[Holmes confronts Blackwood with his actions on the uncompleted Tower Bridge, Blackwood's foot tied to a yoke, threatening to pull him off. Blackwood desperately hangs on to a plank on the scaffolding]
Sherlock Holmes: There was never any magic. Only conjuring tricks. The simplest involved paying people off, like the prison guard who pretended to be possessed outside your cell. Your reputation and the immense fear did the rest. Others required more elaborate preparations, like the sandstone slab that covered your tomb. You had it broken before your burial, then put back together using a mild adhesive. An ancient Egyptian recipe, I believe. A mixture of egg and honey, designed to be washed away by the rain. [The plank Blackwood is holding on to breaks, pulling him further to the edge of the scaffolding. He manages to grab another plank, stopping his fall]
Lord Blackwood: Holmes!
Sherlock Holmes: Arranging for your own father to drown in his own bathtub required ... more modern science. Very clever of Reordan to find a paralytic that was activated by the combination of copper and water and was, therefore, undetectable once the bathwater was drained. It might've been quite a challenge for me, had he not also tested it on some unfortunate amphibians. [Another plank breaks, causing Blackwood to fall a few more feet before he grabs another plank] The death of Standish was a real mystery until you used the same compound to blow up the wharf: an odorless, tasteless, flammable liquid, yet it burned with an unusual pinkish hue. did Standish mistake it for rain as he entered the temple? All it took was a spark, a simple rigged bullet in his gun. Ingenius. Like all great performances, you saved your piece de resistance for the end: a chemical weapon distilled from cyanide and refined in the bellies of swine. Had it worked, your followers in Parliament would've watched, unharmed, as their colleagues were dying around them. They didn't know that you'd given them the antidote. Instead, they would've believed it was magic and that you'd harnassed the ultimate power, and that the world would've fallen to you, fear being the most powerful weapon of all. You better hope that it's nothing more than superstition as you performed all the rituals perfectly. The devil's due a soul, I'd say.
Lord Blackwood: For God's sake, Holmes, cut me loose! [The plank breaks just as Holmes grabs an ax and throws it at the rope, severing Blackwood from the yoke as it falls to the Thames below.]
Sherlock Holmes: There was never any magic. Only conjuring tricks. The simplest involved paying people off, like the prison guard who pretended to be possessed outside your cell. Your reputation and the immense fear did the rest. Others required more elaborate preparations, like the sandstone slab that covered your tomb. You had it broken before your burial, then put back together using a mild adhesive. An ancient Egyptian recipe, I believe. A mixture of egg and honey, designed to be washed away by the rain. [The plank Blackwood is holding on to breaks, pulling him further to the edge of the scaffolding. He manages to grab another plank, stopping his fall]
Lord Blackwood: Holmes!
Sherlock Holmes: Arranging for your own father to drown in his own bathtub required ... more modern science. Very clever of Reordan to find a paralytic that was activated by the combination of copper and water and was, therefore, undetectable once the bathwater was drained. It might've been quite a challenge for me, had he not also tested it on some unfortunate amphibians. [Another plank breaks, causing Blackwood to fall a few more feet before he grabs another plank] The death of Standish was a real mystery until you used the same compound to blow up the wharf: an odorless, tasteless, flammable liquid, yet it burned with an unusual pinkish hue. did Standish mistake it for rain as he entered the temple? All it took was a spark, a simple rigged bullet in his gun. Ingenius. Like all great performances, you saved your piece de resistance for the end: a chemical weapon distilled from cyanide and refined in the bellies of swine. Had it worked, your followers in Parliament would've watched, unharmed, as their colleagues were dying around them. They didn't know that you'd given them the antidote. Instead, they would've believed it was magic and that you'd harnassed the ultimate power, and that the world would've fallen to you, fear being the most powerful weapon of all. You better hope that it's nothing more than superstition as you performed all the rituals perfectly. The devil's due a soul, I'd say.
Lord Blackwood: For God's sake, Holmes, cut me loose! [The plank breaks just as Holmes grabs an ax and throws it at the rope, severing Blackwood from the yoke as it falls to the Thames below.]
[Holmes confronts Blackwood with his actions on the uncompleted Tower Bridge, Blackwood's foot tied to a yoke, threatening to pull him off. Blackwood desperately hangs on to a plank on the scaffolding]
Sherlock Holmes : There was never any magic. Only conjuring tricks. The simplest involved paying people off, like the prison guard who pretended to be possessed outside your cell. Your reputation and the immense fear did the rest. Others required more elaborate preparations, like the sandstone slab that covered your tomb. You had it broken before your burial, then put back together using a mild adhesive. An ancient Egyptian recipe, I believe. A mixture of egg and honey, designed to be washed away by the rain. [The plank Blackwood is holding on to breaks, pulling him further to the edge of the scaffolding. He manages to grab another plank, stopping his fall]
Lord Blackwood : Holmes!
Sherlock Holmes : Arranging for your own father to drown in his own bathtub required ... more modern science. Very clever of Reordan to find a paralytic that was activated by the combination of copper and water and was, therefore, undetectable once the bathwater was drained. It might've been quite a challenge for me, had he not also tested it on some unfortunate amphibians. [Another plank breaks, causing Blackwood to fall a few more feet before he grabs another plank] The death of Standish was a real mystery until you used the same compound to blow up the wharf: an odorless, tasteless, flammable liquid, yet it burned with an unusual pinkish hue. did Standish mistake it for rain as he entered the temple? All it took was a spark, a simple rigged bullet in his gun. Ingenius. Like all great performances, you saved your piece de resistance for the end: a chemical weapon distilled from cyanide and refined in the bellies of swine. Had it worked, your followers in Parliament would've watched, unharmed, as their colleagues were dying around them. They didn't know that you'd given them the antidote. Instead, they would've believed it was magic and that you'd harnassed the ultimate power, and that the world would've fallen to you, fear being the most powerful weapon of all. You better hope that it's nothing more than superstition as you performed all the rituals perfectly. The devil's due a soul, I'd say.
Lord Blackwood : For God's sake, Holmes, cut me loose! [The plank breaks just as Holmes grabs an ax and throws it at the rope, severing Blackwood from the yoke as it falls to the Thames below.]
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