At the nursery.
If you're a fan of Doyle's fiction, you might find him vaguely familiar.
He's reputed to be the model for Professor G.E. Challenger, hero of one of Doyle's most
popular novels, The Lost World.
The acid-tongued professor, who featured in a number of stories, was one of Doyle's favorite
characters.
It's easy to see why.
Professor is a man of rude and bizarre habits, who suffers fools not at all.
In one infamous episode, he bites his housekeeper, just to see her reaction.
Strictly science, of course.
It's too bad Rutherford doesn't have more of a presence in tonight's story.
Doyle and Bell could use the help of a bully.
Second tending with all sorts of ruffians, from circus carnies to duplicitous beauties.
And then there's the Egyptian mummy, of rather dubious origin.
The Kingdom of Bones.
Life may be stranger than fiction.
It is often more disturbing.
Before I wrote my stories of the great detective, I had access to a terrifying world of mystery
and murder.
My companion and teacher on this journey was Dr. Joseph Bell.
Here in this extraordinary man was my inspiration.
But it is only now that I have chosen to reveal the dark beginnings of Sherlock Holmes.
Behold it, ladies and gentlemen.
But Roraima, the great unknown plateau of the South Americas.
Unclimbed, unconquered, land of secrets and wonders.
This undiscovered terrain will be the subject of my next expedition.
Beyond this ascent lies a land unseen since the world began.
Imagine that.
Who knows what rare sights, what strange species we may find there.
I trust in God that it will be a great adventure.
Are there any questions?
When does the expedition start?
In December, with the aid of the Royal Geographical Society.
I was half expecting you to leap up and beg to go adventuring with him.
I don't think I would be tempted.
No, Ruben, no more adventures for me.
So what did you join the Society for?
The literature or the science?
The custom, if I can raise any.
Does me?
All rude hell for no money to your name.
What use are you to a medical man?
I understand your ambition, Arthur.
We're alike in so many ways.
That's because I ran a practice with precious few patients while you run a museum, which
nobody visits.
Spare me ten minutes.
Why?
You'll see why.
It's the
Arthur, it's ready.
Here she is. She? My princess in a manner of speaking. You're beginning to concern me,
Ruben. I assure you she's mine. I paid seven guineas for her. By the inscriptions she is
most definitely a princess. Seven guineas? Due to her condition and the wretch who sold
her to me cared nothing for ancient history or for anything else. I didn't so much buy
her as pay gin money to rescue her. How old is she? My guess would have to be around three
thousand years. Some of the hieroglyphs resist translation. Bad news for you, Ruben. You'll
be lucky if she lasts for three months. Water has breached the casing. That's the smell
of decay. And therein lies our opportunity. I don't plan to be a curator of seashells
and flint axes for the rest of my days. Her days are numbered, then preservation is no
issue. If preservation is no issue, then we can unwrap her. What, now? No, not now. At
a public event before an invited audience. I see mainly academics, some press, some dignitaries,
a tasteful display, but still a sensational one. Not just an unwrapping, but an anatomy
lesson. A full post-mortem examination covering the life and tragic death of a princess of
Egypt. How do you know it was tragic? Show me a young death that isn't. Try to imagine
it, Arthur. Recognition for both of us. You'll have access to society. With patronage and
subscriptions, I can lay the foundation to a major collection. Dr Doyle strode up to
the podium and after gripping it and sweating for twenty minutes, commenced to stammer in
a most enlightening fashion. No, no. Don't mock me, Arthur. I have the most serious purpose
in this. My mother, my sister, I do it for them. Our father was disgraced in his lifetime.
He claimed honours from Oxford that he did not earn. It is a cloud I will dispel. I'm
no public speaker, Reuben. You've seen the evidence. That's not what I'm asking of you.
It's your connections I have need of.
Good morning, madam. Your baby has gangrene of the heart. That'll be six pence, thank
you. Arthur! Nine o'clock! Thank you, Innes! However, did I manage without you? Today's
bill's for you, sir. Never mind the bills. How's this? Quite the dandy, aren't we, Dr
Doyle? Well, I have to make an effort. I'm as nervous as a schoolboy. Where's Innes?
Exploring again, I expect. Your brother will know sassy like a native before he gets home.
Oh, didn't I tell you? He's not going home just yet. He's staying a while. Oh. Well,
mother needs a space and I've got plenty. We've got to admit he's good company. Well,
you certainly know he's about. If there's an emergency, send him to find me at the station.
If I'm not there, I'll have taken the visitors on to the museum. Shouldn't you hurry? I don't
want to rush. There's plenty of time. Which one is nine o'clock? Is it the one that pings
or the bums or that plays the tune? God. I'm a king. Where's Mr. Proctor? He's upstairs
with his mummy. Is there any sign of two gentlemen from the station? If they're not on our wagon,
I haven't seen them. Is there any organization here? Look at this. Still building the place.
Sir, Professor Rutherford. Welcome. Who are you? Doyle, sir. Arthur Conan Doyle. You taught
me anatomy. Did I? Don't worry about paying for the cab, William. I just managed to beat
you to it and I rescued your luggage before the cabbie drove off with it. Doyle. Doctor.
It's grand to see you, lad. You're well, I hope. Understand this, Doyle. You say I taught
you for the best part of five years. I wouldn't pretend to remember you. As far as I'm concerned,
this is a professional engagement in the light of which I expect full professional respect.
Only some of 50 guineas was agreed. I believe in the letter I offered 50 pounds, sir. I
recall it's 50 guineas, as you say, sir. When do I get to see it? When your bill is tendered
in respect of your professional services, sir. Doctor Rutherford. Carter, sir. Huncher
Post and South Sea Observer. I understand you'll be giving us a turn in the mummy show
tonight. A turn, sir? In the what, sir? The mummy show? To begin with, young sir, there
is no Doctor Rutherford. There is Professor William Rutherford of Edinburgh University.
Here for an academic engagement, not a sideshow for the amusement of morons. Either report
the facts correctly or do not report them at all. If you misquote me, I will sue. If
you misspell my name, I will sue. In fact, if you harass, misrepresent or annoy me in
any way at all, I'll have your lights for lunch. Ha! What have we here? Wrong? You're
right, eh? Wrong? I have summoned a demon. Wrong? I have ten hours of him in a lock compartment
on the night train. Oh, very poorly. He doesn't sleep. Ha! Good evening, ma'am. I'm Ruben
Proctor, the museum's curator. Good evening. Welcome to the museum. Delighted, sir. It's
an honour. Good evening, ma'am. I'm Ruben Proctor, the museum's curator. Good evening.
How do you do? Straight up the stairs. Do take a seat in the hall. Good evening. Good
evening. Welcome to the museum. Delighted, sir. Straight up the stairs, please, and into
the hall. Coming up nicely? This has to be the most terrifying night of my life. You'll
look back on it as the foundation of your success. Your Grace.
And furthermore... Yes? Two minutes, gentlemen. What do you think this is, Doyle? A theatre
of varieties? My colleague has been clarifying his opinions for my benefit. Yes, tell him
what we agreed. Professor Rutherford will dissect the remains without my assistance.
