Her teachers commended her on it.
A-plus, last report.
Sharon, my eldest.
She's visiting.
Police.
How do you do, Miss Tremlett?
Mrs. Veelie.
They had her read out some of her essays to the class.
The house isn't the same.
Find her, will you, please?
Find our Mary.
What is it you're looking for?
Oh.
Just filling in some of the background.
So you weren't here Saturday, then.
I'd dropped by the afternoon to see to Dad's tea, but I went straight home after.
About 5:00.
Where's home?
Droitwich.
We had a stock take Sunday, see.
Freeman, Hardy & Willis.
I'm deputy under manageress.
And your husband?
He's in carpets.
Traveling.
We're not together anymore.
You're close to your sister, Mrs. Veelie?
Not really.
All this fuss.
It'll just be some stunt.
Attention seeking.
What makes you say that?
'Cause she's always been the same.
When Mum was alive, she spoiled her rotten.
Dad, too.
Whatever she wanted.
Their blue-eyed girl.
Silly little cow.
It's definitely why the police were here.
Nobody has seen her.
Do you think she knows something?
I don't know, does she?
How would she know?
Morning.
Aye, aye.
What you got there, then?
Mary Tremlett's poetry books.
Well, what's all that about?
Well, I don't know yet.
Nothing, probably.
Bloody hell've you been?
Got a suicide in Thrupp.
Unidentified male.
You're on.
How am I meant to get there?
Want me to wipe your arse for you and all?
Use your initiative.
Morning.
Not for this poor sod.
You are whom?
Morse.
Detective Constable.
On attachment from Newtown.
You're the pathologist, I presume?
Better hope so, hadn't you?
Otherwise I'm making one hell of a mess of your scene of crime.
Max DeBryn.
Is it a scene of crime?
Initial reports suggested suicide.
Looks to be.
Single entry wound on the right temple.
Typical starburst gunpowder pattern on the skin surrounding the wound together with contact scorching would suggest the weapon was discharged at point blank range.
As you can see.
I'll take your word for it.
Squeamish, are we?
You won't make much of a detective if you're not prepared to look death in the eye.
Find me when you're done.
Finished?
The hors d'oeuvres.
Entree this afternoon, 3:00 sharp.
You can give me your findings over the telephone, can't you?
You know, there's a word for people like you, Morse.
Is there?
Necrophobic.
A word for people like you too, I imagine.
Anglo-Saxon, though, rather than Greek.
Weapon's a Webley.
Mark VI, if you're interested.
.455, standard army issue.
Not entirely a fool, then.
Not entirely.
Time of death?
Yesterday.
Between 8:00 and midnight.
Did he leave anything behind?
Beside his gray matter upon the greensward?
I was thinking more of a note.
Not that I've come across.
You might have better luck at his lodgings.
This was in his pocket.
Miles Percival.
Address is in Jericho.
I don't suppose there's any chance of a lift?
(sighs) (doorbell rings) Detective Constable Morse, Oxford City Police.
Mister... Lomax.
Brian Lomax.
Would I be right in thinking Miles Percival lives here?
When?
I mean, where?
Last night.
His body was found down by the river at Thrupp this morning.
You known him long?
Two years.
We sang together in the choir for a bit.
When did you see him last?
Yesterday, at college.
How did he seem?
Anything worrying him?
No.
What about recently?
Anything out of the ordinary?
Money problems?
College?
Girl trouble?
Nothing he told me about.
You're Australian, Mr. Lomax.
That's right.
From where?
Sydney.
So you weren't concerned that he didn't come home last night?
I was in The Bird till closing.
When I got back, I thought he already turned in.
Did you know he owned a gun?
His grandfather's.
I'll need to speak to his tutor.
Sure.
He teaches over at Lonsdale.
MAN: Morse?
Morse!
Good God.
Hello, Alex.
I don't believe it.
What the hell are you doing here?
I'm looking for a colleague of yours-- Dr. Stromming.
What's your business with him?
Police business.
I'm a policeman.
Police?
The last I heard, you'd run off to join the Foreign Legion.
What happened?
Didn't take?
It was the Royal Signals.
But no, it didn't take.
You're still...
Climbing the ladder of academe?
Oh, yes.
All the way to the topmost rung.
Master one day, I suppose.
You always were ambitious.
Well, genius does what it must.
Walk with me.
I'm late for lunch.
I can't, I... Oh, you won't find Stromming in today.
Home, probably.
Porter'll give you the address.
(knocking on door) Good afternoon, I'm looking for Dr. Stromming.
I'm sorry.
He's out at present.
Is it college business?
In a manner of speaking.
Do you have any idea what time he'll be back?
No, I'm afraid not.
May I take a message?
Probably best if I speak to him directly.
I see.
Well...
Yes.
I'll, uh...
Sorry to have troubled you.
Not at all.
Forgive me, but it is Miss Calloway, isn't it?
(chuckles) Miss Rosalind Calloway.
It was.
It's Mrs. Stromming now.
Ah.
Well, I've...
I can't say all, but I've very many of your recordings, certainly.
(chuckles): Good heavens.
Yeah, your Butterfly in '54.
