♪ ♪ MORSE: Someone once told me that not every question gets an answer.

♪ ♪ I just want to get to the bottom of it.

THURSDAY: Why should you risk your neck?

'Cause somebody has to.

BRIGHT: What of your own future?

MORSE: I suppose I thought things would just go on.

♪ ♪ But then they don't.

♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ (thunder claps) (whimpers) (click) ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ WIN: We all think a lot of you, you know.

You must look after yourself.

STRANGE: I've got a do coming up.

Don't supposed it'd be up your street?

THURSDAY: You're young, you're smart.

Break the habit before it breaks you.

I don't need help.

I can't use you in this shape!

WIN: It's Sam.

Absent without leave.

THURSDAY: Fellow from his unit.

Sniper at a checkpoint.

Maybe that knocked him?

I will take those four weeks.

As long as you need.

Sun always comes up.

Just gotta hold on for it a bit longer sometimes.

♪ ♪ GRAHAM-SCOTT: Oxford Royalty Theatre, please.

Certainly, Guv.

♪ ♪ (talking softly) ♪ ♪ ANNOUNCER (over radio): Good evening, and welcome.

It is a beautiful summer's evening here in Oxford, as you join us in this wonderful setting for the first in a series of homecoming concerts by the internationally celebrated Oxford Concert Orchestra.

The O.C.O.

has performed at iconic venues the world over, but they return tonight to perform for the first time in their home city in over a year.

The orchestra will perform under the baton of Sir Alexander Lermontov, and featuring the gifted soloist Christina Poole, who has joined the O.C.O.

for the 1972 season.

(phone ringing) Very much Sir Alexander's protégée, Miss Poole is the latest in a long line of consummate musicians to literally flourish under his careful guidance.

He's been a great coach and champion of her talents.

(knocks) (radio continues faintly) Ready?

(audience applauding) ANNOUNCER: Ah, here comes Christina Poole now, looking utterly beguiling in one of the beautiful strapless gowns which have become so much her signature.

Just a few steps behind her, the unmistakable form of Sir Alexander Lermontov.

As he takes the podium, a hush falls over the auditorium.

(audio stops) (Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in E minor playing) (concerto continues) (concerto continues) (concerto continues) (tires screech) (panting) (tires screech) (concerto continues) (panting) (phone ringing) THURSDAY (over phone): Oxford 2831, hello.

(concerto continues) Hello?

Is there anyone there?

WIN: Is it Sam?

(receiver replaced) (concerto continues) (Mickey shouts) (man slapping, Mickey grunting) (punches landing, Mickey grunting) (concerto continues) (audience applauding) A triumph, Chrissie!

Sensational!

Yes, Madame will be so proud!

Thank you, thank you so much!

(sighs) ♪ ♪ 98 pink elephants.

99 pink elephants.

Oh!

You have been in Lyme Regis, I perceive.

(bell ringing slowly) Do we know who he is?

No wallet or identification.

And no one matching his description reported missing overnight, so... MORSE: I'll take one of those, then, please, if you can spare.

Of course.

Thank you.

THURSDAY: Morse.

MORSE: Sir.

Aye-aye, matey.

Back in the land of the living, then?

Well, seemingly not.

Who found him?

Staff.

Clearing up this morning after last night's do.

Master doesn't recognize him.

Huh, undergrad from another college, then?

What was the occasion?

Reception for the Oxford Concert Orchestra.

Invitation only.

How many in attendance?

About a hundred, according to the master.

Mainly dons and their guests, maybe ten to 15 members of the orchestra.

I've put in for a full list from the office.

Any idea as to cause, Doctor?

No sign of violence or injury.

Can you put a time to it?

Between 9:00 and 3:00 this morning, approximately.

STRANGE: Bash wound up around midnight, 1:00, according to staff.

We can probably assume he wasn't lying dead in the middle of a drinks reception, Sergeant.

People tend to notice that sort of thing.

Just the one shoe?

STRANGE: I've got uniform having a poke about the bushes for the other.

MAX: Well, gentlemen, the post mortem might give us something more, but I've done all I can here for now.

So unless you've any objection, shall we say 2:00?

Doctor.

STRANGE: So, how was the West, then, matey?

All pasties and scrumpy?

I was mostly following in Hardy's footsteps.

Oh, were you?

"There's another fine mess," eh?

I'll, uh, chase up about that guest list.

If you want to track down the orchestra members and have a word, it's probably more up your street than Jim's or mine.

Most likely just putting a name to him.

Be all right with that?

I should think I'll manage.

Oh, thanks for the postcard.

Oh.

I expect you were glad of a bit of sea air after, uh...

The cure.

Your extended leave of absence.

How is the...

I'm cured all right; hand steady, eye clear.

The only pink elephants I'll be encountering are those enumerated by Dr. DeBryn.

Well, that's a weight, I'm sure.

Anyway, I'll see you back at the nick.

♪ ♪ What ho, Mrs. T.!

Water ain't hot yet!

"Her voice was ever soft, gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman."

I say, Mrs. Treadle, whither the orange cremes?

I took them out.

Miss Quincannon likes the goldy foil ones.

I like the goldy foil ones.

You're not orchestra leader.

Speak of the devil!

Well, if you're here, Jack, Hell must be empty.

Morning, gang.

Morning.

Mabs.

What's this?

No orange cremes for the rank and file!

They're the special reserve of La Reine Margeaux, apparently.

Render unto Caesar, duckie.

The urn's not hot yet, Margeaux, so I'm afraid you'll have to wait your turn with the rest of us.

Um, I'll just bring you one across when it's ready, Margs.

It's all right, I'll loiter here with hoi polloi.

So, how'd it go last night at the soirée?

Wouldn't know, old cock, not my cup of Lapsang.

You mean you weren't invited?

I went to the pub.

We were at the White Horse-- I didn't see you.

Ah, I tonked on down to the Turf.

Margeaux and Mabs was there, though, weren't you?

With that ghastly old witch.

Madame Belasco is not a ghastly old witch, Jack.

Stand by your bunks!

(silence falls) (gasp) Ave, Imperator, morituri te salutant.

(instruments tuning) (birds chirping) Uh, we've a vacancy on the Gardener's Tips page, if your fingers have taken a turn towards the chartreuse.

I've not seen you about.

Well, I've not been about.

It's been months-- I thought maybe you'd moved on, but I didn't think you'd go without saying goodbye.

(sighs) Your colleagues have been singularly unforthcoming.

Something hush-hush?

All right, keep your secrets.

So, what's the story here?

Well, I'm not sure there is one yet.

Well, do you have a name for him?

First order of business.

If you fancy a stiffener before the PM, my round, I think.

Ah, thanks, another time.

Passing up the offer of a drink?

Are you sure you're quite well?

Never better.

(chuckles) THURSDAY: Morse?

Well, we didn't have time for much of a talk, sir, but he said he was right, so, uh...

BRIGHT: Good.

Let's hope he's put all his troubles behind him, hm?

There's a musical connection to this body found at the college.

Which should play to his strengths, I'd have thought.

