*CREDITS*
Next.
Platform one for the next service to London Waterloo.
All aboard, please! All aboard!
Oh!
Oh, let me help you with your...
Oh, thank you!
Thank you so much.
Oh!
Fudge?
Home-made.
Keep the paper.
I've chosen a horse.
Sweet tooth, I see.
Are you going up to London to study?
No, my studying days are long gone.
Luke Obiako Fitzwilliam.
Soon to be of Whitehall.
Lavinia Pinkerton. Pleased to meet you.
You're Nigerian? I guessed.
Papa was stationed there.
Though why anyone would leave such beauty
for these dreary shores, I do not know.
Won't you miss home?
Won't home miss you?
I think I'm here to make home proud.
Sir William Ossington of the Colonial Office -
I was his attache.
Always said I was wasted in regional government.
So, when he was recalled, he asked for me
to work for him at Whitehall.
Whitehall, you say?
Perhaps you might happen to know what time Scotland Yard closes?
It's vital I don't miss them.
You see, I must get back to Algernon,
but I have to report...
..murder.
Murder?
Murder.
Tommy Pierce, pushed.
I found him on the parapet.
Harry Carter, the publican
down in the next village, Ashe Bottom, drowned.
- Two murders? - Perhaps three.
If my suspicions are correct.
But I do know for certain there'll be more.
The murderer has a point to make
and will keep killing until it's made.
- I must stop them. - But if you know the murderer's identity,
why not tell the police?
I tried!
The village policeman is fine with lost cats,
but to listen to an old Auntie talking mass murder?
Especially when the suspect is a respectable person.
No, not many people do, you know?
Listen.
Scotland Yard is my last hope.
But, Auntie...
..how can someone murder three people in an English village
without it being noticed?
I noticed, my dear.
And murder is easy
for a certain type of person.
Well, we mustn't miss the race.
Have you picked a winner?
- I love the Derby, don't you? - Oh...
It's absurd to think a grown woman can't place a bet
without opprobrium in this day and age!
Papa and I did Port Harcourt races every week.
He could always spot a winner - as indeed can I, I believe.
I've... I've sent my bags ahead.
Can I...? Can I accompany you to Scotland Yard.
No need.
Whatever happens now,
someone else knows the truth.
Someone I can trust, can't I?
Yes.
- Yes, of course. - Last bets!
- Oh, hurry!
Last bets, everybody!
40-1 on Jujube II!
40-1! Auntie, are you quite sure?
Perfectly.
20 guineas on Jujube II.
And they're lining up now.
- And, er... - Lining up.
..all this on Never Say Die.
1954 Epsom Derby.
On second thought, Jujube II.
They're coming up rather quickly... Jujube II.
- All right. - It could be a go first time.
Starters giving the nod. He looks happy.
And they're off first time to a very good start!
Extremely good start!
Moonlight Express coming on the stand side.
Then comes Arabian Phoenix and Never Say Die.
Dark Corsair is very well placed, and it's Never Say Die
from Dark Corsair!
Arabian Phoenix falling back!
And here comes Jujube II!
Jujube II coming on the wide outside to beat them all!
50 yards to go!
Jujube II is going to win it!
Jujube II the winner!
Here you are, mate. Take your winnings.
Officer!
Officer, erm...
I know this woman!
I have... I have her money here!
See? My name is Luke Obiako Fitzwilliam.
That's O-B...
I...
My mistake. Never mind.
Officer, I saw a car.
A respectable old woman, Jimmy.
Talking one minute, dead the next.
While I stood there with her Derby winnings in my hand!
Maybe I should find her village,
pay my respects to her family as the last person to see her...?
Very admirable, cousin, but how?
And what about Whitehall and your old employer?
Sir William Ossington.
Ossington?
That colonial butcher?
Heh! Behold the Imperial African!
Self-colonised, collaborating with his oppressors!
Hey, no wonder you sound like an Englishman.
- He offered me a job. - As what?
His man Friday?
I do hope you can type.
How is your filing?
As his attache here in London.
It's a senior diplomatic post.
There'll be no typing.
Ngozi! Eh, eh?
But that poor, poor woman.
Obi, please, I beg.
Stop talking about this Auntie.
She was talking of murder!
Murders in her village.
She said he'd kill again, and now she's dead.
Doesn't that seem...?
Someone should go there and...
Let me get this straight, oh, great black saviour.