If I had to save one disc on my desert island from the waves, that would... You are very kind.
Look, I'm sure Rowan won't be long.
Would you... Would you care to wait?
MORSE: You don't miss it, performing?
Not for a moment.
You see, I got Rowan, my husband.
It seemed like more than a fair exchange.
The one didn't preclude the other, surely?
Not for Rowan's part.
But on mine, it's not the kind of marriage that I wanted-- touring, oceans apart.
Forsaking all others, certainly.
But music?
No, I still have music.
I help out with the college choir Wednesdays and Saturdays.
(car pulling up) And, oh, I've agreed to appear in a charity gala at the New next Monday.
To be honest, I think I'm possibly more nervous about this than any other performance I have ever given.
Are tickets still available?
All gone, I'm told.
Oh, of course.
Rowan, this is Mister... Morse.
He's come to talk with you.
College business.
Yes, yes, of course.
ROWAN: Are you sure you won't have one?
No, thank you.
Please.
So, what can I do for you, Mr. Morse?
Actually, Doctor, it's Detective Constable Morse.
Oxford City Police.
I'm here about a student of yours.
Miles Percival.
Oh, yes?
I'm sorry to have to tell you, sir, but I'm afraid he was found dead this morning.
Dead?
Oh, my God.
Well, how awful.
What was it?
A car accident or something?
We believe he killed himself.
Have you any idea why he may wish to take his own life?
None.
His work had fallen off quite badly of late.
Missed tutorials, drinking.
There was some talk of him being rusticated.
He was quite highly strung.
But I'd no idea he was in that kind of... (sighs) My God.
The poor boy.
(opera recording playing) ♫ Signore, ascolta!
♫ ♫ Ah, Signore, ascolta ♫ ♫ Liuù non regge piuù ♫ ♫ si spezza il cuor!♫ ♫ Ahimè ♫ ♫ quanto cammino ♫ ♫ col tuo nome nell'anima ♫ ♫ col nome tuo sulle labbra.
♫ MORSE: I need a name and address for your Saturday puzzle setter, Oz.
Out of luck, then, aren't you?
He's anonymous, like most of them.
Well, you send his fee somewhere, presumably?
Fee?
This is Oxford.
They do it for the honor.
Look, I really am fearfully busy.
I've got the stars to do by lunch, and I'm only at Taurus.
People don't really believe such guff, do they?
You'd be surprised.
The Chaplain at Christ's has just declared for reincarnation.
When's it usually delivered, the Saturday grid?
First post Wednesday, as a rule.
We go to press Thursday.
And last week?
Funny you should ask.
Came in late.
Caused quite a flap.
In the end, a young chap dropped it round.
Well, what did he look like?
Like a young chap.
Undergrad, I suppose.
He gave it to one of the subs.
I didn't...
I caught a glimpse.
Well, perhaps I could speak to this sub.
You'll have to scour the Cairngorms, I'm afraid.
A walking holiday as of Monday.
Very well.
Well, if you remember anything else... Of course.
Thank you.
What did you say your name was?
Morse.
Why?
Have we met?
I don't think so.
Another life, then.
Oi.
Lott's rung in sick.
You're to fetch the guv'nor.
How am I supposed to get there?
Hmm.
(opera recording playing) Oh, no DS Lott today?
Unwell, sir.
You don't say.
Now, Friday.
Must be corned beef.
What did I tell you?
It comes to reliability.
The fixed motion of the heavens has nothing on my Win.
Anything overnight?
There is something I wanted to talk to you about, sir-- Mary Tremlett's poetry books.
I thought we'd been through that.
I know, but they're not just hardbacks, sir.
They're first editions.
Quite valuable.
How'd you... You've been there.
Right.
Tell me on the way.
Morning, sir.
Morning.
Just bringing Mr.
Crisp up to date, sir.
You were, were you?
I thought you were sick.
A bit liverish first thing.
Fancy.
Okay, Morse.
Back to your desk.
Wait a minute, Arthur.
I want to see what you make of this, sir.
The lad's been having a bit of a dig around the Tremlett case.
Tell him.
Mary Tremlett keeps a few poetry books by her bed.
First editions.
And she's bookmarked certain poems with crosswords cut from the Oxford Mail.
The Saturday edition, all set by someone called Oz.
Oz?
As in The Wizard of?
MORSE: Same spelling, yes.
But the thing is, there's only ever two clues she's filled in any puzzle.
The same two.
The first across and the last down.
The down's invariably a number.
Five gold rings.
Six geese a-laying.
So on.
MORSE: But the across clue always refers to somewhere in or around Oxford, mentioned in the poems-- Fyfield, Cumnor, Godstow.
That it?
Well, no sir, not quite.
The crossword that came out the day she disappeared refers to a poem by Matthew Arnold, "The Scholar Gypsy," which mentions Bagley Wood.
Bagley Wood?
MORSE: The down clue gives the number eight.
I just thought it could be a time and place.
Possibly.
Bagley Wood.
Have you signed up on that Thrupp shooting yet?
Then I'd suggest you see to your duties before you start gallivanting.
Bloody crosswords!