Well, sir, unless there's anything else... As a matter of fact, there is, uh, one thing.

I understand there's a detective superintendency coming up in the next couple of months at Carshall New Town.

I have it on good authority it would be looked on favorably were you to express an interest.

Carshall, sir?

If I've been off my game at all... Good heavens, no, no.

If I might put my cards on the table.

After some thought, I have decided the time is due, perhaps long overdue, for me to retire.

♪ ♪ If possible, I'd like to see my men into safe harbor.

You, Strange, young Morse.

Else I fear I should feel I'd left a job only half done.

Well, uh, I don't know what to say, sir, I...

I'd always thought-- well, hoped-- that after the last few years, we'd see our service out together.

I'm sorry to let you down.

Never, sir, not for a minute.

Obviously, Carshall would probably mean a move.

That's something you'd need to discuss with Mrs. Thursday.

But a superintendency would be the crowning achievement of an exemplary career.

And Morse, sir?

I'm sure you'd like to take him with you, but the appropriate rank for a superintendent's ADC is inspector or above.

Nobody could have done more for him.

They all fledge in the end, Thursday.

Hard as it is, one has to let them go.

Sooner or later, they have to fly alone.

♪ ♪ (orchestra practicing) (exhales): No, no, no, no, no, no.

Come on!

Always the bloody wardrobes-- you.

Yes, you, bass.

You're always late.

Can't you count?

Hm?

They're called triplets-- tri-puh-let, tri-puh-let.

Who the hell are you?

Whoever you are, get out!

We're rehearsing.

Donald, what do I pay you for?

Bar 20.

(resume piece) I'm sorry, if it's an interview you're after, I'm afraid it'll have to... Detective Sergeant Morse, Thames Valley, Mr....?

Fischer, um, Donald Fischer, the orchestra manager.

I understand a number of your principals from the orchestra attended a party at Beaumont College last night.

No one broke anything, did they?

Morning, Donald-- what sort of a mood is he in?

(chuckles): Oh... (yelps) You all right?

Sorry!

Thank you, my apologies.

That was desperately clumsy of me.

Not at all.

LERMONTOV (faintly): Again!

And... Ooh.

(orchestra playing) I'm sorry.

You were saying?

♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ MARGEAUX: We didn't see him, did we, Mabs?

No, no, and it was quite dark.

MARGEAUX: Not dark enough that if we'd seen him, we wouldn't remember him.

You are?

Margeaux Quincannon, orchestra leader.

My colleague, Mabs Portman.

It would appear none of us saw anyone like that, officer.

I know I didn't.

So, can we get back to the rehearsal?

You're sure?

Absolutely sure-- I never forget a face.

In fact, you look familiar.

Have we met?

Well, we've not been formally introduced, but, uh... Well, I sing with the Oxford Scholars' Choral Association.

We were part of Fauré's "Requiem" in '69.

Were you?

Not our finest hour, as I recall.

What was it Shaw said?

"Hell is full of musical amateurs."

Again, please!

Needless to say, I had the last laugh.

(chuckles) All done?

Yes, thank you, Mr.... John Graham-Scott-- Jack.

Viola.

Oh, God, here he comes.

Anal Fischer, the only man in Oxford with a flat up Alex Lermontov's arse.

If you're ready, gentlemen?

CHRISTINA: I'm sorry, Donald, won't be two ticks.

Excuse me!

Yes?

I, I just wanted to say thank you for earlier.

Oh, not at all.

I wondered if I could, if you'd like to attend the concert this evening?

It's the premiere of a new concerto Alex has written-- for me.

As my guest, of course.

Um... Or I've a prize-giving at the Belasco this afternoon.

If you're free.

Look, I feel stupid to even mention it, but I should value the advice of a professional.

Someone familiar with such things.

What things, Miss Poole?

Barring a superficial scratch to the neck, there is no obvious sign of injury, I'm afraid.

Blood analysis might give us something, possibly.

It's unusual in one so young, but it could just be natural causes.

His heart, perhaps?

Oh, stomach contents.

A last supper of alphabet spaghetti, if you want me to spell it out, ingested within an hour of decease.

Unlikely he ate at college, then.

What do you make to this?

Doubtless this will come as a great surprise, but I'm perhaps not as au fait with the vagaries of fashion as my position as an eminent Home Office pathologist might have led you to believe.

My point is that it looks rather new.

Little wear to the sole.

Then he clearly wasn't in our business.

Now, might a pair of heels deserve a glass?

Oh, no, not for me, thanks.

(clears throat) Late for Lent.

New leaf?

Something like that.

♪ ♪ Looked well, I thought, Morse.

Yeah.

I was thinking of asking him.

For, uh... Oh, well, no better man.

What you got today, then?

BRIGHT: Ah, Morse!

Yes, you're back with us as of this morning, of course.

Yes, sir.

Splendid.

Your tour of the West Country proved restorative, I hope?

Yes, sir, thank you.

Yes, well, I'm sure most of us could benefit from a little time away from the usual once in a while.

Well, carry on.

(knocks) Oh, how'd you make out with the orchestra?

Well, nobody claims to know him or have seen him at the college last night.

Oh, busy, maybe.

Or I suppose if he wasn't one of their crowd.

Mm.

I did find an identity bracelet in the soil by the body.

Al-- Alan or Albert, perhaps.

Or Alec?

If it is his.

The one shoe he did have on was from Burridges.

Possibly bought fairly recently, judging by the lack of wear.

I thought I'd pop in.

But we could get a late lunch, if you fancied.

I just got back from the pub with Jim.

I wasn't sure how long you'd be, or whether it was still something you...

I suppose we got into the habit, with you being away.

No, no, no, it's... (chuckles) Oh, actually, there was one more curiosity.

Um, Christina Poole, the guest soloist.

After the concert last night, she found someone had scrawled the word "bitch" on her dressing room mirror.

Connected, do you think?

No, I can't see how it can be, but I did say I'd look into it for her.

She's got some prize-giving over at the Belasco Academy.

It's a music school for gifted children.

I thought I'd go there, then go to Burridges.

(knock at door) Word through from uniform of a body been found.

Sounds like foul play.

(people talking in background) (brakes squeak, engine stops) ♪ ♪ Doctor.

MAX: You're keeping me busy, Chief Inspector.

One more corpse and I shall be able to claim a set of tumblers.

STRANGE: Jesus!

Yes, Sergeant, I rather think that was the general idea.

Only this man's tongue has been torn out and was nailed to the floor.

That what did for him?

Shot twice.

Once through the heart, once through the head.

Be able to give you caliber after the post mortem, but he'd taken a savage beating shortly before his decease.

How long?

12 hours, give or take.

STRANGE: Any identification on him?

No-- I've put his wallet there, but if I'm not much mistaken, he appears to have the telephone number for Castle Gate written on his left cuff.

That's Mickey Flood.

You know him?

Knew him.

Back in the Smoke, my Cable Street days.

Mickey Flood.

Full-time thief, part-time informant.

What's he doing in Oxford?