Mm-hm. I will then speculate on a diagnosis without his. Oh, yes, and Doyle, assure all
those inbred provincials understand that this evening has a serious purpose. We are not
here to entertain. If I see any people enjoying themselves, I shall, of course, expect them
to be thrown out. Orange juice, pickled whelks. Ladies and gentlemen. Ladies and gentlemen,
welcome one and all. Before I introduce our distinguished professors, I have here a telegram
from the great Egyptologist, Sir Flinders Petrie. Thanks for his invitation, but regrets
he cannot join us tonight, engaged as he is in a major excavation at Tarnus, signed by
his secretary. Let me now tell you what I can about our subject, which is precious little,
I'm afraid, as the only evidence is in these hieroglyphs, and many of them are variations
on those forms that present scholarship can recognise. It's my belief that our subject
is, was, a high-born female who died in her 23rd year. These circumstances of her life
are unknown to us, as is the cause of her death. We hope to shed a little light on both
in the course of the evening. It's my privilege to present Professor William Rutherford. Bravo!
The preservation of corpses in ancient Egypt involved the removal of brain, lungs and viscera,
followed by a desiccation of the flesh. In this condition, the dead were sent forth to
derive whatever pleasure they could from the afterlife. This body has been wrapped in linen.
The linen has then been soaked to form a hard shell. The state would have been further protected
by a mummy case or sarcophagus, in the absence of which the condition of this specimen is
poor. Very poor indeed. It has, however, retained its integrity for the millennia. Now, despite
the smell of uncertain decay, I have to say that for a 3,000-year-old cadaver, the state
of preservation is remarkable. Quite remarkable. Especially with regard to the watch chain and
the West Coast. Mr. Rutherford! I shall not withdraw to my unremarkable and noticeably
inexpensive hotel. I shall take the first train to London, where for the rest of the
week I may be contacted at my club. They'll send you the bill.
Your opinion, Dr. Doyle? I'll defer to yours, sir. 3,000 years buried, but only three or
four weeks dead. An impossibility. Right. More of a police matter, I think. No one is
to leave here without giving a statement. Yes, sir. Please, please accept my personal apologies.
I'll be in touch with every one of you to explain. I can't think how this will have
happened. Please cooperate with the officers. Control yourself. It's a disaster. Nothing
here was your fault. Stop feeling responsible. If not me, then who? You brought a murder
to light. When all this blows over, it'll be seen as a public service. Believe what
you like. I'm finished in South Sea. For God's sake, there's more to the world than South
Sea. Mr. Proctor, speaking as someone that is often
enjipped by the sellers of antiquities, may I say that I sympathize?
You are, sir? Hayward Donovan. I got in on the invitation
of the bishop. I have to tell you, sir, that I found this a far more entertaining evening
than I anticipated. For a fair few moments, I feared we'd be obliged to learn something.
I doubt whether you'll get many subscribers out of the occasion, and yet I hear that you've
run up a fair few expenses. All debts will be properly settled, sir.
Not by wishful thinking, they won't. May I express my sympathies in a more practical
way? Come out to my house in the morning, and I will give you a note from my bank. Unless
Canadian patronage isn't good enough for an English museum.
I don't mean to be rude. It's been a difficult day. I thank you, sir.
Right. I want the body drawn up in this sheet and removed to the mortuary. No part of it
is to be interfered with, no sightseers, no seekers after souvenirs. Put a man on guard
on the door all night if you have to. Should we remove the wrappings?
Do not touch them. I will remove them at postmortem.
That's a relief. Men?
So, I take you've offered your services. Only to finish the task I came down to do.
How's your friend? I'm worried about him. All he wanted was
to make a name. I'd say he'd succeeded, poor lad. How much
of this fiasco involves you? My only contribution was the invitation letters
to you and the professor. That's probably just as well. How goes your
practice? It's growing. No. Progress is good. It's
not spectacular. It's solid. No, it is.
Forgive an old friend's concern for your welfare, but I observe that you've been obliged to
borrow that suit. It's father's.
Of course. I'm very sorry. I should have realised.
I won't say it's not a precarious living, but it does improve.
You must believe me when I tell you I command the respect of this town's quality.
Sonny! No, he come in. The good doctor here says I've got to drop me kicksters.
Not so many tickets for that. Do you know what hemorrhoids are?
No. Well, you've got them.
Thank you, doctor. Without an educated man to guide me, I'd have carried on thinking
it was the piles. Soon as we're ready, we're back on the road.
I'm itching for it, I can tell you. Always the same with winter quarters. Everybody
loves show people. Nobody wants to offer a neighbour.
Do you own every one of these? If I don't own them, I made a gift of them.
I started in the business as a low comedian. When I got married, my dad set me up with
my own ghost show. Saved my money and put it into the portables. Now I do the same for
my own. How's it going, Uncle Walter?
One rat's fallen out of public favour. Got a cold in the winter and died.
It wasn't really a rat. It was a little dog what's hair had fallen out. A proper little
trooper. We've pickered him for the freak show. It's what he would have wanted.
Here, doctor, meet our so-called bearded lady. Can't recommend us a good hair restorer,
can you? I think that's a case for nature to handle.
It's also a matter of two chillings for the audience.
You're right. Forgive me, doctor. I see you're in a boxing booth.
Sorry about this, Dr Doyle. End of the winter always beats Niente Denali.
Yes, dad? Take your sister and give her a song and
dance outside the Trafalgar Hotel. Soon as you've made two, Bob, bring it straight back
to the doctor here. I'm a broken hearted man.
Wait, wait, wait. Don't make them beg for my fee.
We never beg, doctor. No, what I mean is...
If you don't have the cash to hand, let me take it in kind.
How? Get the gloves out and bring on your champion.
I confess to a lifelong weakness for the noble art.
Are you sure about this, Dr Doyle? Believe me, sir. You indulge me.
I've had as much pleasure from this as from any form of sport.
And it's been a long time since I had the honor of facing...
A professional. Don't worry, Jasper. Give the doctor his
money's worth. All right?
Forgive me, sir. I, uh... I pretend to have the advantage.
I will go easy on you. Jasper!
You're a game man, doctor. I'll give you that. Two games for my own good, sometimes.
No hard feelings? Oh, good Lord, no.
I've got exactly what I asked for. A lesson from a master.
Arthur! Who is this, then?
It's my brother, Innes. Down from Edinburgh to keep me company.
I'm not asking. Why don't you join in the show, young Innes?
We're in need of a new strong man. No.
How about knife-throwers assistant? Gypsy Bob gets through a lot of those.
No. Indian club-catcher for a one-armed juggler?
No. What do you want to be, then, Innes?
A fine doctor like your brother? Oh. Ruben!
Ruben! Cut him down.
He's beyond your help, doc. Cut him down!
Is this a suicide note? I knew I'd get it too late to be of help.
I did not wish to be discovered by strangers. I'll inform the coroner.
Morning, sir. Doctor Doyle?
You had to sign off the death certificate for Ruben Procter.
Certainly, doctor. I don't care what the first names are, what
it is on, just keep it out of my way, madam, please!
Stupid man, primitive moggy. Who are they going to get to do all this
night with the rats? Not you, I remind. Doyle!
Is something wrong? I've been, uh, attending a patient.
Oh. I'm sorry. It is always distressing to lose one.
Oh, I see you've been in a dispute. A sporting trophy.
Indeed. Well, I'm glad you're here, because I would value your opinion.
Come and look at this. Not as exotic as an Egyptian princess, perhaps,
but a rather more challenging mystery. Who is he?
