Episode 2 - The Lodging House

[music] Victoria City by Chris and Jan Suggden. Episode 2. [music] Even greater London, 1887. Children played, adults worked, and a mile high tower beamed electricity outputs across hundreds of miles of uninterrupted city. The building of the tower had brought with it wealth and innovation, and if the latent charge in the atmosphere meant that going out in the rain came with a risk of spontaneous combustion, then so be it. It was a small price to pay for progress, specifically a small annual price as the insurance coverage was widely available. It was probably the tower that the celebrated author Michael Mungfisch had in mind when, to meet his publication deadline and minimum word count, he scribbled down his most famous aphorism. Power corrupts, electrical power corrupts electrically. No one really knew what this meant, but it had a pleasing symmetry so people didn't mind. It turns out that people don't really spend too much time trying to make sense of the world, usually because it's difficult and unrewarding, but quite often just because it's starting to drizzle, and you remember your spontaneous combustion insurance lapsed the week before. Inspective fleet was a man who, by his profession, was compelled to try to make sense of things, and who in the early hours of one grey January morning was standing just beyond the mile-long shadow of the tower on the pavement in front of London's 34th most disreputable public house, the Grouse and Chisel. Tell me about the body. Good morning, Inspector. Good morning, Constable. -Possible, Tilla, sir. -Good to meet you. -It's my first day. -Welcome aboard. I suppose second day at this point, or first night of the first day, is the second time anyway. -Tilla. -Yes, sir? -Tilla, there's a dead body at our feet. -Yes, sir. -Tilla, tell me about the dead body at our feet. -Of course. Coffee, sir. Tilla, it's four in the morning. We're in a part of town not known for a welcoming attitude to the police, and judging from the 16 people watching us from windows in eight of the surrounding buildings, if we hang around too long, there will be three dead bodies. Now tell me about Dr. Salik. -Of course. -He's deceased. -Right. -He's a male. Anything else? -He's got blue eyes. -Yes, thank you, Tilla. What I meant is, do we have any idea what happened to him? It's not been established, sir. Well, he's not a smashed-in head where his head should be. Do you think that might have had something to do with it? I wouldn't want to jump to any conclusion, sir. We thought maybe a bar brawl. Didn't we, Constable? Miss Endwist, or I thought we agreed you would stay behind the police roping? Was that where we left that? Anyway, I wanted to show you this appointment card I found in the victim's pocket. Look at me, that. Tilla, did you allow a member of the press to examine the body and remove evidence? Oh, yeah, little, sir. Oh, I forgot something. What? It's Chief Inspector Keller. He left a message for you before you arrived. You ought to report to him at once. Ow! -Sir! -Where is he? In the wagon, sir. Right. Tilla, stay here and try to keep treating this crime scene as a jumble sale. Oh, try, sir! And Miss Endwist, all behind the rop. Of course. You won't even know I'm here. Why do I doubt that? The police wagons of even greater London were easy to identify, because each side was covered with an enormous picture of the monarch, who still had the name and around 45% by volume of the original parts of Queen Victoria. The police force felt that this was the least they could do by way of patriotic respect, particularly as they had failed to prevent all 11 of her assassinations. After each one of these, her Royal Medical Engineers had replaced her shattered organs with the best available mechanical alternatives, and a National Week of Morning had been cut short by her triumph and revival. The Queen's can-do can't die attitude, an increasingly impressive grip strength, endeared her ever more to the public, as did her widespread portraits, which beautifully captured both her regal dignity and her substantial metallic heft. Inside the police wagon, fleet found a square of silvery glass the size of a bathroom mirror, on top of which sat a small red antenna, imprinted with an image of the tower. -Colour? -Fleet. -He's not very happy Archie. -Is he ever miss Waverly? -Well, he's sometimes not furious. -Would you say he's furious now? -Oh yes, connecting you now. -Thank you, miss Waverly. Around the device, a convoluted grid of magnets and wires began to convulse. The silver liquid in the glass was pulled apart to form a shifting set of puddles and gaps, roughly at first, before taking on a more coherent set of shapes. A moment later, fleet was staring at a crude, fluid image he knew to be his chief inspector, with which the device only portrayed as a mustache in a nightcap. Even so, it was quite clear that the mustache was indeed