There's a train ticket in his wallet.

Yesterday's date.

So how'd you know him?

My early days on the beat, before the war.

We were of an age, more or less.

He was in my brother Charlie's year.

Always a wrong 'un.

Whole family were thieves.

Their old man and his old man before him.

Only Mickey's problem was, he was never much good at it.

If it was raining luck, Mickey Flood couldn't get wet to save his life.

Next of kin?

His wife's gone, Lil.

Daughter'd be about Joan's age now, I suppose.

Patty, was it?

You'd better push on to your prize-giving.

Me and Jim can finish up here and take the PM.

I'll see you back at the nick.

MADAME BELASCO: A former pupil here at the Belasco, I am delighted to call upon Christina Poole to present the Bedlow Prize, which she herself won a mere seven years ago.

(applauding) CHRISTINA: Thank you so much, ladies and gentlemen.

Do you get back much?

Only when I'm asked.

But former pupils who'd done well used to come back and talk to us when I was here, you see, and so one really feels one ought.

Oh.

I owe the place everything.

That sounds like something you feel you should say, rather than something you actually believe.

(chuckles): Gosh, you really are a detective, aren't you?

People always imagine coming somewhere like this must be endless fun.

There are a lot of tears after dark.

A lot of unhappiness.

One does feel at times rather like some sort of freak or performing animal.

Hm.

I think children are probably best left to be children.

If you're ready.

We ought to be heading back.

CHRISTINA: One minute.

DONALD: Of course.

So this message on your mirror.

Is that the first you've received?

After a concert, yes.

But I've had one or two pushed under my door.

I'm staying at the Ragdale Hotel.

Also written in lipstick?

No.

Could it be a jealous girlfriend, perhaps?

Jealous?

Of whom?

I'm altogether rather single.

You get letters, of course.

From lonely men.

(car horn honks) Anything too awful I pass on to Donald Fischer.

I better not keep Alex waiting, um...

But thank you for coming, and for taking me seriously.

(violin playing poorly) (elevator bell dings) May I help you, sir?

Yes, I'd like to ask you about these.

Oh, yes, sir, the Sir John.

I'm not sure we have them in your size.

In fact, I think that might be our last pair.

They're not for me.

I'm Detective Sergeant Morse, Thames Valley.

Have you sold any lately in a size eight?

I'd need to check with the stock department.

They came in as part of last year's spring collection.

Right, you don't remember selling any yourself, in the last month, say, to this man?

Oh, God, I don't remember him.

But I usually do a half-day Wednesdays.

So my colleague might've served him.

She's at tea.

I'll call if we find anything.

(siren blaring in distance) Anything further on Mickey Flood?

There's a warrant out on him back in London.

Some kind of protection racket.

That was never Mickey's caper.

He couldn't knock the skin off a rice pudding.

He was a thief, first and last.

How'd you make out at the school?

It's hard to see how these messages can relate to this young man at the college.

It's probably just some bad blood within the orchestra.

She's a guest soloist, an outsider.

Perhaps someone just isn't happy that she's there.

What about Burridges?

Apparently, a saleswoman remembered and said that she had a customer return a pair recently for exchange.

She can't be 100%, but she thinks it could be the same young man.

She's a request out to the accounts department.

It's possible they have his address on file.

Well, if you got this concert to go to, I'll see you in the morning.

Leave Mickey Flood's things on my desk, would you?

♪ ♪ (keys jangling) MAN (on television): Of course, as anyone familiar with the world of classical music will know, there's a great deal of superstition about the ninth symphony of any composer.

Now, with that in mind, might one ask if you are yet thinking about tempting fate with a tenth?

LERMONTOV (on television): By which I assume you're referring to the "Curse of the Ninth," so-called, which says that composers must die before they complete their tenth symphony.

As with most things, it was Beethoven who started the legend.

He died after writing his ninth.

As did Bruckner, Dvorák.

(knock at door) DONALD: Five minutes, sir.

Sir?

Five minutes.

Yes!

Yes, I heard.

(on television): That's debatable.

If I remember, it was Schoenberg who said, "It seems the Ninth is a limit.

"He who wants to go beyond it must pass away.

"It seems as if something might be imparted to us in the tenth "which we ought not yet to know.

"For which we are not ready.

"Those who have written a ninth stood too close to the hereafter."

(instruments tuning) Margeaux, what the hell are you doing?

You should be on stage.

Don't bloody tell me.

Tell principal second violin.

Lindsay forgot her peg dope-- I've got some spare in my case.

♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ BRIGHT: An informant, you say?

Presumably, that's what the tongue business is about-- when'd you see him last?

Must be the best part of 25 years since.

Why come all this way?

What couldn't he tell you over the phone from London?

Maybe he wanted to arrange a face to face.

Why not just come straight to the station?

Far enough off his home ground for him not to be recognized.

Villains like Mickey'd sooner be caught dead than set foot inside a nick.

Well, he's dead, all right.

I don't like it, Thursday.

Gang business.

London business, here in Oxford.

Never ends well.

(orchestra plays loud chord) (begins solo) (orchestra plays loud chord) (timpani rumbling) (violin solo resumes) (piece continues) (panting softly) (Margeaux grunts) MABS: Margs?

Is she okay?

Margeaux!

Margs!

Margs!

LERMONTOV: I think she just fainted.

Donald!

MABS: What's wrong with her?

Ma... Do... Ladies and gentlemen, is there a doctor in the house?

MAX: Here!

Up here!

(audience murmuring) Yes, please, soon as you can.

MABS: I don't know what, I don't think she's breathing.

Donald, do something!

Do some... DONALD: Should we get her off the stage?

MAX: Don't move her!

Don't move her!

MABS: Please, do something.

MAX: It's all right.

MAX: Make some space, it's all right.

(murmuring) ♪ ♪ Morse.

Any idea what happened to her?

Too early to say.

According to her colleagues, at least those I spoke to, she was in otherwise good health.

Some kind of fit, or stroke, perhaps, or a heart attack.

Anything back yet from the blood you sent for analysis for the young man found dead at Beaumont College?

Give the lab a chance.

I only sent them off this afternoon.

Since then I've rather had my hands full with this crucifixion.

But I did stress it was a matter of some urgency.

Shall we say 9:00?

LERMONTOV: I think we'll all mourn Margeaux in our own way.

But it will take some time to come to terms with the scale of our loss.

We've each of us lost a friend, and the orchestra has lost a fine leader.

(softly): Bloody hypocrite.

LERMONTOV: In light of this tragedy, I've instructed Donald that we'll begin rehearsals an hour later than scheduled tomorrow.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to speak to the rest of the orchestra.

(talking softly in background) We'll need a next of kin, Mr. Fischer.

Of course, she's, um, parents in Cumbria, I believe, quite elderly.

Oh, so she was unmarried, then?

Uh, no, she wasn't married.

No boyfriend, or...

Uh, far as I know.

She lived alone.

How long had she been with the orchestra?

Ten years.

Was she well-liked?

MABS (tearfully): Well-liked?

Well-liked?