There's been no identification. It has been removed, and the clothing
labels have been cut off, and in a hurry. So the watch chin is broken.
And the watch itself is missing, thus depriving us of any marks or
inscriptions that might have been of help. Any further views?
He was about 45 years of age. Agreed, agreed. And a right-handed
stonemason. Look at his left hand. You see how the thumb is calloused,
and then on the ball of the palm there is a patch of thick skin.
That is the hand that braced the chisel. And if our conclusions are
correct, there should be traces of stone dust under the fingernails.
Yes, here it is. Now, how long dead would you estimate?
Um, adiposea has begun to form. Conversion's not advanced.
Suponification doesn't begin until at least three weeks after death,
so weeks at least, months at most. Well done. Oops, forgive me.
The teaching habit dies hard. That is the fiddle, isn't it?
Yes, a single thrust from a straight blade about two inches broad.
And then there are these. Five of them in all.
In the case with the body? Yes. Any theories?
Were they done by the feet? Aye.
They're weights? Yes. And so, if we note the nautical stitching
on the wrappings, we must conclude... That the body was originally
sewn into the canvas for a sea burial. My conclusions, exactly.
Thank you, Dr Doyle. Do we know where our young friend Mr Proctor
obtained this manufactured antiquity? I'm afraid not.
Then our next priority must be to ask him.
That won't be possible.
What about his things, Doctor? Sorry?
Would you like to take charge of his personal defects?
All I know is that Ruben believed he had a genuine antiquity,
but he wouldn't tell me exactly how he came by it.
Did you notice anything unusual about the smell on that mummy canvas?
Apart from the odour of damp, of course. And the decay, yes. Why?
There was something else? Glue size and pigment.
Closer examination revealed that the ageing and deterioration
were as fake as the hieroglyphs on the casing.
I'll open the door, Miss Williams.
And then there's the contents of his stomach.
And what about the average Egyptian diet
consisted of steak and kidney pudding?
Hi.
Innis, why are you not in your bed?
Mrs Williams will only let me have a candle in my room.
You're never afraid of the dark, surely. What are you reading?
It's one of Arthur's stories. He's written lots, you know.
What is it?
Cornhill. May I look? No.
Arthur says you're not meant to read any more of his stories.
And why? He says you're rude about them.
Oh, go away with you. Go on, it's late.
I'm going to go and get some water.
This is ridiculous, man.
How can I get Mr Donovan's consent to an interview
with a man who's been in the museum for years?
Dr Doyle, here to see Mr Donovan on a matter concerning the museum.
Dr Doyle, can you put in the work for me?
So all that you see here, I'm setting home.
I have a 60-room mansion going up in Alberta.
And believe me, son, that's a lot of space to fill.
And a lot of time spent in sale rooms.
I have a seat with my name on it and every one of them.
I asked for a big house close to the middle of London,
and my agent fixed me up with this.
On the map, it'll look like that far away.
Still, it has its compensations.
Better value for money.
Money's no object these days, son.
I come from three generations of Donovans who starved on land
that finally became rich in two things, coal and dinosaur bones.
I got a lot of poverty to make up for, that's for sure.
We're here on a year's visit so my daughter can do society
and I can furnish the family home.
You noticed my daughter?
I couldn't fail to, sir.
She has that effect, just like her mother.
May I ask her name?
It's Gladys. It means Mistress of the Land.
I thought it was Irish when I gave it to her.
It turns out to be Welsh.
Well, I suppose on the map it looks like that far away.
Let's do some business.
I was sorry to hear about your friend.
I know he had his embarrassment,
but there was no need to take his own life over it.
He'd given himself time for reflection.
I'm sure he'd agree with you.
Do you have some news on that so-called Egyptian princess?
Dr Bell has deduced that he was a right-handed stonemason
whose last meal was a steak and kidney pie
and that the killer had murdered him
with some kind of a wide-bladed implement,
like a knife or a sword or a scythe,
and that the killer had gone to some trouble
to conceal the victim's identity.
My bag will take care of this draft.
I noticed that there's no provision included for yourself.
Why would I seek to profit?
Don't misunderstand me. I respect the fact.
You are protecting your friend's honour for no personal reward.
Do you know what a rarity that makes you?
I don't believe anybody would do the same.
Let me see if I can make this visit worth your while.
Sometimes I feel as though I can't turn round in this country
without someone trying to rob, cheat or take advantage of me.
You are a breath of fresh air, Dr Doyle.
Where are we going, sir?
I have a patient for you.
Michael!
Yes, sir?
Tuck your chair or something and let the doctor take a look at that leg.
Well, this wouldn't hurt so much if you'd had it treated sooner.
Well, the problem, then, trying to find a doctor
who is prepared to travel further than the last rich widow someone.
That's hardly fair.
The pike's a good man. It's far better established than I.
So how did this happen?
There were thieves in the boathouse.
There was a shotgun accident when Michael chased them off.
Did they get away with anything?
A wagonload of cheap stone urns and statues of no great value,
which I'm sure they were convinced was some priceless treasure.
We laughed about it, Michael.
Gladys! Remember Dr Doyle?
They were dynamiting tree stumps down by the lake again.
Lightning got spooked.
Were you thrown? I mean, the doctor's right here.
Oh, me?
Don't worry, Dr Doyle. Maybe next time.
So have someone call up my surgery this afternoon.
I'll have some medicines ready.
Thank you. I'm sorry I did not get to see your Dr Bell in action.
I expect he's gone home.
No. He's still in South Sea.
Well, then, maybe we'll meet.
You must both come for dinner.
I'll be waiting for you.
I'll be waiting for you.
I'll be waiting for you.
I'll be waiting for you.
I'll be waiting for you.
I'll be waiting for you.
You must both come for dinner.
Your mystery's got me hooked.
I have to say that I have been sold a lot of things
that weren't as old as they pretended to be.
But not one of them was a dead body.
Oh, you know there's a journalist at your gate.
That's right.
I'll be right there.
I suppose you could say he lived over the shop.
Come and look at this.
It's a note of receipt for the mummy.
From who?
It doesn't say. There's no signature, only a mark.
A mark I've seen before.
There's one exactly like it on the wrappings of the mummy.
It's a letter.
It's a letter.
It's a letter.
It's a letter.
It's a letter.
It's a letter on the wrappings of the mummy.
It's no wonder Mr. Proctor had no luck in his translating.
That's not an Egyptian hieroglyph. That's a Romani sign.
Gypsies.
Not just gypsies.
They're used by all sorts of itinerants.
They leave their marks on doors and gate posts.
It's their way of signalling to each other when they're on the road.
Yes, gypsies, Egypt.
You'll just tie up.
Let me warn you about these travelling people, Doctor.
They can be as honest as the day is long,
but you know how short the days are in winter.
They have nothing to fear from me nor I from them.
Surely they'll cooperate in a police matter.
They'll do more than they have to.
Very well. I shall have to try alone.
I can't recommend that, Doctor Bell.
If you must, take my police whistle as a precaution.
A blast from that can be heard a mile away.
You're anticipating trouble.
Well, they're van dwellers, and to them we're flaties.
And here we come inviting them to squeal on their own.
Don't be surprised if the invitations not take them,
is all I'll say.
Hey!
Invitation wasted, I'm afraid.
By the way, can you get some of your men to check all the porn brokers
for a recently pledged watch,
possibly with the length of chain still attached?