furious. -Fleet! -Chief Inspector Keller. -Fleet, are you at the scene of the Salach murder? -I am, sir. How did you know about it already? -Because of the damn D'Omen waters. -The beef eaters? -Yes, the beef eaters you half-wit. Chief Whitlock called me five minutes ago to demand his men lead the investigation. -Should tell Chief Beef to take a running jump. -Don't tell me what I should or should not do, fleet. And Whitlock is the chief order of the tower and commander of the Yomon Guard Extraordinary. He is not Chief Beef. Treat the bastard with some respect. -Sorry, sir. How did the beef eaters find out so quickly? -The bloody ravens are expect evil little things. They fly up, see more or less everything, fly back, and somehow explain what they've seen. Probably putting a pebble in a cup for a murder or a marble in a saucer for a robbery. Who bloody knows? Creepy as what they are. -But why would they even be looking here? What's the Scott to do with them? -You know, damndwell the waters now take the lead on anything within a mile of the tower. -Is the grouse and chisel within a mile? -No, turns out it's a mile and eighteen yards. But it's a damned murder, so Whitlock's flexing his not inconsiderable muscle. So you need to get this case wrapped up sharpish. Understood, fleet? -Yes, sir. Officer Mrs. Keller seems to be behind you. -Oll-win. It's foring the morning! -I know, Margaret, but this is police business. Go back to bed. -Oh, it's always police business with you, Oll-win. -I'm Detective Chief Inspector, Margaret. What other businesses are going to be? Moonlight custom-ungry? -I just mean you could put a bit more energy into being a Chief Inspector of this family, Oll-win. -Don't start with that. -Daddy? -Chimmy, what are you doing up? -I had voices and I thought there might be monsters. -There are no monsters, Timmy. -There are indeed monsters, Timmy, and its daddies job to see them all hanged. -Oh, when? -The boys got to learn about the real world. -Sorry to interrupt. -My god, fleet, are you still there? Get to work. -Hush now, Timmy. -Right. -Tilla? -Yes, Inspector. -Secure the scene and get the body sent off to the pathologist. I'm off to Mrs. Pomligons. -Mrs. Pomligons' wise, of course. Mrs. Pomligons' coffee house begins pottery studio and lawn dret. A coordinated corn of Mrs. Pomligons own devising, that begins with a superb value, if regularly shaped cup of coffee, and ends with an extremely poor value emergency shirt cleaning. A couple of budding and presumably insomniac ceramicists were messingly clasping some clay together when fleet walked in. Walking past the potters wheels, fleet grabbed one of the few uniform mugs from the counter and sat at a table. Shortly after, a slow, shuffling sound indicated the approach of Mrs. Pomligons herself, an intermittently cheerful woman in her fifties, with the appearance of a crocodile that had somehow acquired the ability to walk on two legs, apply blusher and operate a stove. -You up late Archie or just getting started? -Both. -Coffee then? -Yes, you're very strongest. -It's likely he'd kept away five or four kilos, not at most. -Perfect. A few minutes later, fleet was staring at a cup of the Atari looking liquid Mrs. Pomligons sold as coffee. He took a moment to enjoy a fond memory or two, just in case, gripped his chair firmly with one hand and took a sip. When he regained his sight around 30 seconds later, he found Miss Entrusel now sitting opposite him at the table. -Cakes any good? -You. -The cakes. In this shop. Where the go? -What are you doing here? -I'll risk it. Any for you? -No, I'm all right for cake, thank you. -Two slices of cake? -Two slices of cake! -You'll want someone you see mine. This way you won't have to wait. And it's Clara. Clara and Twissel. The morning chronica. -We met her. -My crime scene. Or, either when you turned up at my house to summon me to my crime scene. -That's right. So, any leads? -You don't waste any time, do you? -Can't afford to be my game. -The ink and gossip game? -The game of truth inspector. Truth for the public. The same game as the one you play. -It's not a game, Miss Entrusel. It's police business. I don't discuss ongoing investigations. -Mrs. Pomligons, can I take this cup out with me? -What? -Don't go inspector. -Get your own bloody cup. -I'll bring it back. -I'd rather be left it here, Miss Entrusel, while we're still getting on. -You better return it! And it won't peace too! -I'm not a miracle worker, Mrs. Pomligons, but I'll be sure to return with either it or a dirty shirt for cleaning. Miss Entrusel, as you know, I have a murder to solve, so I must leave you. Enjoy your two slices of cake. -Two slices of cake? -Thank you. -Sund Bernadine's Hospital, 17 dials. It was said that if you contracted an illness, you should avoid some Bernadine's at all costs. That is, if you wanted to live. Dying there was easy. Its motto was simply, "Abandon Hope, all." As Inspector