What kind of a question is that?

(sobbing): She just died in front of all of us!

Margeaux was lovely, she was just lovely.

Yes, of course, she was, Mabs.

They were at the Belasco together.

My condolences.

Come on, Mabs.

Let's go get you a drink, hm?

Would these be hers?

Uh, yes, I believe so.

You're taking her things?

Well, there's been a sudden unexplained death, Mr. Fischer.

There are certain procedures that we have to follow.

WIN: Carshall?

Well, it'd mean a bit more to the pension.

And it's not as if that wouldn't be welcome when I do turn in my tin star.

(sighs): We're here, though.

We've made a home.

You have, you mean.

Home is wherever you are.

(exhales): You won't get round me with soft soap.

I'm not trying to get round you.

I can't think of all this right now.

Not when everything's in the air with Sam.

Let's get this week out of the way.

And we've Joan to think of.

Joanie'll be all right.

You sound like you've already made up your mind.

No.

You'd have to be all right with it-- I wouldn't do anything without your say-so.

And what about Morse?

You've always had a lot of time for him.

What'll happen to him if you go?

Ah, there's nothing more I can teach him.

All right, is he?

After his trouble?

Yeah.

Well...

I think so, seems to be.

Hm.

(knock at door) (door opens) (voice trembling): It's too awful.

I've just been sitting here.

I can't believe she's gone!

She'd been so lovely.

You've had a visitor.

Oh, yes, that.

It was here when I got back after...

Seems very trivial against what's happened.

Were you close, you and Miss Quincannon?

I don't know about close.

As a guest soloist, you're always living in someone else's house.

But she'd been very welcoming.

I've got a table booked at the tratt.

I'm not sure I'm terribly hungry.

You have to eat-- doesn't she?

She has to eat.

MORSE: You'll call me through with a telephone and address for Miss Quincannon's parents?

Of course, first thing.

(sighs): Thank you.

Not at all.

♪ ♪ (keys clatter) (gasps) I told the maid I'd mislaid my key.

I looked for you.

After the performance.

Such as it was.

Donald took me to a late supper.

(mutters): Donald.

Must I remind you, the lives of such as we are defined by sacrifice.

What does that mean?

Are you really going to squander your time and talent on some foolish infatuation?

It's not like that.

After all the work, all I've poured into creating a great artist.

What about what I've poured in?

From a child.

Other girls had friends, parties-- fun.

I had a rehearsal room.

You were special.

(shouts): I didn't ask to be!

(calmly): I didn't ask to be.

What is it you want, Al?

I want things to be the way they were.

You listened to me once.

We can put things back together, just like new.

We'll go to the villa at Mongie for the summer.

There's so much more I have to teach you, Chrissie.

To give you.

I know.

And I am grateful.

But I'm also desperately tired.

It's a terrible thing.

About Margeaux.

Of course, my dear, of course.

Well... Good night.

(door opens) THURSDAY: Look, two or three years at Carshall to see us into my pension, then we can go where you like, can't we?

Either where Joanie is by then, or we've always talked about the coast.

Selsey Bill, Bracklesham Bay.

(doorbell rings) Isle of Wight, even-- Shanklin.

We had a lovely time at the Wavecrest that week.

(door opens) Morse!

Well!

You do look a sight for sore eyes.

(chuckles) WIN: And make no mistake!

Much in?

Uh, we've a post mortem with Dr. DeBryn.

Well, I don't want to hear about innards before 8:00.

I'm sure-- I'll fetch your sandwiches.

The principal violinist at the Oxford Concert Orchestra died during last night's performance.

I know it's not suspicious at first hand, but I thought given that death at Beaumont after their reception...

Here you are.

Come home safe.

Morse.

Mrs. Thursday.

(door opens and closes) (playing high-pitched notes) (piece continues) (playing solo over loud accompaniment) Right, Miss Quincannon.

Essentially, Miss Quincannon died of cardiovascular collapse brought on by respiratory arrest.

Natural causes, then?

After a fashion.

There were signs of pulmonary edema, which by itself might suggest heart disease.

But there was also laryngeal edema, which, since there's no laryngeal injury, brings anaphylaxis into play.

A severe allergic reaction.

(inhales) To what?

Something she ate?

Possibly.

I've sent her stomach contents off for analysis and have put a call in to her GP, but sometimes just coming into contact with the allergen can be enough to trigger a fatal response.

Those prone to that kind of thing usually carry some sort of antihistamine, don't they?

Oh, yes.

In extreme cases, if people are particularly susceptible, they're liable to carry adrenalin.

Hm.

Anything like that in her handbag?

No.

Would Miss Quincannon have understood what was happening to her?

If she'd had a severe reaction before, I'd imagine so, yes.

Then why didn't she do something about it?

Well, perhaps she wanted to complete the performance and just misjudged the severity of the attack.

Until it was too late.

(birds chirping) (brake engages, engine stops) (keys jangle) Found these in the bathroom cabinet.

Syringe and what looks to be adrenaline.

Presumably in case she has an attack.

Anything?

Oh, a few school pictures.

Certificates, diplomas, and the like.

Is there much money in it?

Orchestra leader's the highest-paid member, but she was never going to die rich.

I imagine she did a bit of teaching.

What's this?

Oh, rosin-- string players use it.

(sniffs) This might be something.

She was writing a letter, or at least drafting one.

♪ ♪ "If you think you're going to put me aside, "you've got another think coming.

"I won't go quietly.

"I'll make such a scene, you won't be able to show your face again."

Hm, everyone I spoke to in the orchestra said that she was single.

Maybe they don't know anything about her private life.

It's interesting.

The shade of lipstick that Miss Quincannon wore is a very close match to that left on Christina Poole's mirror.

That might explain the letter.

If she thought she'd been supplanted in someone's affections by Miss Poole.

Hell hath no fury.

DONALD: Poor Margeaux had a seizure, didn't she?

It was natural causes.

MORSE: That's what we're here to establish, Mr. Fischer.

You got on well with Miss Quincannon, would you say?

LINDSAY: For my part.

Margeaux had her ways.

She could be a bit grim if she didn't take to you, but I'm just rank and file, and far too young to have ever been a threat to her.

What kind of a threat, Miss Trench?

LINDSAY: To her position.

It was something she guarded very jealously.

And quite right, too.

There was a lot of resentment in the boys' club.

And who'll take her place now?

Well, ordinarily, one might expect the co-leader to step in, but... Mabs can't face it.

She's ruled herself out.

They were close, I understand.

LINDSAY: Two peas in a pod.

What about Miss Quincannon's private life?

Can you help us with anything in that regard?

I don't know if there's anything in it, but there's always been talk that she and Alex had some sort of, well, I don't know.

Something.

But it wasn't something we discussed.

If anyone knows the ins and outs, it's Mabs.

Here.

(voice breaking): Thank you.

I just cannot believe that she's gone.

We've shared a desk for as long as I can remember.

Sergeant Morse tells me that you and Miss Quincannon studied music together when you were young.

At the Belasco, yes.