It's already being done.
Eastern necromancy.
When I was a boy, my father took me to see John Henry Anderson.
They called him the great wizard of the north.
I thought that was Sir Walter Scott.
Well, this was a professional magician.
He put a young woman in a cabinet and ran a sword straight through it.
You do know what Maskelyne's Magic Theatre in London is called?
The Egyptian Hall.
Could we be looking at the consequence of a failed illusion?
It's a possible explanation, but not a complete one.
If an illusion fails, it fails in public.
The disaster is there for all to see.
And by what logic do you cover such a disaster
by disguising a rotting body as a museum piece?
You can see the lights of the house.
What's Donovan's full name?
Hayward Donovan.
And he wants to meet me.
He admires your methods.
Indeed.
And you admire something else, I suppose.
Well, Dr. Donovan.
Mr. Donovan.
And what are your feelings on the Celtic revival?
Well, I see little future or sense in the politics of revenge.
We were talking about its significance in art and culture.
We never discuss politics at the dinner table.
Forgive me, but when people become so emotionally engaged with the past
that they can't form a proper view of the present,
that's when your art and your politics become difficult to separate.
This isn't right.
Mr. Donovan, I can't think why you insist on quizzing me
as if I were a detective.
I assure you I'm not.
I'm just fascinated by your methods, that's all.
For a doctor, a method of observation and deduction
is necessary for clinical diagnosis.
I'm sorry, have I been rude? Please tell me if I have.
No, not at all. Merely direct.
A colonial trait. No offense taken?
No.
Oh, dear, oh, dear.
What troubles you, sir?
The place setting. It's all wrong.
It's all changed, sir.
The family you served had to part with the house.
You're my guest now.
He was a chaplain to other people that lived here,
but that was a long, long time ago.
Ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha!
Please feel free to take a last look, ladies and gentlemen.
Before these treasures leave your shores,
the colonial raider has struck at your sale rooms
for the very last time.
Just remember, if you break it, you bought it.
Ha-ha-ha-ha!
Don't you touch it, ladies!
He knows exactly what he's doing.
I don't know if he really will be here.
He's already here.
Ah, this will fit in right over the main fireplace.
I measured it first to be sure.
You don't like me, do you?
You're too ready to be disliked.
Never jump to conclusions.
Is that one of the rules of the method?
You must have a very big fireplace.
It's big enough to walk into.
And you know what the whole thing is made out of?
No.
Dinosaur bones.
The whole valley is lousy with them.
Now, I send out cartloads of relics to museums all over the world,
and they send me back cartloads of money.
The fall of Lucifer.
I was schooled by Jesuits.
Hell holds no terrors for me.
I didn't realise you were a Catholic, Dr Doyle.
Severely lapsed.
My family would have me play it for advantage,
whereas I feel to play it at all would be irrelevant.
So you live by your principles.
Such as they are?
I may have misjudged you, Doctor.
You mean I might not be the provincial idiot that you thought I was?
No.
Thank you, Miss Donovan.
My brother appears to have left the party.
Well, he did seem a little vague at the table.
He's like a child these days.
I'll have my men check the house.
I'll have my men check the house.
I'll have my men check the house.
You cannot reach to inclusions based on what you read in the Bible.
It's there in Holy Writ.
It says, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.
If you're going to take the Bible literally,
it becomes as dangerous as any other work of art.
No man is justified in harming another on the grounds
that worse happen between his ancestors.
Well, thank God for a man that can give a decent argument.
All those other ninis can talk about are my eyes or my skin
or my voice or my hair.
My heart's racing.
Feel.
It's all right, isn't it?
It's perfect.
I mean, it's all right because you're a doctor.
The pulse is more commonly taken at the rest.
Collard-Bowlg.
Collard-Bowlg?
The fairy sword of Cuchalum.
Ah, yes, the great warrior king of the Celts.
May I?
This was his Excalibur, was it not?
A formidable symbol.
And a formidable weapon in its time.
More intended for ceremony than for war.
Please be careful, Dr. Bell.
It is very old.
I hadn't realized there was a reserve collection
as well as the main one,
or that you had such a passionate interest in Celtic history.
It is the land of my fathers.
And yet here you are in England.
What is so strange about that?
I've heard it said that the average enemy is a sucking dog
when his feelings towards England
does compare to a true bitter Irish American.
Well, there you are. I'm not an American.
No offense taken.
No.
My brother needs to go home.
I think our evening is at an end.
Such a pity. I was enjoying it so.
I'll call carriages.
Don't slow down, driver!
An extra guinea if you don't slow down!
What's wrong, Doctor?
The sword.
It must be the sword.
Dr. Bell, sir?
Quickly. Has anyone been in the water since I left?
No, Doctor, of course not.
No cats, no baby babies.
No...
Doctor, why this haste?
Sometimes, Doyle, it is not a matter of the detail
but the perspective from which one views the detail
that is important.
Our host tonight was not remotely interested in my method.
He was merely trying to discover how much I might know.
Why? And one must also ask why,
given that he's obviously so passionate about Celtic mythology,
he should be at such pains to disguise his enthusiasm.
What of his household staff? Those men were not trained servants.
No, not of the place, settings, or the service or anything to go by.
Now, there may be a connection here or there may be nothing of the kind.
What we have here may be the consequence of a...
of a bizarre accident or a strange and savage ritual.
But I wonder if what we are looking at
is actually some kind of ceremony or execution.
Ah!
Ah!
Watch.
Towel, please.
Not removed but driven into the body cavity.
Exactly.
I had underestimated the power of the thrust.
I think we better send for Inspector Warden.
Look here. If you'll stop eating that pie and listen for a minute,
I have an important job for you.
Is it inscribed, you may ask?
Yes, it is. Hudson.
Stone Mason has a name.
And once had a proud father who made him a gift of this.
Ah!
Look, fetch the inspector.
And I will personally stand you bare and oysters
in any public house you care to name.
Sorry, Dr. Dore. I was just eating my supper.
Doctor!
The mummy's on fire.
Dr. Bell.
I have to move you, sir. Quickly.
Petroleum.
Right, sir.
Give me a hand. Quick, ma'am.
You!
Who's that?
Something holding it.
Quickly!
I'll see if I can get some more help.
Sir, have you seen someone running?
That way, sir.
I'm not going anywhere.
Well, doctor.
You! Who are these men?
Say hello to the rebel sons of Ireland.
The Finians?
My God, you're a cell of terrorists.
Into the coach.
I'm sorry.
You stay there, doctor.
I'm not going to do very long to see you.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry we had to leave you in the dark for so long, Dr. Doyle.
We'll have you on your way in just a moment.
Search the house and get him found.
There's no doubt that Dr. Doyle will be missed.
I'm going to take no chances.
I'm going to bring the plan forward.
Let's get the men on their way. We can deal with Doyle.
Right, boys. Off to London with you.
James, good.
You and your brother to Lord Ruxon's house,
Francis and Danny to end more power.
I'll take care of the final target myself.
Where do you put the bags?
We'll get them.
You two, take that journalist out of confessional
and dump his body in the lake.
Let's go.
They're stamping all over the trail.
Which way?
No sorts of ceremonies for this one.
Let's round him up and shoot him like a dog.
Easy, Lightning. Easy.
Whoa!
Father! I found him!
Whoa!
Whoa!