Fleet entered the reception area to the laboratory of celebrated pathologist Dr. Septimus Bell, he found himself facing a desk, an on it, a pile of leather, metal and cogs, arranged in the shape of the upper third of a receptionist. -Good morning, Inspector. -Oh, no. Where's Miss Birch? -What's going on? -Good morning. Inspector. Good morning. I am Miss Bodkin. Miss Birch now works with the human waters of the tower. How was your journey? Is it in? I need to see that it was fine. Nice weather today. Is it not? How would you know you're mostly furniture? Nice weather today. Is it not? Oh good grief. Yes. Inspector, would you care for some coffee? There is some brewing in my shoulder. Look, desk machine girl. Miss Bodkin. Miss Bodkin, I really don't have time to chat. I need to see Dr Bell. You ran? Very good, doctor. Would you care for some shoulder coffee, doctor? Not right now, Miss Bodkin. Energetic, isn't she? Sure to be. She's anti-clockwise. Clockwork? Anti-clockwise, Inspector. Anti-clockwise was one of the most recent innovations of the Swindon Informatorium's department for applied philosophy. A clockwork device works by storing energy in springs, tightened by turning a key to power a device's motion, speech and general reasoning capabilities. Anti-clockwise devices used that same mechanism to stop a device from working. Without turning the key, your anti-clockwise device would go about its business endlessly, without rest or remorse. In the case of Miss Bodkin, the business in question was to slow down any visitors to Dr Bell's laboratory for long enough for him to finish whatever he was working on and wait outside the door to the reception area until someone said something that would let him enter with a joke, giving an air of care-free spontaneity for which he prepared meticulously. I'm terribly sorry, doctor, to come down here so early. It's quite alright, Inspector. Although I am not what one would call a morning person. Little pathology joke for you there. Now, what can I do for you? It's about the cadaver I sent over. I was hoping you could tell me more about how he died. Oh yes. Although isn't the wheel question how did he live? I'm not sure I follow you. How do any of us live? Do you know, Inspector, I am even greater London's foremost pathologist. I know more about death than anyone, but so little about life. Yes. Now, about the body. Not like my little brother, Tiberius. He's a poet. He grapples with wheel questions about our existence. But can he help solve a murder, eh? He once were to poem on a leaf you know. It was just about a leaf. Both about and literally on a leaf. Small writing. Big ideas. Sorry, I don't mean to be rude, but. Oh yes, your man. You'd better come in. Here he is. Yes, beaten to death. Beaton? Yes. Death? Yes. But not in that order. Death. beaten? You have it. You see this here. With the entire back of his head is missing. No, you noticed it too. That could only wear it because by one thing. And what's that? The street. Specifically, arriving at the street directly from a rooftop. As for the other markings, this fellow has been beaten post-mortem. Why would someone pummel a corpse? I expect a disguise the fact that he fell or more likely was pushed. Off the roof of that pub. A murder disguised as. Another type of murder. Yes. But why? Oh, I'm afraid that's your domain inspector. I just deal with the how and then have breakfast. Whiskey? Now. Why not? It's a despotly sad and lonely midnight somewhere. It was another of the bell clan, Julius, who had, as a young aid at the palace, secured his rapid career advancement with the solution to Queen Victoria's temporary popularity problem a few years earlier. The public were generally on board with the occasional improvements to her majesty's physical vessel. But it turned out that absorbing her dying husband Albert's consciousness into her own largely robotic body was a step too far. By itself, this probably could have been ignored, but it had come during a period of public restlessness about the Queen. This was partly due to the growing sense that her apparent immortality made a mockery of death and the finitude of all their lives, but mainly due to an unfortunate incident where she discovered in front of a crowd that her impressive metallic form was enough to break her horse's spine. Julius Bell's solution to this was simple. Construct a vast network of public address systems across the city, allowing the Queen to make a twice daily address to the populace. This was indeed hugely popular, leading men, women and children alike to stop whatever they were doing, stand and face the loudspeakers. As the schedule time of the address arrived on this particular morning, Inspector Fleet, traveling to a crucial appointment, found his train pulling into a deferential halt. My loyal subject, good morning, are you all well? Good, how could you not be? It's a pleasant day in even greater London