Can you recall any serious allergic reaction she had to anything then?

(sniffles): Uh, well, there were some things that Margeaux didn't eat, but uh, I always just put that down to her being faddy.

Such as?

Uh, in the summer, she avoided strawberries.

Was there anyone she was involved with that you know of?

No, not recently, at least.

There was the odd chap here and there.

When you're constantly traveling the world, it asks a lot of people to make something last.

It's been suggested that perhaps she and Sir Alexander were involved.

(stammers softly) Alex was very good to Margeaux when she was younger.

He, he took her under his wing.

But the idea that there was ever anything seriously between them, no, she would've said.

(inhales) Let's just say she relished her position as orchestra leader a little too much for my taste.

We enjoyed a healthy mutual dislike.

I'm sure I wasn't alone in that.

If there's something you're trying to say... What's to say?

You've spoken to our young Donald, I see.

Yes.

Well, he wouldn't be the first orchestra manager to lose his head over a visiting soloist.

Still.

As Margeaux proved, there's always been more than one way to get to Carnegie Hall.

Hm?

Was there ever anything between you that went beyond the professional?

(stammering): What, me and Margeaux?

It's been suggested.

By whom?

(inhales sharply) Margeaux was a promising young violinist.

I did what I could to help her develop her talent.

One can see how a young girl might take all that interest and attention from a famous and powerful man and mistake it for something else.

If it was mistaken.

Look.

Whatever mad ideas Margeaux entertained, then or now, there was never anything more between us than would be right and proper between mentor and pupil.

What mad ideas are these?

That you and Miss Poole were carrying on?

LERMONTOV (laughs): Oh, God.

Well, Margeaux may have thought it.

But my relationship with Christina is on an altogether higher plane.

Is it?

If it's beyond a policeman to understand, let me put it this way.

As a composer, I view Christina as my instrument.

An extension of my physical and spiritual self.

I express my innermost being through her playing.

Well.

I'm sure knowing that must've been a great comfort to Miss Quincannon.

She was very particular about her biscuits.

I had to pick them out for her.

She wouldn't have anything that was just loose in the box.

Oh, thank you.

Do they use this space a lot, the orchestra?

When they're not abroad touring.

(chuckles) (chuckles): Rest of the time, it's all sorts.

We had the Young Generation in last week, with that Mimi, is it?

Oh, yeah.

Oh, and next month, we've got him off Jolliphant coming in for a play at the Empire.

They a decent bunch?

These?

Hm.

Meh.

(softly): As long as there's hot water for the tea and coffee.

(chuckles) Sorry to interrupt, Mrs. T. I just wanted to ask the officer something.

MRS. TREADLE: Oh!

Don't mind me, I'm sure.

MORSE: Thank you, Mrs. Treadle.

I just wondered if there was any news about my well-wisher.

Ah, I'm working on it, but try not to worry.

These things very rarely escalate.

Are you sure there's nobody in the orchestra that you might've upset?

No one.

At least not intentionally, I'm sure.

What about Miss Quincannon?

She'd been lovely, so supportive.

You don't think she...

It's just an avenue of inquiry.

Well, at least we've a pretty decent idea of who's been leaving those messages for Miss Poole.

If Quincannon thought Lermontov had thrown her over for his latest protégée... That's if the draft letters was meant for him.

Yeah, but I wouldn't put it past his type to have still been knocking her off on the QT as and when.

They all seemed to know that she had some kind of allergy, even if they couldn't agree on what it was.

Odd there was nothing amongst her effects to counter an attack.

Perhaps there was, and somebody removed it.

On the other hand, we could be chasing our own tails and looking for something that's not there.

What, an accident?

It's possible, isn't it?

Hm.

She comes into contact with something that sets off an attack by quite innocent means.

Unless we find a solid motive, I'd say we're looking at death by misadventure.

At least that's how the coroner will see it.

♪ ♪ STRANGE: Let me call you back.

Aye-aye, matey, Burridges have been in touch.

Something to do with shoes, could it be?

Oh, right, thanks.

And Doc DeBryn called.

Blood results came in on the body at Beaumont.

Heroin and barbiturate.

A "hot shot," he called it.

How'd he miss that?

STRANGE: No obvious track marks on the arms, so he'd no reason to believe he was looking at an addict.

Turns out the injection site was between his toes on the right foot.

Couldn't say whether it was self-administered, but I shouldn't think it's likely, would you?

Hello again.

I understand you spoke to one of my colleagues, Detective Sergeant Strange, about a pair of shoes that were recorded in the exchange book.

Oh, yes, sir.

Young Mr. Burridge has had the big book set aside for you.

Ah.

If you'd like to follow me.

♪ ♪ No sign of any drugs paraphernalia.

If this Thompson is our man.

Oh, it's him, all right-- alphabet spaghetti.

His last meal, according to Dr. DeBryn.

This probably answers whether he injected himself or not.

Can't see him going out wearing only one shoe.

Mm.

You ever heard of Ace Private Inquiries, Headington?

Don't ring a bell, why?

♪ ♪ MAN: Yeah, come in.

Come on through, I won't be a minute.

(toilet flushing) Right.

Sorry to have... Ronnie.

♪ ♪ THURSDAY: I thought you'd left Oxford.

As you can see.

So, to what do I owe?

To whom-- Edward Thompson, client of yours.

Or at least somebody you've interviewed.

Doesn't ring a bell.

He had one of your cards.

Address in Ford Road, Cowley-- boarding house.

You know how the private game works, fellas.

If he was a client, why would I tell you?

Because he's dead.

I can see that.

Somebody gave him a hot shot and dumped his body in the gardens of Beaumont College.

What did he want?

He, uh, he came to me for help finding a missing person.

His mother, Brenda.

Left home in '62 after a fallout with her old man.

Came down south.

From where?

Northeast.

What made him think she'd come here, to Oxford?

BOX: Brenda used to send a letter every so often.

Then the letters stopped.

Who's Eileen Wright?

Friend of the family-- dead now.

The father didn't want Brenda writing home, so the letters came to Eileen-- that was the last.

Get anywhere with it?

Some.

Drink?

I usually nibble a couple round this time in the afternoon.

Yeah, why not?

No, not for me, thanks.

Why, what's up?

Copped a dose?

(exhales) She used to do a bit of temping here and there.

Richardson's in Cowley.

A spell at British Imperial Electric, in the offices.

And the last I've got for her is in the September of '63.

She's at Landesman Construction.

Built Divisional HQ, didn't they?

Did he or his mother have any connection to the Oxford Concert Orchestra, do you know?

If they did, it never got mentioned to me.

So... How's it back at the factory?

Old Brighty still in charge?

Yeah, Mr.

Bright's still there.

(chuckles) They'll carry that one out feet first.

We never much cared for each other, but I, uh...

I've never wished what happened on him.

I expect there's a lot of things we wish had gone differently.

But they went how they went.

Look, I wasn't being cagey earlier.

It's just, when he came to me, the boy didn't call himself... What was it?

Edward Thompson.

No, see, it was Andy, he said his name was.