Just come through from the information room, sir.
A body's been found by ramblers.
Young girl, redhead.
Looks to be Mary Tremlett.
Where's this?
Kennington.
Out by Bagley Wood.
Make sure the photographer gets this.
Back of her right hand.
It's already smudged, but it looks to be "FLA 17..." something.
Letter B, possibly.
LOTT: Car registration?
THURSDAY: Or flat, maybe.
Flat Seventeen B.
Then, what?
Postmortem?
Formal identification first.
Morse can run me.
You'd better keep an eye on the search.
Organize a few snaps of her outfit before it goes for forensics-- get them out there.
Might jog a few memories.
Very good, sir.
Who's a clever boy, then?
(crying) Sarge.
Something here.
DeBRYN: Subject is a well-nourished female.
Approximately 15 years of age.
Five-foot two.
Nine stone six pounds.
So we begin with a lateral incision across the cranium.
Thus to expose the skull.
Morse.
Morse!
You'll be all right.
Actually, sir, I...
I don't drink.
Very commendable.
Now get that down you.
If you're going to apologize, don't.
Your first?
Well, like that.
What did I miss?
Strangled.
Her own brassiere.
Struck on the back of the head first.
Hadn't been interfered with, according to Dr. DeBryn.
Then why take off her clothes?
Maybe the spirit was willing.
Saturday night, he'd had a skinful.
Tried to have his way.
When he couldn't manage it... She'd been pregnant at some point within the last six months.
Very professional job, was the doctor's opinion.
So there was a boyfriend.
Our man Oz?
The search turned up a gent's wristwatch near to where her body was found.
The face is smashed, which gives us a time of death-- 8:16 Saturday night.
Oh, and her stomach contents turned up half a pint of whelks.
Talk to her mate Valerie.
See if she's been holding back.
She might open up more to someone nearer her own age.
Right.
MORSE: Mary Tremlett told her father she was going to the cinema with you Saturday afternoon.
Any idea why she'd say that?
I can understand if you've been wanting to protect her, maybe.
Her reputation.
But as of this morning, things have changed.
For the worse, I'm afraid.
Are you saying she's dead?
So it's important you tell me the truth now.
Do you understand?
Where was she going Saturday night?
Who was she seeing?
I don't know.
Look...
I want to go home.
I'm upset.
I've had a shock.
You can't talk to me when I'm upset.
Are you here about Mary?
We were best friends before she fell in with Valerie's crowd.
You're not part of that?
No fear.
Little tarts.
They used to rag on us when we first started.
Only last year, Mary and Val got really pally.
Then a couple of weeks ago, they had a big bust-up.
Do you know what it was about?
Mary thought Valerie was trying to steal her bloke.
They had a fight over it.
Did Mary ever mention anyone called Oz?
A nickname, maybe?
Not to me.
And who's Mary's boyfriend?
Johnny Franks.
He's a car mechanic.
Works at a garage over at Parktown.
All Valerie's gang go there.
She's an absolute beauty, isn't she?
Nine months old, 3,000 on the clock, and does she go?
Oh.
Mr. Samuels?
Yeah, call me Teddy, please.
Mister... Detective Constable Morse.
City Police.
Oh, yeah?
What can I do for you?
I'd like to speak with one of your mechanics.
Johnny Franks.
He's not in any trouble, is he?
I know a lot of your boys.
They'll tell you I run a straight go, and I make sure my lads do the same.
Right, you'd better come through.
SAMUELS: Have you seen Johnny?
Where were you Saturday night, Mr. Franks?
Railway Arms, in Didcot.
Anyone vouch for you?
Yeah.
The rest of the team.
Darts.
I play in a league.
We were away to Didcot on Saturday.
What time did that finish?
11:00-ish.
I suppose I got home around midnight.
Right, then?
Not quite.
I understand you knew Mary Tremlett.
Yeah, slightly.
It was more than slightly, wasn't it?
You were her boyfriend.
I don't know where you got that.
Look, I've got a few birds on the go, but Mary weren't one of them.
I mean, I might've given her some old chat, but that's as far as it went.
What about Valerie Quillen?
What about her?
Well, she had a fight with Mary.
Over you.
The other week.
I wouldn't know about that.
A lot of young girls hang around the garages, Constable.
You know what they're like at that age-- lad mad.
They get an idea in their head, what can you do?
Mary did have a boyfriend, as it goes, but it weren't me.
Miles something.
A college sort.
Begins with a P. Miles Percival?
Yep, that's it-- Miles Percival.
You want to know about Mary, you should go talk to him.
Mary broke it off with Miles six months ago.
Was he sleeping with her?
What sort of a question is that?
She was 15.
He wanted to marry her, for God's sake.
He said he was saving himself.
Was Miles Percival keen on crosswords, Mr. Lomax?
Miles?
God, no!
No, couldn't stick a crossie at any price.
Didn't have that kind of mind.
I used to drive him nuts.
You did?
Hey, look, you've no idea what he was like.
It was awful.
After she left him, he was either drunk or...
In the end he got it into his head that she was seeing someone else.
Did he say who?
Uh...