and as always we are the envy of the world. A reminder to you all that the even greater exhibition is now open at the Crystal Palace, prized jewels, exotic beasts and scientific marvels from across the globe, awaits your curious minds. It's a treat for the whole family, isn't that right, my dear Albert? Existence is pain. Pain existence. I am an abomination. Nature has self-advert against ashamed. Albert. Now subjects, have a wonderful day, be pleasant always and enjoy the luxury of God's most joyous realm, our city of even greater London. And now, the weather. So God makes a condemnation evident. The sky is a theme at our territory. Sunny spells in the afternoon. Thank you Albert. A few minutes later than he had hoped, but still, after all, in good time, Inspector Fleet arrived at Mrs. Hampshire's lodging house for respectable people who face their problems head on. Fleet was there to keep the appointment written on the card that had been found on Dr. Salik's body and discover whether the other party knew anything about the circumstances of his murder. Miss Entwistle. Oh Inspector Fleet, what a coincidence. Coincidence be damned, you followed me here. No, but I did take a note of what was written on that appointment card and I bought you that cake you didn't know you wanted. No, wait. I ate it on the Voltaic Omnibus. Marvellous, aren't they? Omnibuses. Mrs. Pommelagan's cakes. I mean, they are almost certainly not cakes, but even so. Now, let's not argue Inspector because as soon as you've seen the knack I have for ferrithing things out, your wish at once you'd agreed to work on the case together. So let's save time by skipping your refusal. I'm your ginger bun. Do you see? I beg your pardon. Figuratively speaking, I'm your Mrs. Pommelagan's ginger bun. Doesn't seem that appealing, but gets the job done. Miss Entwistle, this case must be handled with sensitivity and care by a trained officer from Scotland Yard. Now, if you'll excuse me. Don't ring the bell. It seems an unavoidable part of this. We haven't agreed our plan. What do you mean hour? First person's oral possessive. That's clearly not what I meant. Please just allow me to. Can I help you? Yes. Oh, of course I see it all now. Mrs. Hampshire, allow me to explain. No need. I understand perfectly. How could two young things, shilly, shally-ing on my doorstep, can only mean one thing? Touch his nose. Did you just say touch his nose? Indeed. You know, you don't say touch his nose. You just touch your nose. Yes, of course. Touch his nose. Right. Well. And never let it be said that Mrs. Hampshire doesn't understand young love. Oh. Touch his nose. No, no, no, no. You misunderstood. We are not, in fact, that is to say, I am in. Darling! I think Mrs. Hampshire's nose here can be relied upon to sniff out an allotment. We're on our way to Gretna Green. How romantic. I've got just the room. Please come in and make yourself a tomb in La Pala. I told you. Gingerban, I'll keep her talking in you interview so other guests. I can conduct my own investigations. Thank you very much. Miss Entwistle, please leave. I say Mrs. Hampshire, could I trouble you for a glass of water? I'm not even thirsty. Don't wink at me. We are not colluding. Go away. Listen, Eliza, I know what you were going to say, but the simple fact of the matter is that I don't have any money to marry on despite what I said after that bottle of port. Marriage is simply not possible. There, I've said it. So let's shake hands when we see each other next and say no more about it. So my name's Inspector Archibald Fleet. Oh, sorry about that. Thought you were someone else. Charles Gray. Listen, if this is about those railway bonds, I can explain. No, I'm interested in finding out who rented the room next to yours. I don't know. He's hardly ever here. Maybe once a month. Seems to use it more as a meeting place than a dwelling from what I could tell. Mr Gray, could I have a word? Ah, I see you've met her on your guest. Guest? I thought you'd sit. Don't worry, I'll leave you to it. No need, this won't take long. I hope you don't mind if I speak candidly, Mr Gray. Well, how candidly are we talking? No, I see. I really don't mind you. Only there seems to have been a misunderstanding over your engagement to my daughter. A misunderstanding. Yes, on account of you not considering yourself to be, in fact, engaged. You better just squeeze past her. Oh well, no. I can easily just sit there. Yet, Eliza, being this sentimental girl she has kept all of your letters, in which your promise of marriage is quite good. Oh well, I'm now well. She's got both of them. Though as a woman of the world, it did cross my mind that young gentleman, such as yourself, might have in the heat of the movement, got, how should we say it? Carried away. Yes, exactly. An unguarded moment of rashness. And, as opposed to scandal, could be avoided way to offer some form of reparation for a poor, far-the-less