Andrew.

Andrew Thompson?

No, Lewis-- Andrew Lewis.

THURSDAY: A.L., then.

Same as the identity bracelet you found at Beaumont.

Mm, maybe Box turned up more than he realized.

Turned up a hornets' nest, you mean.

Someone gets wind the boy's digging through what happened to his mother and decided to put a stop to it.

Assuming something did happen to her.

What if she just met someone new?

Wanted to put her previous life behind her?

Landesman.

Well, everyone's got to work somewhere, I suppose.

She temped at British Imperial Electric, too.

Mm, but Landesman Construction was her last known employer before the postcards stopped.

Hard to see how her disappearance in '63 and the death of her son ties in with Miss Quincannon.

What if it doesn't?

What if we're trying to put together two things that don't fit?

Might be an idea if we split our labors.

You push on with Miss Quincannon, I'll try and track down anyone who worked Landesman at the same time Brenda Lewis was there.

What about Mickey Flood?

I'm waiting to hear back on a reverse trace.

We'd a call at home early evening the night he died, but when I picked up the receiver, there was no one there.

What, do you think it was him?

He'd my number written in a matchbook.

Maybe he thought I could do something for him about this outstanding warrant.

Why would you?

Unless he had something to trade.

♪ ♪ (bells ringing slowly) (door clangs open) You didn't have to come.

I could've made my own way.

I just wanted to make sure you got back safe.

All right, are you?

Can we stop somewhere?

You can't expect me to see her straight, not right out of there.

You must know some place.

Copper, aren't you?

(door closes) A career in music asks a lot of a young person.

Hours of practice.

Dedication.

Not everyone has the temperament.

She was in the same year as Mabs Portman, I believe.

Mabs.

Oh, Mabel-- the year above.

Were they close?

Not particularly.

12 months at that age can seem like a lifetime.

But later, when Mabel switched from the viola to the violin, they had a lot more in common.

Was there anybody, while she was here, that she was friendly with?

I'm trying to find someone I can talk to about her later life.

Margeaux's best friend was Rose Garland.

Enormously gifted.

She would have gone on to great things.

What happened to her?

A swimming accident, here in the lake.

It took a great toll on Margeaux.

Guilt is a terrible thing.

What did she have to feel guilty about?

Being alive.

Take it easy, son, you've got all day.

I wasn't coming home this morning.

Where were you gonna go?

Anywhere.

Somewhere away from everything.

Nobody's expecting you to carry on living at home, a grown man.

But you've gotta have somewhere to lay your head, at least until you get a place of your own.

Your mum's been worried sick.

What she does best.

You're everything to her.

To all of us, but...

Especially to your mother.

You could've sent her a line.

To say what?

Sorry that I flunked it?

That I (muted) my pants and ran away?

That I'm a coward?

You're not a coward.

Don't say that.

You weren't any of those things.

You were just... (exhales) Not well.

Is that what you told the neighbors?

You weren't yourself, that's what I meant.

A mate killed, standing right next to you, that would affect anyone.

If it's any consolation, I know what you've been through.

No.

You don't.

You don't have the first idea, so stop saying that.

It's not all "Roll Out the Barrel" and "Lili Marlene" anymore.

I know that.

Do you?

The other side, they don't wear a uniform.

It's the bloke stood next to you at the bar.

The girl you get off with at the dance.

A kid on a street corner.

Do you want that?

♪ ♪ (door opening) (gasps) Oh, come here, come here.

Hello, Mum.

(kisses) Oh... Come on, don't fuss.

Don't fuss?

I've been back and forth to the window that many times, I must've worn a rut in the carpet.

(chuckles) What kept you?

Traffic bad?

Uh, no.

We went for a drink.

Don't spoil your appetite.

I'm doing a roast later, I've got a nice piece of beef.

I'm not hungry later, though, am I?

(rifling through refrigerator) (door closes) BRIGHT: Landesman?

The company was sold or went broke, didn't it, after Blenheim Vale?

No one's seen hide nor hair of Joe Landesman in six years.

I know, sir, the one that got away.

There's talk from Interpol he went abroad.

Spain, Portugal.

The company had property there.

Holiday hotels, I think.

Well, you're not suggesting he's anything to do with this man found dead at Beaumont.

It's just a coincidence his mother happened to work for Landesman's firm, isn't it?

Blenheim Vale is done with, long since.

♪ ♪ NICHOLAS: We weren't bad lads, not really.

Somehow we all ended up at Blenheim Vale.

Things happened there-- awful, terrible things.

JAKES: They wanted a name for whoever'd burnt out Wintergreen's car.

(crying): I tried not to.

NICHOLAS: One weekend, Big Pete went off.

He never came back.

You think Peter Williams was buried here?

NICHOLAS: He's here.

Somewhere.

THURSDAY: I was born a copper.

And I'll die one, I expect.

(gun fires) ♪ ♪ BRIGHT: All went well with your son?

I think so, sir.

Uh, yes, thank you.

You must be very glad to have him home.

(knocking) Come in.

Sorry to interrupt, sir, but I thought you'd want to know.

It's nuts, apparently, she was allergic to.

I just got off the phone with Dr. DeBryn about Miss Quincannon.

He spoke to her GP.

All right, carry on, Sergeant.

The death at the concert, sir.

Ah, just so.

Anything further on Mickey Flood?

Division were asking.

It's early days, sir, but I've put out a couple of feelers with some old colleagues in London.

Well, whatever's behind it, we don't want that kind of business here.

Get to the bottom of it, Thursday, fast.

And stamp it out.

(keys jangling) (lock turning) ♪ ♪ (papers rustling) ♪ ♪ And that's the phone box by the railway under the bridge, right?

Well, uh, then get a forensics team out there to see what's what.

Yeah.

(replaces receiver) I found these at Margeaux Quincannon's place, amongst her sheet music.

Hotel bills.

Meaning?

Meaning, I don't think the letter we found there yesterday was intended for Alexander Lermontov.

(knocking) Give me a minute.

So, what can I do for you?

I wonder if you can tell us why Miss Quincannon had your bill from the Englischer Hof in her home.

My hotel bill?

Mm-hmm.

No idea.

Really?

Only we spoke to the manager, and he remembers you both quite clearly.

Because much like your current billet, rooms 352 and 354 had a connecting door.

Miss Quincannon insisted upon it, apparently.

All right.

So, we had a scene, so what?

Right.

What goes on tour, you know?

I don't see what that has to do with the police.

Miss Quincannon thought your interest had moved on.

She was jealous of the situation.

That would be our interest.

Look, I made it clear to Margeaux at the start, I'm a free agent, yeah.

It was just... No strings?

Did she threaten to make your relationship more widely known amongst the orchestra?

(exhales) Yes.

But so what?

It's not like either of us were married.

I can't see that would've gone over well with Lermontov if Miss Quincannon had told him you'd set your sights on his latest protégée.

We've just looked at the register, Mr. Brathwaite.

Or perhaps you weren't aware that that connecting door joins to Miss Poole's room.