He thought that I... That's absurd.
You did know her, though?
Miles brought her to a drinks party.
She seemed very personable.
Very quick witted.
Really, it was just one of those stupid things.
One of the younger dons mentioned that it was a pity we didn't see more people like that coming to Oxford.
Like what?
Well, of her class.
The wine was in, I suppose, but Reece hit upon a wheeze to see if, with a bit of coaching, we couldn't convince the Bursar that she was an undergrad.
At Lady Matilda's, do you see?
Alexander Reece?
Why, do you know him?
Yes.
(chuckling) You couldn't inveigle Mary Tremlett to join your subterfuge?
On the contrary, she was all for it.
Someone taking an interest in her.
I imagine she was flattered.
I imagine she was.
Now, if you've any more questions, Morse, I'm afraid you'll have to put them to me on the hoof.
When did you last see Mary?
Sometime earlier in the year.
And when you were tutoring her.
Once a week, once a fortnight.
Something like that.
After lectures,at home.
A case of when one could fit her in.
Since you knew Mary, I'm bound to ask where you were Saturday night.
I was at home.
Anyone confirm that?
My wife.
Your wife has choir practice on a Saturday evening, doesn't she?
Look, whatever Miles Percival may have thought, my relationship with Mary Tremlett was based wholly on an academic experiment.
Did she prove an apt pupil, Dr. Stromming?
She had a facility for conning by rote.
But I'm afraid, after a while, what had in one's cups seemed amusing no longer felt... quite right.
Alex?
Oh, I say.
Full marks.
You timed that one rather well, didn't you?
Scoff.
And a bloody good claret or two, of course.
Free and gratis.
Oh, if it's all the same... On duty, I suppose.
There is something I need to talk to you about.
Mary Tremlett.
This bet that you have got with Rowan Stromming... Oh, I see.
Donald.
Yes, I was wondering why you were creeping about in college.
Was there anything more to their relationship?
Aside from this bet?
Well, I wouldn't have thought so.
Filled a sweater well enough, but a mite odalisque to my taste.
Tout avec frites, I suppose.
Take the girl out of Cowley.
You didn't used to be so cruel.
Poor old Morse.
You were never Oxford material.
Too bloody decent by half.
(phone ringing) Abingdon 4185.
Yes.
Yes, I have.
Shocking.
No.
Well, I think that's wise.
Listen, I'm just about to leave for London.
You can reach me there if there's anything you think I should know.
Flaxman one-seven-double eight.
All right?
RADIO ANNOUNCER: ...but that the involvement of British forces in the crisis remained unlikely.
Meanwhile, there are reports of fighting between South and North Vietnamese troops in Dong Xiao.
In other news, an early hand-written draft of Ozymandias by the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley is to go on show at the Bodleian Library in Oxford.
Gifted to the library in 1893... "Boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretch far away."
(knocking at door) Detective Constable Morse.
What brings you here?
"I met a traveler "from an antique land, who said two vast "and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert.
"And on the pedestal these words appear: "'My name is Ozymandias, "'King of Kings.
'Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'"
I'm afraid I don't... Oh, I think you do, Dr. Stromming.
Or would you prefer Oz?
Ozymandias.
"Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair."
But then, crossword setters aren't exactly famed for a lack of self-regard.
The gentle teacher bestowing wisdom upon the young and eager pupil?
It may even have started out that way.
But it's not how it ended up, is it?
What happened, Dr. Stromming?
Did you tire of her just as quickly, once the shine was off it?
Or was your wife getting suspicious?
Rosalind had no idea.
Did Mary Tremlett threaten to tell her, then?
Is that it?
She wouldn't go quietly?
Is that why you lured her to Bagley Wood?
What?
It's here, Doctor.
In black and white.
First across, "Where most the gypsies "by the turf-edged way pitch their smoked tents."
Answer, six and four.
Bagley Wood.
Last down, "How many cowgirls?"
Five letters.
Answer, eight.
I don't understand.
Oh, you understand all too well, Doctor.
You were to meet Mary Tremlett Saturday night at 8:00 at Bagley Wood, while your wife was safely out of the way at choir practice.
I didn't set Bagley Wood.
Not last Saturday, anyway.
I set Hinksey.
And it was 6:00, not 8:00.
This is next week's puzzle.
Next week's?
Any setter worth the name will keep a few grids ahead of himself, just in case he's taken ill.
Here.
You see?
Hinksey.
6:00.
This is the grid I meant to send.
So that's why she didn't turn up.
I submitted the wrong puzzle.
Rowan handed me the envelope to post, as usual, but what with rehearsals, it completely went out of my mind.
So what happened?
Come Wednesday, it was still on the mantelpiece.
And I was about to run it into town myself when one of Rowan's students knocked on the door.
A boy called Miles.
Miles Percival?
That's right.
I know him slightly through choir.
But Rowan wasn't in.
And so to save myself the trip, I asked him if he wouldn't mind dropping the envelope off.
Did he say what he wanted with your husband?
No, I assumed it was college business.
But ask him, I'm sure he'll tell you.
Miles Percival is dead.
He shot himself.
That's what I came to tell your husband the other day.