You roll up to some deep bush place full of homicide...
And start asking questions about murder?
Do you want to be arrested?
Shouldn't someone at least return her money?
Shouldn't someone be in his own village,
helping his own people gain independence back home?
When were you last home, Miss Ngozi?
You've been in England "studying" for years.
- Or perhaps you've become fond of the climate? - Oh...
Ngozi, the hook only catches the fish
with its mouth open.
Or perhaps we both owe it to our people
to do what's right and make them proud,
whether that's back home in the village
- or somewhere in England? - No!
No!
You're not going to any village - you're going to bed!
And tomorrow, Whitehall!
Mm.
No, that's fine.
Thanks for letting me know.
And what did they say?
Sir William is away.
Nothing to worry about.
I have to wait for his letter before reporting for duties.
Just a couple of days.
Miss?
Miss, can you, err...?
Can you point me to the family of a Miss Pin...?
Hurry, or we'll miss the verdict.
Lacking witnesses to the demise of Harry Carter, publican
of The Seven Stars, Ashe Bottom,
I am dispensing a verdict of death by drowning
at Wychwood watermill,
whilst under the influence of strong liquor.
For the avoidance of doubt...
..an accident.
Next case.
Tommy Pierce, window cleaner of Ashe Bottom.
Major Horton to the stand!
Well, he was larking around on the balcony balustrade
at Ashe Manor, East Wing.
Doing impressions.
Impressions of whom?
Well, Lord Whitfield, I believe.
Well, I shook my fist and carried on walking with me dogs.
Didn't see him fall.
Calling Dr Thomas to the stand.
The impact of said fall resulted in the complete bisection
of C3 and C4.
He broke his neck.
Thank you, Dr Thomas.
Calling Miss Waynflete to the stand.
So Tommy Pierce had been employed to clean the windows
at Ashe Manor.
Where were you at this time?
I was working downstairs,
labelling Lord Whitfield's Anglo-Saxon goblets.
I heard his impressions,
but I didn't see him fall.
So who found the body?
Lavinia Pinkerton to the stand!
Where is she?
Oh, dear old Pinkerton.
She's probably looking after Algernon.
Not present.
- In which case... - Oh! Oh, blast!
..with no more witnesses
and given we have heard ample evidence of the deceased,
Thomas Pierce's history of delinquent
and foolhardy behaviour,
I confidently bring this inquest to a close
with a verdict of accidental death.
So, you're a journalist?
That explains it.
Oh, a rather bad journalist.
Me? No!
I thought you might have been.
Just your averagely observant secretary.
I live in Wychwood,
so there's precious little to challenge
my powers of observation.
Until you arrived.
Fitzwilliam.
Er, Luke Fitzwilliam.
And what brings you to Wychwood, Mr Fitzwilliam?
Our sparkling society?
- Actually... - Because we haven't any.
Fresh air and exercise?
Convalescence?
Are you an invalid, Mr Fitzwilliam?
I find myself in excellent health.
I'm pleased to hear it.
Though I hope you have a reason to be here in Wychwood,
otherwise I am obliged to inform the authorities.
What if I'm on a secret mission?
Blink twice if you're a spy.
Cultural anthropologist.
- Bless you. - Thank you.
No. Me.
I-I am.
A cultural anthropologist.
Researching a book.
Er, Comparing Customs and Folklore in Rural England and Nigeria.
I'll be in Wychwood a while, comparing the local...
..customs and folklore.
Hmm.
Well, satanic rituals are every third Tuesday of the month.
Very amusing.
Er...
Well, a pleasure to have met you, Miss, er...?
Conway.
Bridget Conway.
Innkeeper's out.
Thank you.
The murderer has a point to make.
I must stop them.
_
Think you'll find you're in the wrong place, sir.
His Lordship and the other guests will be inside the house.
Lord Whitfield?
I received your very generous invitation
- and I just wanted to... - Mr Fitzwilliam?
We have never had a cultural anthropologist for supper,
so we thought we'd have you for starters.
- Mr Fitzwilliam, Lord Whitfield. - Hmm.
My Bridget tells me you are writing a book on superstitions.
Yes.
Similarities between cultures, the remarkable universality...
Yeah, I've never approved of superstitions.
Have I, Bridget?
Mm...
"Have nothing to do with foolish and irreverent myths.
"Rather, train yourself for Godliness" -
Timothy, 4:7.