In fact, shall we knock, see if she's in?

Look.

If anyone was wise to Margeaux's little games, it's Alex Lermontov, and I told her so.

I called her bluff, she didn't like it, so instead, she made a big number about leaving the Oxford Concert Orchestra for the Munich Symphony.

She serious?

(laughs) Of course not, that's just how she was.

Margeaux liked to throw threats about.

I heard her laying the same number on Donald, on the night she died.

Donald Fischer, why?

How's that?

Just as we were about to go on, I popped a collar stud, so I had to hurry back to the green room for a replacement.

They didn't see me, but I overheard them.

You're damn right we need to talk.

I could finish you, and don't you forget it.

♪ ♪ What'd she threaten him with?

I can't be sure.

But when we were together, she told me she thought he might be running some sort of...

I don't know, some sort of racket.

What kind of racket?

Something to do with when the orchestra was touring.

To be honest, I didn't ask too many questions.

She was always spitting poison about someone or other.

You want the full gen, talk to Mabs.

Miss Portman?

Of course.

Margeaux wouldn't belch without Mabs saying pardon.

MABS: Margeaux did go backstage, yeah.

Just as we were about to go on.

Well, why was that?

MABS: Thank you.

Um... Lindsay's A string was playing up, and she didn't have any peg dope, so Margs went to dig some out of her case.

But whatever Fergus may have heard, I, I'm sure it was just a misunderstanding.

Of what, Miss Portman?

(exhales) Margeaux had this idea that what the orchestra was really being charged for travel and accommodation while on tour was less than the amount that Donald was billing for.

And he was pocketing the difference?

Yes, I, I can't believe he would ever do anything like that.

Donald is a wonderful orchestra manager.

But... (exhales): Well, Margeaux would get these notions.

And once she had an idea, it was hard to shift.

(door closes) I refute the allegations entirely.

Well, Mr. Fischer, at the risk of sounding like Miss Rice-Davies, you would say that, wouldn't you?

(exhales): Margeaux never understood that balancing the books sometimes requires a little creativity.

We prefer the word "fraud."

If, if I have to rob Peter to pay Paul, people keep their jobs.

Very commendable, I'm sure.

(exhales): The, the earners, the, the foreign tours, that's what pays us to bring "L'Après-Midi d'un Faune" to a half-empty theater on a wet Tuesday night in Nantwich.

And that is important, because that one concert might mean everything to someone!

I know it did to me.

And if someone like Margeaux Quincannon stood in the way of that... (stammering): Margeaux wasn't a threat to me.

I had her number.

Look, the truth of it is, I was just about to give her notice.

MORSE: For what reason?

DONALD: I didn't think anything when I saw her coming out.

♪ ♪ (door closes) ♪ ♪ DONALD: One can't really have the orchestra leader sending hate mail to the guest soloist.

We'd an idea as much.

Did you talk to her about it?

I would've done once I got this week's concerts out of the way.

As it turned out... ♪ ♪ MORSE: "Coroner Albert Lyons recorded an open verdict "in the case of Rose Garland, 14, "who drowned in early summer in a lake "at the Belasco Academy, situate Banbury.

"Various witnesses gave testimony that "despite being a promising student, "Miss Garland was a highly strung girl "who lived on her nerves.

"Her guardian, Mr. Harry Treadle, "said his ward, a scholarship girl, "had never been fully accepted by her peers "and had been subjected to slights "and insults which left her feeling demoralized.

♪ ♪ "This view of the school was roundly rejected "by Madame Belasco, principal of the academy, "and the coroner concluded "there was insufficient evidence to support "Mr. Treadle's assertion.

♪ ♪ (kids laughing, audio distorted) ♪ ♪ MORSE: "Though no note had been found... (breath trembling) MORSE: "...the coroner could not rule out suicide... (crying softly) ♪ ♪ (footsteps approaching) MORSE: ...and was therefore obliged to record an open verdict."

♪ ♪ (car door closes) (phone box door closes) ♪ ♪ (television running in background) MORSE: So you adopted Rose Garland?

Evacuee, she was.

I can still see her standing in the church hall.

Luggage label threaded through her buttonhole with her name on.

(both chuckle) Uh, she was just about as big as the violin case she was holding.

(both chuckling) How was it you came to be her guardians?

Her mother and her grandparents both caught it in the Blitz, and her dad in the Far East.

Huh.

She'd no other family to speak of, so we took her on.

But you didn't formally adopt her.

No.

She called us Ma and Pops, but she had a right to her own name.

The war had taken everything else she had.

We weren't gonna take that away from her, too.

Rose had been close with Margeaux Quincannon while she was at the Belasco, is that right?

Devoted, they were.

Was why I looked after her when I ran into her again here.

She was one of the nice ones.

We'd no idea Rosie was unhappy.

She never said.

Years after, I found one of the messages in the pocket of her blazer.

They told her to kill herself.

Too late to matter, then.

But Madame must've known.

To turn a blind eye... You wouldn't happen to have kept that message, by any chance?

Oh, yes.

I kept everything, good and bad.

All her certificates.

You don't forget.

Broke Harry's heart.

(engine revving) (tires skid) (horn honking) Hello, Sam.

Morse!

Sorry, I didn't see you.

Um, I'm looking for Joan's.

Has she moved?

Jump in.

(door unlocking) Joanie.

Sam!

Mm, come here.

(exhales) You all right?

Mm.

Need to pee.

Okay, uh, down the hall on the right.

(exhales) He said he wanted to come round.

I wasn't sure whether to take him to your parents.

Uh, how is he?

Oh, nothing that a good night's sleep won't sort out.

Says he's left the Army.

Yeah.

Hm.

And, um, you're all right, are you?

Oh, yes.

You've been away.

Ah, yeah.

But you're back.

(chuckles): For now.

(chuckles) Well, I-- oh, um...

I had some business at Burridges.

I saw that you'd returned some, um, some bridal gloves.

Have you got a wedding to go to?

Bridesmaid?

Well, if you need an escort... Morse... ♪ ♪ (exhales) Oh.

Well, congratulations.

Thank you.

Uh, who's the lucky man?

Aye-aye.

One in, one out.

Thought you'd knocked off.

I hear congratulations are in order.

You and Miss Thursday.

Oh, yeah.

Thanks very much.

Joanie mentioned, did she?

Yes.

Keep it under your hat for the minute, though, eh?

With the Old Man and everything.

Same nick and all that.

Wouldn't want to leave him open to accusations of anything.

Of course, Heaven forbid.

I'll be needing a best man, though, matey.

Hoping I can rely on you.

Me?

Who else?

We've been up against it together more times than I can count.

And come through.

You're the best man any fella could have.

And I know you'd never let me down.

Just get me to the church on time, eh?

♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ Thank you.

BARTENDER: Thanks.

What can I get you, sir?

Pint of Morrell's, please.

(coins jangling) ♪ ♪ (breathes deeply) (sniffs) (coughs softly) ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ (door opens) Ooh!

Someone's up and at 'em.

That's all very mafioso, isn't it?