Can you account for Dr. Stromming's whereabouts on Saturday evening?
His whereabouts?
He was here.
Are you sure?
You have choir practice every Saturday evening, don't you?
Well, he was in his study when I left at 6:00.
He was still there when I returned later.
Detective Constable... Well, what time was that?
Around 11:00.
After practice, when I came out to the car, I had a puncture, and I had to wait an age for assistance.
But please, what is this all about?
This is a delicate question, Mrs. Stromming, but one I must ask.
Yours... is a happy marriage?
I beg your pardon?
I mean... You've never had cause to doubt your husband?
Never!
Never have I had cause to doubt my husband, as you put it.
Not for one moment.
I have rehearsals to attend.
Just tell DCS Crisp what you told me, all right?
You got a minute, sir?
MORSE: Stromming planned the whole thing.
Even down to the last detail.
I believe he even went so far as to spike his wife's tire, just to make sure that he got home before she did.
So far as she's aware, he'd been there the whole time.
Sorry to interrupt, sir.
So, Saturday night, he lures Mary Tremlett to Bagley Wood and kills her to stop the truth about their affair getting out.
And his alibi is what for the time in question?
That he's in Hinksey.
What's he doing in Hinksey?
Waiting for Mary.
He said that was the intended rendezvous point for the 12th, only he accidentally submitted the crossword puzzle for the 19th to the Oxford Mail.
Anyone see him in Hinksey?
Well, no.
He's lying.
I know he is.
What do you think, sir?
If Stromming is this Oz character, it stacks up.
Bring him in.
LOTT: Saturday night he killed her, you say?
Then I think you probably want to hang fire, sir.
I've got a vet downstairs who swears he saw Mary Tremlett alive and well, 6:00 Sunday morning.
I got to Cherrits' Farm around about 2:00.
A breech presentation, which isn't too much of a problem as a rule.
But the calf managed to get the umbilicus caught around its neck.
Hard go of it, I should imagine.
I doubt I shall be bowling legspin again for a while.
But all safely delivered around about 5:00.
I collected my things and headed home about half past.
Anyway, just passed the left turn to Glympton, and there she was, waiting at the bus stop.
What time was this?
6:00.
The Home Service had just come on the news.
What did she look like, this girl?
A redhead, like it says in the paper.
She was wearing some kind of get-up with a...
I don't know what you'd call it.
A sort of chevron-y type motif.
Green and white,I think.
You were 12 hours out.
It wasn't 8:16 Saturday night Mary Tremlett was killed.
It was 8:16 Sunday morning.
This vet saw her waiting on the first bus to Woodstock.
Do you believe him?
THURSDAY: No reason not to.
He's identified the dress.
I've spoken to Mrs. Stromming, sir.
8:16 they were in church.
Her and her husband both.
St. Xavier's.
Vicar confirmed.
THURSDAY: Which puts Stromming in the clear.
He might have had an affair with her, but the rest of it, no go, I'm afraid.
But she was found in Bagley Wood.
He's put in the wrong puzzle, like you said.
Mary Tremlett goes there, Stromming never turns up.
Then why doesn't she go home?
Where does she go Saturday night until this vet finds her at the bus stop Sunday morning?
I didn't say I had it pat.
Maybe she met someone.
But however you look at it, the long and the short's we're back to square one.
Maybe not, sir.
This watch we found by the body, it's engraved on the back.
Eighth of October 1964.
A wristwatch is often given as a coming-of-age present.
I checked on that suicide that Morse was supposed to be dealing with, Miles Percival.
Who?
Mary Tremlett's ex-boyfriend.
Her what?
Don't you think that's something you might have mentioned?
I ruled it out.
You did, did you?
LOTT: Percival's date of birth, eighth of October 1943.
Spoke to his parents.
They confirmed they gave him a watch last year, matching the one we found.
Anything else you left off telling me?
Well, Miles Percival was the one who delivered Dr. Stromming's clue, sir, to the Oxford Mail.
Well, say he took a butcher's at it, sir.
Maybe he tumbled into how Stromming is making his contact with Mary Tremlett.
No, Miles Percival didn't know the first thing about crosswords.
His flatmate told me so.
Well, maybe his flatmate doesn't know Percival as well as he thinks he does.
So what, he's waiting in Bagley Wood when Mary turns up?
Mm-hmm, could be he was planning on doing them both, sir.
Except Stromming didn't show.
They argue, come to blows, even.
Yes, and he loses his watch.
She gets away from him, holes up till first light, when she tries to get the first bus home.
Only Percival finds her again.
Takes her back to Bagley Wood.
Miles Percival was still in love with her, sir.
I mean, there's no way that he could harm Mary Tremlett.
Unless it's slipped your notice, Miles Percival blew his brains out.
Yeah, of course he did.
When he found out she was dead.
It was more than he could stand.
Very poetic.
Except he'd done for himself before we'd found her body.
He couldn't have known she was dead, sir.
Unless he'd killed her.
Mrs. Stromming?
I feel I should apologize for... You should.
It's a young girl.
I suppose you were doing your job.
Yeah, a fine mess I made of that.