So, what sort of man are you, Mr Fitzwilliam?
Old Fashioned?
Dark 'n' Stormy?
A Highball chap, I'd say.
I'll mix you one.
You recall Dr Thomas from the inquest?
Reverend and Mrs Humbleby.
And their daughter, Rose.
Delighted to meet you, young man.
Pleased to make your acquaintance.
You know, some say the books are the key to the castle.
And look where they have got you.
From your mud hut...
..to all this.
Thanks.
Dinner is served.
- My love? - Thank you.
Bridget used to be his secretary.
Now they're engaged.
So romantic.
Come, Rose.
I'm comparing everyday pagan practices
in a typical English village to those in Nigeria.
You hear that? "Pagan practices!"
In Wychwood, Reverend Humbleby!
This isn't the Middle Ages, my Lord.
The Church is increasingly forward thinking.
So, Fitzwilliam,
d-do you make a decent living book-writing?
- Never had to find out. - Well, how's that?
My father's village is very fortunate.
2,000 square miles of arable land and, er,
mud huts.
Oh, and oil.
Hmm!
You'll be running yourselves before you know it.
Well, Fitzwilliam, I'm in cement,
which holds the modern world together.
My father was the village cobbler.
But I just pulled myself up by...
A spot of wartime profiteering?
..my bootstraps...
Ahem!
..righteous hard work and the grace of God.
Mm.
The chapter I'm working on now?
Well, it concerns popular beliefs around violent death,
falls or accidents.
Many cultures believe when a life is cut short
it's spirit lives on,
restlessly walking the earth.
Goodness! How terrifying.
Quite right.
No-one wants the likes of Harry Carter
restlessly walking around.
Mr Carter was rather a terror.
That drunk violently accosted me on my own estate!
- Didn't he, Bridget? - Hmm?
And as for Tommy Pierce!
Oh, impertinent devil...
Voice of an angel.
In my medical opinion, the lad was unbalanced
in more ways than one.
You didn't mention that interesting detail at the inquest, Dr Thomas.
Sad. Many deaths recently.
Yes, and now Miss Pinkerton!
What?
Dead?
How?
Struck down.
Yesterday in London.
What? I should've been notified of any accident.
- It's protocol. - Dead? Are you absolutely certain?
Yes. Mr Fitzwilliam, how could you possibly know this?
Woman struck down by car.
It was in The Standard, late edition.
They don't deliver it here?
Poor, dear Lavinia.
Another tragic accident.
Such a shame.
I'm sorry, I still don't quite understand.
What was it that drew your attention to the death
of a perfect stranger?
I happened to notice her address.
Wychwood.
Such a coincidence.
Such.
How did they identify her?
Her name was engraved on her umbrella, I believe.
Miss Pinkerton left no relatives?
Only Algernon Jones.
Her cat.
Poor old Pinkerton,
not living to see my Whitfield New Town!
None of us shall, providence willing.
Gentlemen.
No business talk now.
If I'd had my way,
Whitfield New Town would be fully erected by now.
The cement beacon lighting our way to a brighter future!
If some people weren't dead set against me.
A brighter future for whom?
Certainly not the people of Ashe Bottom.
You sit here in your mansion,
drawing up your elaborate plans
instead of building some decent, affordable homes!
This is a new town,
carrying my name.
No-one gives a fig for your name!
- Steady on, Vicar, old chap. - And you, Doctor.
What exactly do you on the board?
Apart from toady to his lordship's pipe dream?
I said at the last board meeting, and as your priest,
it's pure vanity!
It won't do!
It won't...
- Arthur? - Father?
A-Arthur, what's wrong?
Stand aside, man!
He's just fainted.
We'll get him home safely.
Goodbye.
Well, hope all's well for Saturday.
We need the Humblebys for the mixed doubles.
You too, Fitzwilliam.
Too much of your excellent port, my Lord.
Nothing a strong coffee and an aspirin won't fix.
Thank you.
Miss Conway?
Goodnight.
Help!
Constable Reed! Anyone!
Help!
It's my maid, Amy!
She's in her room!
Something dreadful!
The door's locked from the inside!
It's the first door on the left!
Amy!
Amy! Amy!
Stay with me! Stay with me!
Amy!
No!
I'm sorry.
I was just too late.
Couldn't have saved her anyway.
Oxalic acid.
Red hat paint.
Her internal organs must be liquified.