girl's disappointment. Say £100. £100! Splendid. We're agreed. Now, I have another guest to check in on. I'll pick up the bank as draft tomorrow. Have it made out to Mrs. Hempshire. Spelt Hempshire. As in Hempshire. I say Inspector, don't suppose you could lend the fellow £100, could you? Bad night on the old marriage market, you know. Miss Hemp, it's one on earth you're doing. And why are you still here? Shhh, listen. But Mrs. Hempshire, it's not that I don't care for dear Eliza. Mr. Tridgill, what is a poor mother to say to an innocent girl so cruelly jilted? And you'll let her so firm in the matter of matrimony? I wonder what a lawyer would say. Now, steady on. Lawyers, surely we can smooth this over. I suppose the loss of a fiance might be eased by a financial consideration. Say £100? £100. Stimmed it. You can have the bank as draft made out to Mrs. Hempshire. One big age, one small age, and one of all the other letters in the word Hempshire. There's someone there. Ah, the turtle does. Cool. What? Well, let's hear yours. What? Bestie should have fitted your room up by now. Come this way. Or what on earth was that? Sounded like a window being broken. A window being broken inwards. Mrs. Hempshire, you have an intruder. You're a clairvoyant. How mysterious. You must meet my daughter, Eliza. I'm afraid I'm a police detective, and it's imperative that I get into that room. You're a detective and you're a looping. I'm not a looping. I'm just a detective. Well, who is she? Clara and Whistle. Morning, chronicler. Who rents that room, Mrs. Hempshire? There's no time, Mrs. Hempwistle. There's a man in that room. Mrs. Hempshire, open the door. I have a spare key yesterday. Let me retrace my steps. We're out of time. That was the sound of the window being broken outward. Our intruder is escaping. Stand back, everyone. You there! Stop! Stop, I say. Don't look around. Obviously, I mean you. Don't point it yourself. Do you see anyone else climbing out of a broken window? Yes, it is hard to look nonchalant when you're wearing a mask, isn't it? No. No, no, no, no. Don't jump out of that window. I'm warning you. He jumped. I told him not to. Jump after him. I'm going to. Go on now. I am. Just a second. Stand back. Why? Oh, he's getting a cab. Stop. Police. Stop. Stop. Right. Um, uh, oh, you. Kav, he put your bag out and let's get going. I want a break. This is police business. Get on the damn thing and follow that cab. I'll give you a shilling. Right. Ready when you are, sir. I'm ready. Get on the cab. Oh, set. Go. All right, then. Where to? Follow that bloody cab. Which one? The one at the end of the street with the masked man staring at us out the back window. Right, you are, sir. Plans for the weekend, sir. None at the moment. Oh, myself. I'm visiting my dear Aunt Tabifa. Tabby wee cooler. I know. Sounds like a cat, but she's not a cat. She's my aunt. Faster, damn you. Well, I suppose the crux of it is to do with her cat, Delilah, who is a tabby as it happens. [LAUGHS] I've never put those two things together before. How about that? I don't care about your aunt, her cat or their shed. Tabbyness. Catch up with that damned cab. Oh, it's moving quick and eat. Must have paid the driver a fair shilling. Or two. What? Well, I'm just saying it's very much incumbent on the agents of any transaction to utilize their advantages. These are the other agents' desired outcomes to extract for themselves the maximum possible benefit. What? Well, I've got this cab here. The horse goes usur and speed. He can be motivated to go faster with a flicker the wrist of a talented groom such as myself. And as a talented groom such as myself, I can be motivated to go faster with a flicker the purse of an equivalently motivated passenger such as yourself. Are you extorting the police? I am, but a humble manifestation of market forces. I already paid you a shilling. That's for the ride while I was on my break. Catching up with the other cab. Well, that's another shilling. Fine. Take it. All right, hold on. Out the way. My word, be careful. Not for a measly two shillings. What? The well-being of Parsis Bay is not included in the agreed two shilling fare. I think it's bloody implied. I think you should have made it clear at the outset of our arrangement. Look out now. Oh. Hey. That's fine. Fine. Have another damn shilling. All right. I think I can safely catch up with him now. You're superior so we're receiving a strongly worded letter after all this. My superiors don't read letters for anything less than ten shillings. All right. This one alongside us. Yes. What's he doing? Looks like he's giving my colleague over there another shilling to speed up. All right, Freddie. All right. Yes. You chasing us? We are, yeah. Where are my passenger and I? We've just concluded an negotiation over a possible acceleration. So are we proceeding with that immediately? Of course. I'll just inform our passenger. I bloody heard. Now