Whoa, boy! Whoa!
Whoa!
Whoa!
Whoa!
Whoa!
Ah! Oh!
Oh! Oh! Oh!
Oh!
No!
Oh, boy!
Oh, boy!
Oh, boy!
Ah! Ah! Ah!
Doctor?
You're well.
Oh, I shall live, and I'm happy to say so shall you.
Will you talk to them for me, Dr. Doyle? I'm having a bit of trouble here.
Who's are the elephants?
Oh, they're part of this dog and pony show we hitched up with.
Look, we don't know anything about any dead bodies.
Will you tell his jewels here?
I think I can put most of it together.
Heywood Donovan is sponsoring a sale of Fenian skirmishers in a campaign to commit outrages on the British mainland.
He told me he'd been duped by an agent into renting an estate so far outside London.
The truth is he wanted to be close to Portsmouth. It's where the Irish packet boats come and go.
He's no Irishman. He's a Canadian. What's his argument?
A sentimental indignation of the most destructive kind.
They've been practising with dynamite.
Miss Donovan's horse had been panicked by an explosion on the day of my first visit.
I think a man named Michael is their bondmaker. I treated his injured leg.
We found him alone at the estate. He won't say where the others are.
They're on their way to London. They brought their plans forward.
To strike where?
I heard mention of Lord Ruxton's house at St. James's and Enmore Park.
There's at least one other target, but I...
Did these bombs have clocks or normal fuses?
I couldn't see. Is that significant?
There was an attempted outrage at Victoria Station three months ago.
The device had a clockwork fuse that failed to go off.
The work of the same cell, perhaps.
I know they've been making their plans for some time.
I saw them about to put a body in the lake, prepared in the same way as the murdered stonemason.
I believe it's Donovan's dumping ground for anyone who shows too much interest.
Slain with a Celtic sword and disposed off by the former sailor with a mermaid tattoo.
Mr Walker. Sir?
Speculate with me, please. As long as I don't have to admit to anything.
Donovan's man was treated for a shotgun accident.
It happened while he was chasing robbers from the boathouse.
The thieves got away with garden statues that they mistook for antiquities.
I saw those smashed up at the innyard.
But they mistook something else, did they not?
One murdered stonemason in a canvas shroud made ready for disposal in the lake.
Rigid with rigor mortis, hand to a layman's eyes, not unlike an Egyptian mummy,
which was the kind of thing they were expecting to see anyway.
So they take everything back to their gaffer, and their gaffer is not impressed.
This is merely speculation.
The petty crimes of a wintering showtrooper have no interest to me today.
I told them to smash up the rubbish, but see if we could make an exhibit out of the mummy.
Put it on show as the pharaoh's daughter. You know, a bit of glamour pulls them in.
Which meant giving it to your scene painter to dress up a bit.
The glue size I smelt on the canvas, that was theatrical pigment, no?
That wasn't all you could smell. After a few days it started to stink and leak.
We couldn't show it like that. I told Walter to get rid of it.
So you sold it to Mr. Ruben Proctor of the South Sea Museum of Natural History and Antiquity.
And then drank the seven Guinness.
Don't waste your time with him, Dr. Bell. He's not even with us.
I have painted cloths for Charles Keen.
I have made scenes for Kimball.
I've worked with Hall of the Globe and Buxton at the Haymarket.
The John Milley told me that my Midsummer Night's Dream was fit to hang in the Royal Academy.
You are a master of your craft, sir. And you deceived us well.
We salute you for it.
Here comes the next man.
Ah, Inspector.
What?
Inspector, have you done with us? We need to get back to town.
I'm not done with you yet, gentlemen.
I'm afraid we're too late to prevent the skirmishers from reaching London.
Well, that is in the hands of the Metropolitan Police, surely.
It is. But who's going to identify these men?
There's only you and Dr. Doyle that'll know them on sight.
What use is that? Here it's of no use at all.
But I'm going to stop the next express train and put you on it.
We're less than a mile from the main line.
Can you do that?
This is a national emergency, Doctor. I'll do whatever's called for.
Shall we move on?
In a moment.
Enmore Park covers quite an area.
I'm sorry. I can't be more precise.
That's one of my men. I've got a whole division out there.
All right.
Suppose...
Recognise someone?
I'll be sure.
I've got it!
You've got to swallow something!
I'm trying to swallow this.
It's Lord Rochester's house. This address.
Town and Country Club.
Move back!
May I help you, sir?
I'm Superintendent Mulford, Scotland Yard. Who's in charge here?
My apologies for disturbing your rest, gentlemen, but there is danger here.
You must leave the building at once.
Follow me here, gentlemen.
Please come in.
Towards the front door, gentlemen.
Not another step, gentlemen!
Doyle is a former medical student who has not lost his taste for student pranks.
And I have had enough of him.
He specialises in the attempted humiliation of his betters.
And on more than one occasion...
Please, Superintendent Mulford, sir, of Scotland Yard.
Let me assure you the danger is genuine.
And you will all assist me by leaving the premises immediately.
Immediately, gentlemen!
No! No!
What the devil are you doing here? The bombs are at the pillar box!
If you value your life, old man, then leave this place now.
I do, and that warning may just have saved your soul from hell.
Sergeant!
What's up, George?
Sir, they reverted to ordinary fuses when their clockwork time has failed.
Clockwork fuses don't make smoke.
No.
But caused everyone to be sent out into the street.
Imagine the mayhem that would have followed.
The night's not over yet. There's one more target still.
Let Mulford do his job. We have done all we can.
Doyle, what was the name on the stonemason's watch?
Hudson.
And what is the name on that stonemason's wagon?
Driver, stop!
Whoa!
Tell the superintendent we've found the third target.
Very good, sir.
We shall now sing the hymn, our God, our God.
We'll have to interrupt the service.
And do what? Send everybody outside?
What if the bombs are out there?
Do you gentlemen wish to join the worship?
Could you tell us where the stonemasons have been working?
It's all right. You can tell us.
We're doctors.
And our defense is sure.
Before the hills in order stood,
O earth, receive her frame.
From everlasting, thou art God,
To endless years the same.
Please stand.
O God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come.
Our shelter from the stormy dust,
And our eternal home.
Beneath the shadow of thy throne,
Thy saints have dwelt secure.
Our sufficient is thy arm alone,
And our defense is sure.
Please stand.
O God, our help in ages past,
Our shelter from the stormy dust,
And our eternal home.
It will be safe enough if I just watch you
until the police arrive.
On the shortest possible fuse,
no time to reconsider.
The stonemason marked the pillar for you.
He had his uses.
Take that one away and the whole roof comes down.
Or so he reckons.
Beneath the shadow of thy throne,
Thy saints have dwelt secure.
Why, church?
Minor royalty.
Big wedding Saturday.
All those leeches and politicians in one fell swoop.
But you brought everything forward.
Thanks to you.
You've no enemies down there tonight. Just ordinary people, women and children.
The casualties of war.
You're not at war. You're not even Irish.
The shades of the oppressed call on me for justice.
I'm amazed they can find you in your mansion.
Which of the sixty rooms do you dears suffer in?
My daughter is dead.
And on whose conscience is that, if not yours?
Receive thy frame.
From ever lost in battle...
God, I'm alive.
I...
Pardon me, sir, but please, one sporting.
But I think you set the president tonight.
Ah!
Ah!
Safe.