Poisoned?
You think someone might've...?
Forced her to drink hat paint?
I gave her some cough linctus yesterday.
She must have mixed up the bottles.
A very silly girl
had a very silly accident.
What a frightful morning.
Poor Amy.
You knew her?
An orphan.
The Carters took her in.
Sent into service at 15,
but she was too free spirited for the work.
What a tragic life.
Wychwood can be welcoming.
But it rather depends.
Depends?
On what?
Where you came from.
I hope the Vicar is recovered?
An infection.
Dr Thomas has given him Penicillin.
Take care, Mr Fitzwilliam.
Constable.
This village really is...
A deep bush place full of homicide?
Exactly.
Were there any relatives there?
No, there's no relatives to return the money to.
A girl just died.
Right in front of me.
And everyone's insisting it's an accident.
Please do forward the letter from Whitehall
when it arrives, Ngozi.
But now I must go find out how to drown a man.
Murder...
..Harry Carter...
..the publican down in the next village...
..Ashe Bottom...
..drowned...
Mr Fitzwilliam?
I've stopped the water.
That's quite a pickle you've got yourself into.
Now that I've saved your life,
perhaps this might be the time to...
To ask you,
Mr Fitzwilliam...
..what it is you are doing here?
Me?
Nothing!
I could ask you the same question.
Well, I'm here because I am always here.
Lived here all my life.
Whereas you...
Are you one of those men
who never know when to leave well enough alone?
You clever women are the cruellest.
Well, there is precious little reward for our cleverness,
so we must get our small pleasures where we can.
So, spanking new tweeds,
turning up at stranger's inquest,
spurious book on folklore
about which you know virtually nothing.
The only area in which you seem to show any expertise
is Miss Pinkerton's death,
a subject on which you are so well informed
I can only conclude
that you killed Miss Pinkerton.
I know she was killed.
Deliberately. And even if Carter wasn't pushed...
He drank, fell, drowned.
Accident.
All right.
What about Amy Gibbs and her red hat paint?
Amy Gibbs and her what?
Amy Gibbs and...
Red hat paint. Amy Gibbs mistook her cough linctus for oxalic acid.
She most certainly did not!
You accuse me of killing old women, but draw the line at hat paint?
Only a man wouldn't!
And that is because no-one has used hat paint since the war!
And if Amy Gibbs wanted a different colour hat, she'd buy a new one!
- And it would never be red! - Why not?
Amy Gibbs had flaming red hair,
and redheads don't wear red hats!
You...
You're right.
See, that never would have occurred to a man.
Right.
I'm going to pay Miss Waynflete a visit,
get an explanation for this cough linctus hat paint nonsense.
Are you coming?
I was concerned for you
after this morning's tragic events.
Thank you, Mr Fitzwilliam.
I thought she might help you with your research.
Miss Waynflete is quite the history buff.
Amateur curiosity.
I curate Lord Whitfield's private collection and library.
- Sugar? - Yes.
Four, please.
I've no wish to upset you further, Miss Waynflete.
Could I search Amy's room?
I just... I may have lost my watch.
This morning.
Her door was locked?
Strange girl.
Insisted on shutting herself in at night.
Oh, poor Algernon Jones!
He has a nasty ear infection.
But he was Lavinia's
so I can't let him go to strangers.
Ah, Algernon.
Oh, look! There's your watch.
Oh, thanks.
Well spotted, Miss Waynflete!
Had Amy been with you long?
No.
It's unchristian to speak ill of the dead,
but Amy was a far from ideal maid.
Lord Whitfield dismissed her
because her tongue tended to run away with her, I'm afraid.
- Still, I doubt she died of insolence. - Yes.
Dr Thomas said Amy mixed up her bottles,
but there's only the one here.
Even in the dark, Amy couldn't mix up one bottle.
If there is a murderer, why didn't Miss Pinkerton give you a name?
She only said the killer was a "respectable" man
with a point to make.
And we know that he was in London when Miss Pinkerton was killed.
What about the car that killed her?
It sped away.
The police at the scene were rather...
I was unable to identify the driver.
So?
Who was out of the village on Derby Day?
Augustus! Come here, sir!
Nelly! Nelly, don't be a madam.
- Hello, Major. - Hmm...
Hmm.
Is that gentleman perfectly well?
Major Horton?
He has been a tad peculiar since his wife died last year.