What've you got in there, a tommy gun?

If I'm right, something just as deadly.

I need you to run some tests for me.

STRANGE: Rosin?

MORSE: Mm-hmm.

STRANGE: What's rosin when it's at home?

BRIGHT: Something to do with musicians, isn't it?

Yes, sir.

It's solidified tree sap, generally from conifers.

String players apply it to their bows.

STRANGE: Why?

Well, so that it catches on the strings and makes a sound.

Without it, the instrument wouldn't make any noise at all.

And what's that to do with Miss Quincannon's death?

It's how she was killed, sir.

She was allergic to it, is that what you're saying?

Something she used all the time?

No, no, she was allergic to what somebody's put in it.

I think the killer melted down the top of the stick sufficiently to then add a top layer of the same, only this time containing ground nuts.

Then, at some point, substituted the toxic stick for Miss Quincannon's own.

Miss Quincannon would've applied the rosin containing microscopic particles of nut to her bow before the concert that evening.

♪ ♪ (gasping) (people murmuring) Dr. DeBryn has examined the violin and the stick of rosin that was found in Miss Quincannon's case.

And?

And the dust on the body of the violin has tested positive for nut particles.

But the stick of rosin itself is clear.

So someone swapped it back?

Mm.

Presumably in the aftermath.

Everyone overwhelmed with shock and grief, nobody would notice what would be the action of a moment.

But if that's the how, I'm assuming you've a good idea of the who.

Yes, sir.

Um, I think some people find out far too soon that life will divide us into winners and everyone else.

♪ ♪ For those destined always to walk a pace behind.

To never have their moment in the sun.

(audience applauding) ♪ ♪ And no urge stronger than the wish to be revenged upon the cause of one's suffering.

MABS (faintly): Yes, Madame will be so proud.

♪ ♪ MORSE: Thus a cruel and spiteful campaign, which led to tragic consequences a quarter of a century ago... ♪ ♪ ...was destined to repeat itself in the present.

Quincannon drove the Garland girl to kill herself, I get that.

Mm-hmm, mm-hmm.

But who killed Quincannon?

Well, I think it's one of the uglier aspects of human nature, but even the least amongst us needs someone to look down on.

It's a terrible thing to be disregarded.

Destined to never be more than, at best, rank and file.

To always be second choice.

Second-best.

Second fiddle.

Build, build... (orchestra playing crescendo) (violin solo playing) (orchestra resumes accompaniment) (loud chord plays) (chord fading) (playing crescendo) (playing individual chords) MORSE: Excuse me, sorry.

(orchestra stops) Miss Portman.

I believe you know why we're here.

If you'd like to come with me, please.

What's going on?

You can leave the violin.

Sorry to disturb.

MABS: Men say, don't they, about pairs of women they see out together, in a bar or club or something, "There's the one."

The, the golden girl, with the looks and the personality.

And there's the other one.

The friend.

I was always the friend.

At least where Margs was concerned.

And I didn't mind that.

Truth is, I thought the world of Margeaux.

A year older than me, she was my heroine.

And I would have done anything for her.

And you did.

(Rose crying softly) THURSDAY: You helped cover up what she did that drove Rose Garland to kill herself.

It was you that helped Margeaux convince the coroner that Rose Garland was unstable.

Why?

So she'd notice me.

I needed someone to notice me.

(inhales deeply): So that I knew I existed.

And she did notice me.

We, we became inseparable.

And what you covered up bound you to each other for life.

So that every time she looked at you, she was reminded of what she'd done, reminded of her guilt and shame.

And as the years went by, it just got worse, the, the digs.

The sly knife.

(inhales sharply) She couldn't forgive me, but she couldn't let me go.

But she recently put it about that she'd be leaving the orchestra and maybe going to Munich.

You could finally have stepped out of her shadow.

That was the breaking point for me-- I stood everything else, but that... (inhales) And even now I'm not sure she didn't do the whole thing just to get at me.

You know, to build up my hopes only to smash them to pieces.

We couldn't both go on living like that.

I couldn't face another day with her.

Not like that.

(sighs) It was her or me.

Except what you covered up wasn't just Margeaux's culpability in the death of Rose Garland, but your own.

No, that's Margeaux's handwriting.

Perhaps.

Or a decent approximation of it.

With the exception of how the Is are dotted.

But that's the alto clef.

Unique to the viola.

Your original instrument, before swapping to the violin.

So, you weren't just a concerned friend that covered up for Margeaux.

You were an active participant.

In fact, you went much further than her campaign of petty and vindictive name-calling.

You told Rose Garland to kill herself.

And she took you at your word.

So now you've two deaths on your conscience.

One we can charge you with now and the other which I'm sure will haunt you for the rest of your days.

(crying): I didn't mean it.

I didn't mean it, not like that.

I... (gasping): I was a child.

I was a lonely little girl.

(sobs): I just wanted a friend.

Presumably she removed the syringe from Miss Quincannon's handbag.

That'd be my reading of it, sir.

Killed her in front of over 700 witnesses.

Sat right next to her the whole time.

And this other business, the body at Beaumont College.

Andrew Lewis.

Inquiries are ongoing.

Landesman, though?

Blenheim Vale.

I'd hoped we'd seen the last of that.

Bad business, Thursday.

(lighter clicks) Bad business all round.

♪ ♪ Strange said you'd be in here.

They said the, the odd beer, the odd shot, does no harm.

Did they?

Mm.

"Everything in moderation," they said.

Well... (clicks tongue) I'm sure you know best.

(inhales): You spoke to Miss Poole?

Oh, yes, uh, and Sir Alexander.

I'll type up my notes in the morning.

Anything on Mickey Flood?

I'm waiting to hear back from my old oppo at Cable Street.

'Cause I was thinking, if he did come to Oxford in order to trade you information in exchange for getting him off this protection racket charge, then clearly whatever he had was big enough to get him killed.

So, why not sell it to some London hat?

Why you?

I wondered.

Well...

I'm sure we'll get to the bottom of it.

One way or another.

Usual?

No, uh...

I won't, if it's all the same.

I...

I'm gonna push off.

Get back to Win and Sam, and Joan's coming around for something to eat.

Is she?

Well, that'll be nice.

Congratulations, by the way.

Hm?

Not so much losing a detective sergeant but, uh, gaining a son-in-law.

Ah, Jim mentioned, did he?

No... Oh, Joanie, then.

Yeah, I thought it best if it came from them.

Be honest, it'd half slipped my mind, with Sam coming home.

I'm sure they'll be very happy.

Let's hope so.

Well, that's what it's all about, isn't it?

So they tell me.

Tomorrow, then.

Yeah.

Same again.

Yeah.

Mind how you go.

It's good to have you back.

Home.

(claps shoulder) Good to have you back.

♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ (click) ♪ ♪ I'm Detective Sergeant Morse, Thames Valley.

You think something bad has happened?

So, you and Jim Strange.

It is love, then?

THURSDAY: What d'you think you're gonna find?

We did our bit, and then some!

You got to let it go.

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♪ ♪