The door, everybody! No!
No!
No!
No!
No!
No!
Not too close, dear, you'll hurt your eyes.
Mother, I'm trying to read what it says.
Ruben Charles Proctor, curator of this museum, 1882 to 1884.
Thank you, doctor.
Pleasure.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
Thank you, doctor.
Pleasure.
Take time.
Innis, why are you cowering here like a wee, sleep, timorous beastie?
Mrs Williams said if I stayed here and held my wish, I'd get all the left over sandwiches.
Let's hope the present company are not hungry then.
But I'm glad to find you. We have to say goodbye.
I'm on my way back to Edinburgh today.
Did you not wish you were coming with me?
You like living in England.
Arthur says he values my company.
And that's why you're here.
Father's in the madhouse. I'm not supposed to say.
Arthur won't hear it spoken of.
I see.
Innis, will you do something for me?
Should your brother meet with distress or difficulty, will you write to me?
He need not know. It'll be our wee secret.
All right.
Get yourself a sandwich, never mind Mrs Williams.
Who is the artist?
Walter Ward, madam. A neglected master.
Although his Midsummer Night's Dream was deemed worthy of the Royal Academy.
Worth staying on for?
I understand that part of the Haywood Donovan collection is to be confiscated
and donated to the museum in your late friend's name.
Ruben says she's a handsome woman, or she not?
Oh, Joanne.
What?
I despair of you.
I mean as a work of art in herself.
Save your artfulness for your stories. I must go. I have a train to catch.
Don't bother to come and see me off.
Take care of yourself until you find someone else who will.
Until the next time?
Whenever that may be.
Sooner than you think.
Next time on Mystery.
Your telegram said there'd been a murder.
I knew Alicia Cray in all her life.
I think she found someone to love after her husband was murdered.
Revenge, but revenge by whom?
Only clear and concrete evidence will lead us to this murderer.
Murder Rooms on Mystery.
There is still so much I would like to understand.
On cover our website at PBS online, www.pbs.org.
Stay tuned as Mystery continues when Agatha Christie's spinster sleuth,
Miss Marple, investigates the body in the library.
Next here on GBH2, talk about great television.
Mystery was made possible by contributions to a PBS station from viewers like you.
Thank you.
This is PBS.
He's suave and sophisticated.
Are we talking Lindley the detective inspector or Lindley the eighth Earl of Asshet?
And she hates his guts.
Lindley?
That arrogant aristocratic pounce, as I believe you once referred to me.
And they're off to the bucolic countryside together to solve a nasty murder.
He was decapitated, discovered by his 16-year-old daughter Roberta, who is now hospitalized in a traumatic state.
The murder victim left behind plenty of potential suspects and a secret past.
It was dead right there. Newborn baby.
What happened between you and Roberta?
Must have been a bit shocked when you discovered your uncle was going to get married again.
You're not the only one who thinks I'm guilty.
A dead baby, Tessa's disappearance, Gillian's, Richard Tay's inheritance, we are drowning in information.
But their personal lives keep getting in the way of the truth.
A woman is a minefield.
What the hell do you think you're doing?
You see what you want and you take it. Screw the consequences.
I'm not sure how much more of this I can take.
Talk to me!
Is there anything you can tell us, anything at all?
You have ruined my life.
The Inspector Lindley mysteries.
Do you believe me?
Mystery returns this summer.
Excellent idea.
This is a radical finding.
Mystery is made possible on GBH by the financial support of members like you in partnership with Fidelity Investments.
Fidelity has the expertise, service, and technology to help you see yourself succeeding.
For more information, you can visit them at Fidelity.com.
Well, I love to thank how many Channel 2 viewers there are who curl up in libraries like this one or like the one in your house
and read Agatha Christie's mysteries and have for years.
And perhaps you have a television in the corner of your library or your living room or wherever you live
and you have watched mystery for years.
If you have, you've probably been a long-time supporter of WGBH.
And I want to tip my hat to each of you who've given as much as you can to support our station and our programs like this one.
Tales well told.
Tales beautifully told.
Tales that are at the top of the television heap.
We're going to keep it coming in the year ahead, but we need your support right now.
If you're a WGBH member, this is the time to pick up your phone and make an additional gift, 1-800-492-1111.
The need is urgent. The time is short, as you know, and this is the time to make that pledge, that contribution.
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And they also are the proud carriers of their WGBH member cards, which are a small symbol of their support of these great stations, Channel 2 and Channel 44.
I'm going to be here for the next couple of minutes with my friend, Ann Williams.
And Ann, as you all know, a dedicated fan of mystery and of so many of the programs on Channel 2.
And you've got some stuff that I hope I get everybody to give as much as they can.
I sure hope so, John. This is the perfect thing to curl up in a nice leather chair with.
This is a wonderful collection of Agatha Christie stories about Miss Marple.
And we would love to send this to you as our way of saying thank you when you make a family membership of just $60 to WGBH.
You can use your American Express MasterCard Visa or Discover.
You can also ask the volunteer about how to budget out the amount that you pledge.
Or if you'd like to step up to a pledge of $120, let us send you this gigantic mystery beach towel.
It's wonderful. It's got an outline of a body on it.
And it's really very, very high quality, as is everything on WGBH.
We don't do anything wrong. We do it well. And that's because you have very good taste.
We know what you appreciate, what you enjoy and what you want more of by what you respond to with your pledge.
So pick up the phone right now. It's toll free, 800-492-1111.
Pledge $60 and ask for the book of Agatha Christie stories.
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Or step up to a pledge of $150 and ask us to send you both, the book and the beach towel.
Wouldn't that be wonderful to lie around and read with? Just fantastic stories.
The kind you can really just jump right into.
That's what good television really is all about, introducing you to great stories, great literature, great art and music.
You are the one that makes this all happen.
So why don't you go to your phone right now and give us a call at 492-1111. Watch this.
Is there anything you can tell us, anything at all?
This is one of the rare occasions when amputated fingers are able to point to something.
You want answers. You still have nothing to get them.
Will you share your observations with us?
I'm not sure how much more of this I can take.
I beg you to be strong and keep your wits about you.
Well, have you picked up your phone? Have you sent us your cheque? Have you joined us on the web?
What's stopping you? There are lots of you who are fans of mystery.
The old classic mystery programs that we bring you and the new ones.
And there are lots of you who have families who watch some of our children's programs.
And what about this old house and Victory Garden and all the rest?
And remember Julia Child? I hope that you'll support WGBH right now, our penetrating dramas,
our wonderful, insightful programs that help you be a better citizen and be more informed.
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...Indians in a campaign of rumor and subversion.
They fanned the smoldering resentment aroused by the evangelists
who appeared to threaten the sacred beliefs of Hindu and Muslim alike.
They whispered that the British had been defeated in the Crimea
and that a Russian army was now advancing on India.
None of this was true. It was the Russians who had been defeated.
But the rumor was widely believed.
The British agents of the East India Company were puzzled and alarmed.
As tensions rose, they tried to keep their fears from their families.
But their only security rested in the native troops of the East India Company
Sikhs, Gurkhas, Patans, Hindus and Muslims.
By the 1850s, their ranks had swollen to over 260,000.
More than ten times the number of British soldiers stationed in India
and more than twice the size of the entire British army around the world.
Their loyalty was vital if the British were to remain in India.