Well, that was all.
Morse?
What you asked me about Rowan, should I have... Mrs. Stromming... Look, you owe me that, at least.
Have I been stupid?
Any stupidity was mine.
It's a policeman's lot to hypothesize.
And sometimes you... Is this your way of saying that you were wrong?
I suppose it is.
All right, I just...
I have been going out of my mind after what you said.
Well, think no more of it.
Any man with such a wife as you would have to be mad to seek happiness elsewhere.
I don't think Dr. Stromming's mad.
Look, can I get you a drink?
That's very kind.
A brandy, then.
Someone told Rowan that you took Greats at Lonsdale.
Is that true?
More or less.
And how on earth does a Greats man end up a detective?
I wonder myself.
I thought perhaps it might be your father was a policeman.
No, no.
He was a taxi driver.
Before he lost his license.
And your mother?
She was raised a Quaker.
Good heavens.
I hope any child of mine might have more to say about me than, "She was an Anglican."
Oh, I've... She died when I was 12.
I shouldn't have asked.
No, not at all.
I'm just afraid that each year one's... one's memories, they... Well, um... Well, let's see.
My abiding impression of her is someone soft.
The scent of her hair.
Tenderness.
I'd better be getting home.
Thank you for the... No, thank you for... well, just thank you.
Good night, then.
Good night.
(duck quacking) JENNY CRISP: Please don't tell my dad.
Please?
I won't.
He'd kill me if he found out.
I won't say anything, I promise.
MISS TENCH: Where were you, Jenny?
Mary introduced me to this man she knew.
He had these parties.
Big house at Wolvercote.
We thought at first it would be a giggle.
But it wasn't.
And last Saturday, Mary was there?
There was a few of us went.
Me, Val.
Mary left early, though.
Around 7:00.
There was a row over it.
He didn't want her to go.
Who?
Who didn't?
Who threw these parties?
Once you get in it, you've got the leather seats and the walnut dash.
She's a real beauty.
Oh, hello.
Changed your mind about the car?
You're aware of the age of consent in this country, are you, Mr. Samuels?
How the law stands in relation to procuring, say?
Len, could you see to this lady and gentleman for me?
Please, sir, madam!
That's a bloody good sale you've just cost me there.
Well, I hope by the time I'm finished, I'll have cost you a great deal more.
Mary Tremlett was a regular attendee at your parties.
Along with several other girls from Cowley Road School.
Now, I want the names and addresses of the men you pimped them to.
Listen, sonny Jim, you want to watch your mouth.
I don't know who you think you are coming in here with talk like that, but I won't have it.
I'm a respectable member of the business community, and I'll be treated as such, or you will find yourself back on point duty quick as.
Now get out of my office before I have someone break your legs, you little bastard.
Go on, get.
You went to see Teddy Samuels.
Yes, he's...
He's running parties out of some big pile by Wolvercote-- underage girls.
Mary Tremlett was there Saturday night.
I don't care where she was Saturday night.
She was fit and well Sunday morning.
Miles Percival picked her up.
Yes, well, he would have been hard pressed to do that, wouldn't he?
Seeing as he didn't own a car.
What the bloody hell do you think you're about?
Pursuing inquiries.
And who gave you leave to do that?
THURSDAY: I did.
On your way.
Something you want to say, Arthur?
You know the kind of people Teddy's tight with.
I know he's got you in his pocket.
A pony on the first of the month for turning a blind eye to hooky MOTs is bad enough.
But this is the murder of a young girl.
It's not just me.
Oh, I know.
Teddy Samuels's got half the brass in town dancing to his tune.
In the county.
Judges, churchmen, counselors, peers.
You really think you've got a chance going toe-to-toe with that lot, Fred?
THURSDAY: I want a list of who else was at this little shindig of yours.
Look, Inspector.
I happen to count a good number of your superior officers amongst my close circle, yeah?
Or should I say square?
I would hate for any of them to be embarrassed.
Know what I mean?
Oh, bugger.
I look to have left my tobacco in the car.
Have a shufti, Morse, would you?
Now?
God.
He's a bit keen, your boy, isn't he?
A bit wet behind the ears, though.
A drink?
Scotch, if you've got it.
Soda?
As it comes.
I've scraped better than you off the soles of my boots.
So get this, and get it straight.
I don't care who you pimp to, or whose pal you are down the lodge.
You try and come it with me, I'll break you.
Was in my pocket all along.
Mr. Samuels has come over with a nosebleed.
I told him to keep his head back.
We all done then, Teddy?
You've made a big mistake.
And that makes two of us.
You can keep the hankie.
I've wondered for a while why no one was willing to go after a crook like Samuels.
Especially Crisp.
Well, you might have told me.
I didn't know who I could trust in my own nick, never mind a stranger.
You think Teddy Samuels killed Mary Tremlett?
Or knows who did.
Inspector Thursday in yet?
Gone to see the Tremletts.
Do you know much about women's clothes?
Besides they look better off than on?
Why?
Something someone said.
I was trying to remember.
OFFICER: Morse?
Detective Chief Superintendent Crisp wants you.
Morse?