Though she left him all her money,
and was, quite frankly, a bit of a gorgon.
Even the dogs have had a spring in their step since she died.
You know, Miss Pinkerton did mention a third victim.
How did Mrs Horton die?
A horrid gastric bug.
So they say.
What if there is a murderer walking among us?
And what if he finds out you aren't who you say you are
and you know what you know,
and then he comes for you and...?
There's something I'd like to show you.
Miss Conway, can I escort you home?
If you like, Luke Fitzwilliam.
Obiako.
Luke Obiako Fitzwilliam.
Oh!
I'm sorry to have to ask,
but where was Lord Whitfield on Derby Day?
Don't you worry about Gordon.
He has the perfect alibi - me.
The parapet.
Miss Pinkerton said she found Tommy's body...
here...
Tommy's body couldn't fall from here
and land there
without considerable velocity.
- In other words... - Tommy was pushed.
It wasn't an accident.
None of them were.
No.
It was murder.
We need to find a link.
A connection between the victims.
Well, none of them were saints.
They had enemies.
Perhaps.
Though I wouldn't honestly know because they...
All three are from Ashe Bottom!
Down by the brickworks.
Sort of the other side of the tracks.
Then I need to go there,
find out what point this killer's trying to make
and who was out of the village on Derby Day.
No, watch it or it's going to fall!
Oh!
Could I, er...
Could I see a menu?
Then a pint of your finest and some pork, er, scratchings?
My condolences for Amy Gibbs.
What's that about my niece?
I'll thank you not to come here and stir up feelings!
Oh...
What is this diabolical stuff?!
Ugh!
"Nelly! Come here, madam!
"Augustus! I say!"
It's Horton!
"It's my moral duty to name this pub after me,
"isn't it, Bridget?"
- Lord Whitfield. - Yes!
Our capitalist running dog lord of the manor.
I hear it all, driving.
His schemes and plans.
D'you know what I don't hear?
- Any work in Ashe Bottom. - Hmm...
He'll have his shiny new town, and we'll have sweet F?A.
Like always.
Well, Lord Whitfield's a respectable man.
Surely he'll...
Respectable?
No more respectable than anyone else from Ashe Bottom.
He's one of us!
Well, he used to be.
- Born and raised on this street. - Mm-hm.
He paid for his peerage from his wartime profiteering,
a few backhanders in the right people's pockets.
He climbed the greasy pole to "respectability"
and pulled the ladder up behind him
quicker than he could yell "Bridget!"
Come on, your turn.
Yeah, let's hear it.
I can do Dr Thomas.
Nah, not him.
Nothing funny about Dr Thomas.
He's only got time for his private patients
and nothing but linctus for us.
Linctus?
What kind of linctus?
Cheap codeine.
It's the only medicine we ever get from him.
Even children?
He put Tommy on it.
Lad was leaning like the Tower of Pisa.
Just another brown bottle for Harry to drown his woes in.
Until he drank enough to knock himself out.
Amy was coughing like a consumptive before he saw her.
And what did he give her?
Codeine linctus.
Bet they won't look into Amy's death any more than they did Tommy's.
Huh.
Welcome to Wychwood.
Keep taking the penicillin.
It'll mop up the last of the infection in your hand.
Dr Thomas!
Ah! Ooh!
Ah!
I wonder if you might check me over?
Reverend Humbleby.
Not still unwell, I hope?
Don't let that one fleece you!
- He charges extra for the good stuff. - Father!
- What? - Dr Thomas is only...
Oh, all that flattering and fawning doesn't fool me!
Greasing his wheels!
There's nothing that young man won't do to get what he wants!
I was hoping to be in shape for tennis
up at the manor.
- Hmm... - An old rugby injury playing up.
Probably the weather.
OK.
Well, walk to the window and back.
How's the book going?
Did I mention I'm writing a book myself?
Oh, really?
On what topic?
Leg seems fine...
Yes, a scientific guide to improving society.
Fascinating.
How?
Judicious elimination.
Of whom?
Oh, you know the sort.
People like...
..Carter.
The wife-beating drunk?
No loss there!
Didn't Tommy's death save us all from his inevitable future life
of crime?
Interesting thought, no?
I'm not sure your patients would agree.
How would they know?
It's one thing you Africans have right.
The power of life and death lies solely in the hands
of Chief Bongo Bongo.
It's not that simple.
We have laws.
Laws. Of course.