And in the wake of the Crimean War, the Company made a seemingly trivial decision
that would prove disastrous.
British instructors began to train their Indian troops to use a new rifle,
the Lee-Enfield, with a cartridge that was greased with animal fat.
A rumor spread that the grease was made from a mixture of beef and pork,
one forbidden to Hindus, the other to Muslims.
It triggered a revolt known to the British as the Indian Mutiny
and to the Indians as the First War of Independence.
The immediate reason for the revolt was the belief amongst many of the Indian soldiers
that they were being polluted deliberately by the British
with cartridges which had either beef or pork fat.
However, once it actually started, a whole range of grievances came to the fore
which were connected with the things that the British had been doing in the preceding 30 years.
The revolt began in the garrison town of Meerut in the far north
when 90 troopers refused to handle the new cartridges.
The soldiers were publicly stripped of their uniforms and sentenced to 10 years' hard labor.
The next day was a Sunday, May 10, 1857.
As the British settled down after the church service,
their slumbers were disturbed by the sound of gunfire.
Native troops had stormed the prison and released their 90 comrades.
Then, joined by a mob from the bazaar, they charged into the British quarter.
Barracks and bungalows were torched.
Men, women and children were slaughtered.
The great mutiny had begun.
At first, it was confined to one area in the north.
The isolated British garrisons throughout India held their breath to see if the mutiny would spread.
So too did Nana Sahib.
Despite the urgings of Azamullah Khan and others,
he held back until he knew how the British would react.
Just a few miles from his palace was the garrison town of Kanpur,
a magnet for many of the young women who had left Britain in search of a husband.
One of them had been lent a piano by Nana Sahib,
who was friendly with several of the British families in the garrison.
Sincerely or not, Nana Sahib assured them that he would protect British women and children with his personal army
if local Indian troops joined the mutiny.
Throat-may, the peace held, and the British did their best to continue as usual.
It was the calm before the storm.
On June 4, 1857, the Indian troops attacked their British officers and set fire to their quarters.
The entire European community of 1,000 men, women, and children fled to a half-built barrack block on the edge of the city,
hastily fortified against attack.
Two days later, Nana Sahib joined the rebels with his own army and took personal command of the siege.
The makeshift fortress was raked by cannon and musket fire.
As Amula mockingly called it, Fort Despair.
On June 10, news of the revolt reached Britain, and 30,000 troops were sent to deal with the crisis.
But it would take several months for the slow-moving troop ships to reach India.
Meanwhile, at Kanpur and nearby Lucknow, the beleaguered British garrisons held out week after week under constant bombardment.
Several hundred women were besieged within makeshift defenses, gradually whittled away, several of them having babies, as went along, disease coming in, of course, lack of food.
It was the most horrific experience.
One of the women, 18-year-old Amelia Horne, described the horrors in detail.
Every shot that struck the barracks was followed by heart-rending shrieks of women and children who were either killed outright by the projectiles or crushed to death by falling beans, masonry, and splinters.
Sometimes a whole family would be found lying dead, side by side.
The only source of water was a well swept by sniper fire.
On one occasion, we were obliged to drink some water mixed with human blood from the wounds of a native nurse or ire, who, while standing nearby, had both her legs carried away by the bursting of a shell.
On June 12, the hospital block was set alight by shell fire, burning many of the wounded to death and destroying all the remaining medical supplies.
No relief whatever could now be offered to the sick and wounded.
There was nothing now to soothe their dying moments.
The heat affected their wounds, and the fly settled on them and drove them crazy.
It was now that our skirts were in demand.
We tore every vestige to supply bandages for the wounded.
On the 25th of June, 1857, Manasaib offered a deal.
If the British would move out, he guaranteed safe conduct for the survivors to leave Kanpur by boat down the River Ganges.
They had no choice but to accept.
The point of departure was a Hindu temple where the faithful took their ritual baths.
A fleet of boats had been assembled with native crews to punt the survivors to safety.
Thatch donnings protected them from the heat of the sun.
But as the Europeans climbed aboard, the boatmen leapt ashore, scattering burning embers from their cooking stoves.
Hundreds of native troops emerged from hiding and fired volley after volley into the burning boats.
Mounted troopers rode into the water, slashing down with their sabers.
Over 500 men, women, and children died in the massacre of Kanpur.
Just four men escaped downriver to tell the tale.
120 women and children who had survived the slaughter were rounded up on the riverbank.
Captives were herded into a building where the Indian mistress of a British officer had once lived, known as a bibigar.
But help was finally on the way.
A scratch force of a thousand Scottish Highlanders, a few English fusiliers, and some loyal Sikhs had been sent from other parts of India.
They marched down the Grand Trunk Road in the full heat of the Indian summer.
Nana Saib set out to confront them at the head of 5,000 rebels.
The new rifles played a key role, picking the rebels off at long range.
The result was a victory for the British.
The survivors fled back to the city to warn their supporters.
The British are coming like mad beasts, caring for neither cannon nor musketry.
At the bibigar, the number of captives had risen to 180 women and children, crowded into the three rooms and courtyard of the house.
They included the two young friends who, barely five weeks before, had been playing chamber music on Nana Saib's piano.
Many of the prisoners were wounded, dying of cholera and other infections, or broken by heat and despair.
A few recorded their experiences on scraps of paper, or scratched them on the walls with charcoal and broken bits of pottery.
You could hear the rumble of guns as the relief force neared the city.
But the faces that appeared at the windows were not those of British soldiers.
The mutineers fired two volleys into the crowded rooms, but sickened by the slaughter, they refused to fire again.
The villagers were recruited from the town.
It was a little before sunset when they entered the bibigar.
They emerged an hour later.
At the sight of them, the remaining onlookers fled into the darkness.
In the morning, a party of volunteers arrived to clear the bodies.
They took them out of the building, stripped them of their blood-soaked clothing, and threw them down a nearby well.
Eyewitnesses reported that several women and children were still alive, but they were thrown in along with the mutilated corpses.
I think the attacks on women can be explained in terms of a belief that the honor of a particular group was reposed in the women.
And often, when a group was conquered in war, women were attacked, raped, taken away into slavery, and so on.
This was part of humiliating an enemy.
The streets of Kanpur were deserted as the relief force entered the city.
Thousands had fled before them.
The police directed the advance guard to the bibigar.
The first to open the door was a young officer of the 78th Highlanders.
He reported that the scene he saw was the most awful that the eye could behold.
He was wrong.
A few moments later, he found the well.
The news reached Britain a few weeks later.
When the details begin of the mutiny begin to appear in the British press in the summer of 1857, there is horror and outrage.
Stories were coming back of the murder of European women and children, often in the most hideous circumstances.
And the sort of respect which the Victorians had for women and for children, this was outraged.
Women at that time in Great Britain had been elevated to a ridiculous pedestal of sanctity and virtue,
which made them on a different plane from men and meant that the attack on them by people of another race was not only sexually wicked,
but was actually religiously wicked too.
And so the stories that came out of Kanpur for the women to be taken away into a small house and quite deliberately and obscenely slaughtered,
affected the English public very, very greatly.
Victoria wrote to the wife of the governor general in Calcutta.
Our thoughts are almost solely occupied with India.
My heart bleeds for the horrors that have been committed by people, once so gentle on my poor country women and innocent little children.
It haunts me day and night.
The massacres at Kanpur were not only the worst atrocity the British could imagine.