Odalisque.
Eau-de-what?
What's that mean, then?
Someone like Jenkins there.
What, Welsh?
Fed... for pleasure.
Is it true?
I'd advise you to consider very carefully before you answer.
This is a very serious complaint.
Did Inspector Thursday hit Teddy Samuels?
No, sir.
Right.
Clear your desk.
I want you on the next train to Carshall bloody Newtown or wherever it is you came from.
I've no use for troublemakers.
My letter of resignation.
It's been burning a hole in my pocket this past week.
Perhaps you'd see it reaches the appropriate channels.
Get out!
What will you do?
Praise the God of all, drink the wine and beer, and let the world be the world.
Another?
No, I've got to mind the shop.
Did you ever make any headway with what was on the back of her hand?
What was it?
F-L-A... 17B.
Or 178.
We tried it as a vehicle registration, FLA 178, but nothing doing.
And if it was flat 17B...
There was something missing off the end, though, wasn't there?
Another letter, or number, I thought.
Maybe.
It's hard to say.
Why?
Oh, just... well, nothing.
It doesn't matter.
It's no longer my concern.
And tell Thursday if he wants to know who killed Mary Tremlett, find out where her clothes came from.
Did Mary ever mention a Teddy Samuels?
Runs a garage round the back of Park Town.
It's not a name I've heard her mention.
Is it you, Shar?
She's got herself caught up with this bloke, then, has she?
It's just we're interested in anyone she may have known through him.
Did she ever go to Wolvercote, so far as you know?
Oh.
I'm afraid Rowan's not in.
No, it's you I came to see.
I wanted to say goodbye before I push off.
Leaving Oxford?
Oxford, the police, all of it.
You'd better come in.
I took the liberty... (chuckles) It seemed too good an opportunity to let pass.
It's seldom one gets... one gets to meet one's heroines.
Heroine?
Surely not.
No, more than you could know.
You see, you saved my life.
What an extraordinary thing to say.
It's true nevertheless.
The place that I grew up was a grey, unfeeling nothing.
Then, one day I heard your voice.
And... and I knew for the first time that there was... ... beauty in the world.
Would you sign it?
It would mean a great deal.
Yes.
Oh, heavens.
Look at me.
I have, often.
Are you flirting with me?
A little, perhaps.
You mustn't.
I love my husband.
Very much.
I know.
What shall I put?
THURSDAY: Samuels' insurance against police interest.
Wicked thing, blackmail.
God knows I'd have done the same if it'd been my daughter.
I burnt the negatives.
All of them.
Jenny doesn't have to worry anymore.
And nor do you, sir.
Who else knows?
Between you, me and Morse.
You can rely on his discretion.
He's a good lad.
We wouldn't be where we are now if he hadn't kept pushing.
Sharon?
Sharon?
(snoring) Yours, I believe.
There's been a development.
SHARON: He had to pay.
For Mary.
I mean, I knew he was bad, but I never thought... his own daughter.
Our daughter.
You and Teddy Samuels?
Summer '49.
Mum and Dad said I shouldn't have my life ruined with a kiddie so young.
So they took her on.
Teddy didn't want anything to do with it.
Threatened me if I told anyone.
And then you come round.
Just hearing his name, something went in me.
All these years.
The thought of him having anything to do with Mary...
I'm not sorry.
What's all this business with Mary Tremlett's outfit?
Oh.
Well, Mary Tremlett took a size 36C in a bra.
But the dress found with her body was a size small.
She couldn't have squeezed into that outfit if her life depended on it.
Bought for her by an admirer?
Well, that was my thinking.
When it comes to women's dress sizes, I mean... Have McLeash run down a list of local stockists.
Meantime, we'd better have a word with friend Teddy.
He might be in more of a mood to make himself useful this morning.
It's Morse.
I'm at the hospital with Inspector Thursday.
Any luck with the outfitters?
Oh, well, keep trying.
(beeping) Oh damn, the pips have gone and I'm out of change.
Can you call me back?
The number's OTMoor double-2-70.
OTMoor.
O-T-M...
Yes.
Straightaway.
There's something I need you to check.
She's done a proper job on him.
He does pull through, the doctor says he's likely a vegetable.
How'd you make out?
Percival's in the clear.
Not only did he not have access to a vehicle, but according to Lomax, he couldn't even drive.
That's not all.
What?
You remember what was written on the back of Mary Tremlett's hand?
FLA 178.
The car reg?
Yeah, nothing doing.
That's because it wasn't a car reg, or part of an address, or anything of the sort.
FLA is an abbreviation of Flaxman, which is the name of a London telephone exchange covering the Chelsea area.
FLA 178.
You're a digit short, aren't you?
I got McLeash to check all ten possibilities.
Flaxman 1788 is the number for the London home of Sir Richard Lovell, Minister for Overseas Affairs, and constituency MP for Oxford North.
You talked to him?
His housekeeper.
Lovell was in Oxford last weekend from Friday to Sunday.
He has a house by Woodstock called Applegate.
Detective Inspector Thursday, sir.
Detective Constable Morse.
Wonder if we might speak to you a moment.
With me?
Certainly.