But now you take me for a mass murderer!
Would a murderer be so frank?
I'm merely making a scientific point.
A point? Yesterday, you said Amy mixed up her bottles.
Unpleasant accident.
Miss Waynflete only found the one.
I kept the other for testing.
You see?
There's always a scientific explanation.
Some would call that tampering with evidence, Dr Thomas.
I'm a doctor! Criminology is my hobby.
I always follow protocol.
Protocol?
Augustus!
Conduct yourself properly in the proper manner, sir.
It wasn't followed after Miss Pinkerton's death.
Where were you on Derby Day?
Three villages away, attending a birth.
Here we are.
Kreuzhammer's Inferiority and Crime,
translated from the German.
And... Race Hygiene.
A scientific programme would weed out the degenerates.
You keep these in stock?
Aren't they on prescription?
Just a codeine linctus.
Cures most common ills.
One step up from a placebo, really.
Why? Want some?
Kedu?
You speak Igbo?
And Efik.
Some Ijaw.
I've been trying to ascertain your precise tribe
since the inquest,
before extending a proper greeting.
Glad I backed the right horse.
Let's go to a proper pub.
I cannot believe you built the rugby pitch
I played upon!
With these very hands, my son!
Your headmaster was a very dear friend.
He was a huge influence upon me.
Yes, I can hear that.
Did you know Miss Pinkerton, sir?
Pinky? Of course!
We used to pore over the Racing Post together every week.
Loved the gee-gees, did Pinky.
How was the Derby?
Ah, Jujube II!
Winged feet!
I said to the Vicar, "Back the nag!"
We were there, Humbleby and I.
OK, raise your glass.
Here's to my dear wife.
Her loss must have affected you deeply.
Well, she was getting so much better.
Then sudden relapse,
wasn't herself.
She told Amy she was being poisoned.
- Amy Gibbs was your maid, too? - Mm.
A nasty business.
By the way, Major...
..who was the doctor that treated your wife?
Why, that young snapper,
Dr Thomas.
Ha! Well, that was a breeze.
That last ball was definitely out.
It was halfway to Chipping Norton.
Sorry, er...
What did you say?
- What did you say?! - I don't think so.
Chalk flew, didn't it, Gordon?
Yes, like a bird!
Ha, good.
Like a dead bird.
Dr Thomas treated Mrs Horton.
She was his first victim.
The one Miss Pinkerton wasn't sure of?
She told people she was being poisoned,
and Amy was her maid.
She must've known too much, so he killed her too!
Dr Thomas had opportunity and means to kill Amy,
gave Carter and Tommy codeine linctus like Amy
and he was out of the village on Derby Day.
Where is the good doctor?
With a patient?
Or murdering one.
The thing is...
..Mrs Horton wasn't from Ashe Bottom.
- Which means the next victim... - Could be anyone.
Oh, come on!
That was clearly my shot!
- Don't look at me like that. - Miss Conway?
Mm?
Oh, Bridget, why are you marrying that man?
Do you know what a secretary earns?
Of course you don't.
Well, pennies compared to Lady Whitfield.
For very different duties.
Really?
I doubt Gordon will even kiss me goodnight after a year.
Why do you care?
You'll be in Whitehall.
Because it's not what you deserve.
- This is not... - What?
Love?
Have you tried it?
Loving until it hurts?
Only to be jilted for some millionaire widow?
A broken...
..engagement...
..is the perfect cure
for dangerously romantic tosh.
I simply want to be safe,
not just from being poor.
From feelings.
Fitzwilliam!
You're up next with the doctor.
Knee's better, then, Fitzwilliam.
Yes.
Thank you.
Only I cannot stop thinking about your theory, Doctor.
Not a theory.
Science!
Tommy.
Carter.
Amy.
So who's next for judicious elimination?
Degenerates - was that the word you used?
Humbleby!
Listen, these, er...
These pagan rites that Fitzwilliam and my Bridget
are busy uncovering,
I want them stopped.
- So who's next, Doctor? - Nothing wrong with tradition...
One of the lower races? Me?
Well, scripture instructs us to rebuke those
who persist in sin.
He who casts the first stone.
Mrs Humbleby?
As Wychwood's leading citizen...
Rose?
God has more to worry about...
- So, who is it going to be, Doctor? - ..in Wychwood...
Oh!
Arthur?
In Wychwood!
Arthur!
Doctor?
*CREDITS*