look, I'll give both of you five extra shillings to stop right now. No. Oh, I see. One second. No. My mom's passengers are in out of cash. Jess? Works for me. All right. And it's for me and I'll sort out Freddie's share. There. All right. Let's just pull up over here then. Oh, your mask quarries just jumped out. Let me out. Have a nice one. And I'll be back for you. At your service, sir. You in the mask. Stop. Stop, damn you. I said stop in the name of the law. I've got you now. And I'll have your mask too if you don't mind. Wait. [GASPS] Hey. [GASPS] [GASPS] Ah-ha! Not quite sure now why I was expecting to recognize you. Still, it doesn't matter. That'll be easy enough once I have you back at the yard. Now if you'll just come with. [GASPS] [GASPS] Ah. Ah. Shh. Ah, it'll be okay. No, sh- you'll wait my birds. Where am I? My lodgings. About ten minutes away from where I found you. You got knocked unconscious. Ah. Miss Entwistle, of course. Well, I suppose I should thank you for making sure I was okay. You're welcome. Nice place. Don't be unkind. Where's not bad? Big windows. Yes, it makes my birds happy. Or possibly sad, I'm not sure. I say, you've got a pretty good vantage point over the square. You can see onto the roof of the Grouse and Chisel. Who's that on it? Oh, it's just one of the local street urchins. They were hanging around the body when I first discovered it. And you didn't think to mention it. You didn't ask. Anyway, he was there. The one on the roof now. I remember because he was the only one wearing shoes. Not just any shoes. Very shiny shoes. Suspicious. The shoes or the shine? Both. Come on, let's pay him a visit. Inspector Fleet, are you inviting me to help you with your investigation? Not help. Just observe. Though if anything does occur to you, you might make mention of it, I suppose. Why the sudden change? Well, you did scrape me off the pavement. Minimal scraping necessary. The cabbie did most of the heavy lifting. Said it was the least he could do for the three shillings he then took from your pocket. Of course. Look lively, Inspector. We don't want to miss him. Spend a lot of time on rooftops. I ain't got no money to spend, but in time, I am richer than a prince. What's your name? Whistler. Is that your real name or a nickname? Artisserie. I bet you know a lot about what goes on around here. Well, maybe I do, maybe I don't. I bet you see some interesting things. And I bet that sometimes they're criminal. And I bet that sometimes you let the criminals know you've seen them. And I bet they do more or less anything to keep you quiet. Even give you the shoes they were wearing. Those aren't my shoes, by the way. Well, I know a kind-hearted cobbler. There are no kind-hearted cobblers. What do you know about the death of Dr. Salic? What shall I tell you? I'm the police. Oh! You don't think you would be useful to have the police owe you a favour? A free pass and a crime am I choosing? Let's play it by ear. What happened to the man? He fell. I know that who pushed him. I didn't see that. Rubbish, you were here. He didn't fall from here. What? He fell somewhere else. They brought him here. Someone brought a dead body away from where he actually fell. Why? Where did he fall from? The town. Which tower? The tower! Oh, oh dear. Fleet, look! A pair of ravens which had been circling over their heads suddenly dived down to street level where two men stood. The birds landed on the men's outstretched black gauntlets and walked up to their shoulders. Who are they? Bee-featers. You're right. You've gone quite pale. Surely the ward is aren't as bad as all that. No. They're worse. And it appears one of them is the masked man who broke into Mrs. Hampshire's. Oh, they're looking at us. I know. Their ravens are looking at us too. I know. What does it mean? Nothing good. [BELL RINGING] Wow. [BELL RINGING] Nothing good at all. [MUSIC PLAYING] That episode of Victoria City featured Tom Crownly as Inspector Fleet. Layla Cotib as Clara Antwistle and Peter Ray as the Marrata, where the Gemma Arosmith as Tilla and Whistler, Molly Beth Morosa as the Cabbie and Miss Waverly, Chris Suggden as Chief Inspector Keller and Debbie Lee Simmons as Mrs. Hampshire. Sceptermist Bell was played by Philip Kotterall, Lucy Rayfield as Mrs. Keller and Jen Suggden Mrs. Pomligand. Eater Bergliffe Kenaway played Queen Victoria with Nathan Peter Brassie as Prince Albert. The original voices by George McLean, Brian McMullen and Lawrence Goodman. Victoria City was written by Chris and Jen Suggden, directed by Nathan Peter Brassie and produced by Dominic Hargreaves. Original music was created by John Owen. The program was recorded at SHONG Studios and the production manager was everyone's go-to anti-clockwise device, Fiona Sinclair. [MUSIC PLAYING] Oh, and I lost Mrs. Pomligand's cup. Oh, no. And she said specifically to bring it back. I know. She'll be so upset. Yeah, she's feeling me up in the air.