They were regarded by the men who had conquered India as the most shameful reproach.
They had failed their women and children.
The darkness of the well at the Bibigarh closed over them all.
Atrocities, well, that was actually war, and when you have war, there are bound to be some excesses.
On both sides, yes.
Well, it started off with a bunch of people, soldiers, who had a simmering resentment against the British who were lording it over them.
So when they got the chance to get back at them, they were maybe were quite excessive.
But thereafter, the retributions were quite terrible.
Thousands of British reinforcements poured into the affected area.
Nanasaheb's palace was looted and levelled to the ground.
But Nanasaheb and his followers had fled to the mountains, and with them, Azim-ul-Aqan.
They were hunted by the British for years, but never found.
Instead, the British turned on other targets for their revenge.
What had happened at Kanpur became the justification for brutal reprisals.
We will have people like Dickens saying, you know, we must retaliate with the fiercest measures.
Well, they could save their breath. This was already happening in India.
Clergymen are talking in terms of, we need more massacres, more must be killed.
And it reached such a point that some observers thought that the British people were suddenly revealing a deep-down savagery which everyone thought had disappeared.
Captured mutineers were taken to the Bibigarh and made to lick the congealed blood from a patch of floor.
Then they were strung up from the nearest tree.
But the noose did not satisfy the army's thirst for revenge.
Any rebel whom they captured, they would either kill on the spot, or they would torture them,
or ritually pollute them by forcing, say, Muslims to eat pork or Hindus to eat beef,
after which they would hang them from a tree, from a scaffold, or blow them from guns.
This they did by attaching their arms to the large wheels of the guns of those days and their body in front of the barrel of the gun, just blowing them to pieces.
Back in England, powerful voices were raised against the British descent into barbarity.
At Windsor Castle, the Queen and Prince Albert sank into a deep gloom.
The news from India seemed a mockery of Albert's hopes for the spread of civilized values through trade.
At his urging, the Queen wrote to the Governor General in India.
I should deeply deprecate any retribution on old men, women and children, for then how could we expect any respect or esteem for us in the future?
As the mood of grief and shame descended on Britain, Victoria declared October 7th a national day of humiliation.
So that we and our people may humble ourselves before Almighty God in order to obtain pardon for our sins
and send up prayers to the Divine Majesty for the restoration of tranquility.
But one thing would not be restored.
The British government decided that a country the size of India could no longer be ruled by a private trading company.
Prince Albert helped draft the Royal Proclamation that assumed direct rule by the British Crown.
He insisted,
The document should breathe feelings of generosity, benevolence and religious toleration.
The Queen agreed. In the final version she assured her Indian subjects,
The deep attachment which Her Majesty feels to her own religion,
and the comfort and happiness which she derives from its consolations,
will preclude her from any attempt to interfere with the native religions,
and her servants will be directed to act scrupulously in accordance with her directions.
May the Proclamation be the beginning of a new era and may it draw a veil over the sad and bloody past.
The Queen is suddenly as it were projected as India's new ruler,
and she promises her people that she will take care of them in a motherly way,
she will give them peace and justice and honest government.
And the British accession of power, total power in London, is a statement that there is a new beginning,
and that those who wish to introduce change will do so more gingerly and carefully in future.
As a symbol of her trust in her new subjects, from then on, on almost every occasion she appeared in public,
two Indian attendants would be at her side.
But not the man who had been there since the early years of her reign,
the man who had taught her how to rule an empire.
In December 1861, Prince Albert fell ill at Windsor Castle.
The Prime Minister was alarmed. The Queen was not.
The Prince has had a feverish cold these last few days, which disturbed his rest at night,
but Her Majesty has seen His Royal Highness similarly affected before,
and hopes that in a few days it will pass off.
But the Prince grew worse.
The doctors suspected that he had fallen victim to a killer disease lurking in the drains of the medieval castle, typhoid.
Victoria charted his decline in snatches of anguished prose.
In an agony of despair about my dearest Albert,
and crying much for, saw no improvement, and my dearest Albert was so listless, and took so little notice.
She recorded the final scene in Albert's bedroom on December 14th, 1861.
I bent over him and said to him,
It is your little wife. I took his dear left hand which was already cold, though the breathing was quite gentle,
and I knelt down by him.
Two or three long but perfectly gentle breaths were drawn, the hand clasping mine, and all, all was over.
That single death in Windsor Castle was to change the course of Victoria's empire.
Next time on Queen Victoria's Empire.
The future of the country is uncertain, as two men battle for government control.
While abroad, conflicts increase because of the growing British presence on foreign soil.
The end of an extraordinary era draws near.
Next time on Queen Victoria's Empire.
Learn more about Queen Victoria on PBS online.
Click on our interactive map to watch the expansion of the British Empire during Victoria's reign.
Or take a look behind the scenes and learn about the making of this empire's special.
It's all online at pbs.org.
To order Queen Victoria's Empire on videocassette, call PBS Home Video at 1-800-PLAY-PBS.
Tomorrow night at 8 o'clock, experts uncover an unusual collection of walking sticks on Antiques Roadshow UK.
That's Thursday night at 8 here on GBH 44.
Now stay tuned for Secrets of the Dead, next.
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I believe in Eve.
No!
I'm Emily Rooney. Tonight at greater Boston, Cardinal Law gives his deposition.
What did he know and when?
Plus a look back at the Cardinal's career.
And Middlesex DA Martha Coakley.
Tonight at midnight on WGBH 44.
Hi, I'm Paul from the past.
And I'm Kim Perez-Gard.
And this week on Cinema Sunday we'll be watching Singing in the Rain with Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds.
It's the 50th anniversary of what many consider the greatest musical ever made.
And afterwards we've got a documentary on the man in his umbrella, Gene Kelly, an anatomy of a dancer, part of the American Masters series.
So watch Cinema Sunday, this Sunday night, only on WGBH 44.
1975, the fall of Saigon. Operation Babylift brings thousands of orphans into the welcoming arms of American families.
Twenty-five years later, these same children return to Vietnam to find their past.
It answered a lot of questions.
To find themselves.
It's kind of overwhelming. I think it's coming back.
It just felt wonderful seeing my own person.
Precious Cargo.
Monday night on WGBH 44.
I am the greatest.
It was amazing to see a man declare his absolute beliefs in what he said.
The price of freedom comes high. I'm freedom-mongering.
In the history books, he will go down as the greatest moving heavyweight of all time.
I said that I was going to emulate him one day and I'm trying to do that today.
Most athletes, they're all diminished by time.
But Ali seems to have grown with time.
After the fight, Torello will know he was in a scuffle because he couldn't match the Ali shuffle.
He is Cassius Clay, whom I call Muhammad Ali.
With great respect.
I'm the prettiest thing. I'm the greatest thing.
I'm the greatest thing that ever was in boxing and I'm humble.
Tuesday night on WGBH 44.
Frontline World premieres May 23rd on GBH2.
Independent. Original. 44.
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Tonight on Secrets of the Dead, a hunt turns deadly.
Six million years later, the remains shed light on the dawn of humanity.
This discovery is getting back to the common ancestor, the modern African apes and ourselves.
Will these bones shatter the current theory of where we are from?
Classic image of ape-like creatures gradually becoming upright.
That's to be thrown in the wastebasket.
Uncover the search for the first human on Secrets of the Dead.