So, what can I dofor you?
I'm hoping you'll be able to tell us how your London telephone number came to be found written on the hand of a schoolgirl murdered last Sunday in Bagley Wood.
My telephone number?
MORSE: Flaxman 1-7-double 8.
That is your phone number.
Yes, it is, but... how this young girl came to have it, I'm...
I'm afraid I haven't the foggiest.
Her name was Mary Tremlett.
A redhead.
She'd be one of the young girls you'll have met at Teddy Samuels' parties.
You attended one last Saturday at Wolvercote.
I don't think so.
Sounds most unsavory.
Dear, dear.
"Dear, dear"?
A young girl is strangled and left naked in the woods, and all you can say is, "Dear, dear?"
Morse... Do you deny you were there, Minister?
Naturally.
And unless you have evidence to the contrary, I'm afraid this meeting is at an end.
A Minister of the Crown.
We'll need more than a telephone number to make it stick.
Unless...
Her outfit.
If Lovell was this secret admirer, and we can find who sold it to him... Well, we can tie him to Mary Tremlett.
McLeash come through with that list of stockists yet?
Yeah, should have.
You get onto that.
I'll put Crisp in the picture.
You tracked the outfit down?
Then we've got him.
What?
Whelks.
Mary Tremlett's last meal.
Eaten an hour or so before she died.
That's not my idea of breakfast.
Is it yours?
Well, what are you saying?
That she didn't die Sunday morning?
But the vet saw her at the bus stop.
Well, yes.
And no.
Either way, it wasn't Lovell who killed her.
The awful thing is it all started as a joke.
A wager between two fools who should've known better.
How much?
Five pounds.
You're on.
MORSE: Flattered by Stromming's attentions, perhaps even believing herself to be in love with him, Mary Tremlett threw herself into their affair, abandoning the young man with whom she had hitherto been close.
Distraught, Miles Percival confided his fears to the one person he thought might be able to bring Stromming to heel.
Mrs. Stomming, can we have a word?
I doubt that she believed him.
But gradually she came to realize the truth.
MORSE: Rather than confront her husband and risk losing him forever, another idea took hold of her mind.
(cheers and applause) MORSE: So she began.
♫ Un bel diì, vedremo ♫ ♫ levarsi un fil de fumo ♫ ♫ Sull'estremo confin del mare... ♫ Have a wonderful day.
♫ E poi... ♫ MORSE: The substitution of the puzzle was the easiest part.
What she really needed was someone to take the blame.
Well, she already had the perfect candidate.
Will you drop that in for me?
Thank you.
MORSE: The rest fell out exactly as she planned.
MORSE: On Saturday evening, Mary Tremlett left Samuels' party for Bagley Wood, expecting to meet her lover.
MORSE: Only it wasn't Dr. Stromming she found waiting.
Mary.
Mary!
I believe Rosalind Stromming was waiting for her with some kind of crowbar.
MORSE: She stripped Mary Tremlett and left the green and white party dress by her body.
A dress, rather than the dress.
There were two.
The following morning, anyone passing the bus stop would have seen exactly what Rosalind Stromming wanted them to see.
A redhead in a green, black and white chevron print dress.
To be taken for Mary Tremlett.
MORSE: The wig and dress I doubt we'll ever find.
The stage was set for the final act.
All that remained... was to provide the police with Mary's murderer.
♫Chi sarà, chi sarà...♫ MORSE: It was the perfect crime in all respects bar one.
It was essential to her plan that the two dresses appear identical.
But what she failed to take into account was that she is two sizes smaller than Mary.
MORSE: The shop girl remembered at once.
The beautiful woman with the diamond earrings.
♫ Per non morire al primo incontro ♫ ♫ Ed egli alcontro in pena chiamera, chiamera ♫ ♫ Piccina mogliettina olezzo di verbena ♫ ♫ I nomi che mi dava al suo venire ♫ ♫ Tutto questo avverà, te lo prometto ♫ ♫ Tiente la tua paura ♫ ♫ io con sicura fede ♫ ♫ l'aspetto.
♫ (no voice, conclusion to "Un bel diì" playing) (cheers and applause) Brava.
Bravissima.
Divina.
(cheers and applause) What time's your train?
It's quarter past.
Sleep?
I'd have worked things through sooner if I'd have realized... Stop.
The if game's no good to any bugger.
You keep on, it'll drive you round the twist.
I know.
Rosalind Stromming was dead from the moment she decided to kill an innocent girl.
Or dying, at least.
Inside.
Whatever was good of her.
Come on, then.
If you're going to make that train.
Mind if I drive?
THURSDAY: Carshall Newtown.
That really what you want?
I don't know.
I was thinking I might pack it all in.
Pick up my degree.
The world's long on academics, Morse.
But woeful short of good detectives.
Things as they are, I could use a permanent bagman.
I mean, we did pretty well this time out.
Give or take.
THURSDAY: I'd see you right, of course.
Make sure we get you through your sergeant's exam, eh?
With the proper encouragement, who knows?
What you've got to ask is, where do you see yourself in 20 years?
(car horns honking) Morse?
Endeavour.
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