Meet Mr Lyme

GIDEON: Well, what do you mean, you can't find my case?

FOREMAN: Ah, see, I don't know, it's probably in there. It's just that we unload you lot last.

GIDEON: "You lot"?

FOREMAN: Yea, gov. Natives!

GIDEON: (sigh) I get the point, thank you. Listen, I need my luggage now.

FOREMAN: Word of advice, sonny, that's the kind of attitude that guarantees your bag ends up in the Thames.

GIDEON: (groan) I need a clean shirt! I’m starting a job today.

FOREMAN: Not my problem. You should’ve thought of that.

GIDEON: Well, bad news. I’ll be working as a journalist for a crusading paper! And you can guarantee I’ll be back!

GIDEON: But- I’m sorry I don’t understand.

EDITOR: No job. N-O J-O-B. You do speak English, don’t you?

GIDEON: But when I wrote for this job you wrote back! I enclosed clipping from the Tobago Times-

EDITOR: Whooh-hoo! Hardly the Morning Star, is it lad?

GIDEON: But you wrote back! You said you liked them!

EDITOR: Well, now then.

GIDEON: You offered me the job!

EDITOR: Which, lad, I’m now un-offering.

GIDEON: Because of the color of my skin?

EDITOR: You said it, not me. And had you thought to say it in your application letter you’d have saved yourself a lot of trouble! I don’t care for deceit.

GIDEON: Deceit?

EDITOR: Yeah. That’s what I call it.

GIDEON: But- Your newspaper- I applied to it because of your articles on equal rights! On breaking down the color barriers on the streets!

EDITOR: All very well in the streets, not in my newsroom. And you could’ve worn a clean shirt.

GIDEON: Well- But- Please!

EDITOR: Oh, now you’re begging, lad? Don’t look back on this and remember how you begged.

GIDEON: (sigh)

GIDEON: But I wrote from Tobago to see if the room was available- it’s- it’s okay. I won’t embarrass you in asking why it’s no longer available.

LANDLADY: Hm.

GIDEON: Oh, uh, a case might be turning up with my luggage in it. It’ll probably be wet, just warning you.

GIDEON: They’ll say it couldn’t see me in the fog. Ah, well. What’s the point?

GIDEON: Hey! Come back! Come back! You can’t just save my life and then run away and- hey you dropped your briefcase!

GIDEON: Oh!

EDITOR: What are you expecting, that I’m feeling bad about earlier?

GIDEON: No. Nor have I changed my shirt.

EDITOR: Well at least you’re not begging.

GIDEON: Let’s pretend that our conversation earlier wasn’t an example of you being racist.

EDITOR: Uh, I am not a racialist. I just-

GIDEON: It’s the just that gives it away, for next time. But no, we’re going to pretend that it was a confrontational test, to draw me out, to make a man of me, and I failed. But, you’re now going to give me another chance.

EDITOR: Oh, I bloody am not.

GIDEON: You bloody are. You’re going to open this briefcase, you’re going to look inside, and you’re going to shake my hand.

EDITOR: Hm, this had better not be your lunch, can’t stand curry.

GIDEON: You know, that’s Indian food.

EDITOR: What the hell? What the hell have you got here?

GIDEON: I had no idea the empire was still so full of surprises.

EDITOR: Have you made all of this up?

GIDEON: I think, if it’s okay with you, that’s what you and I are going to find out.

EDITOR: Bloody Nora. You’ve made your point. Shake my hand, lad, let’s put it behind us. Welcome to the team. Now then, find out what the hell is Torchwood.

GIDEON: Plundering alien artifacts from across the empire. Huh, that figures.

GIDEON: Gideon Lyme speaking.

LANDLADY: Mr Lyme? This is Mrs Fortescue.

GIDEON: Oh! Right, from Lancaster Gardens. Has my luggage turned up? I’ll come and collect it.

LANDLADY: Just to say, I changed my mind about the room.

GIDEON: You’ve changed your mind about the room?

LANDLADY: I will be requiring four weeks rent in advance.

GIDEON: I’ll be right over!

GIDEON: Ah, well, you seem to have survived the voyage. No ones tampered with you, or dumped you in the Thames. So… Oh? That’s odd.

GIDEON: “Be at the Lavendish Tea Rooms- 12 O’ Clock”?

GIDEON: Excuse me? Am I here to meet you?

ANDY: No. Go away.

GIDEON: Sorry…

WAITRESS: Begging, are you?

GIDEON: No, I, uh- I’d like a cup of tea.

WAITRESS: (sigh) Sit down over there and I’ll come take your order.

GIDEON: Can’t I just order a pot of tea now?

WAITRESS: Sit down over there and I’ll come take your order.

ANDY: (clears throat)

GIDEON: Psst, do you- (dropping into a whisper) Do you know about Torchwood?

ANDY: Stay there, and wait.

GIDEON: Come back! Can I get a cup of… tea…

GIDEON: Excuse me, miss! Miss! (sigh) Could I see the menu?

NORTON: The only thing you're going to get shown here is your place. Mind if I sit?

EDITOR: Boy! Bo-oy!

GIDEON: I’m fairly sure that’s offensive.

EDITOR: Oh, it’s about your youthful disposition and relentless enthusiasm.

GIDEON: I doubt it.

EDITOR: The material you’ve got is good, and you’re certainly worth all your costing me.

GIDEON: That’s a crack, isn’t it?

EDITOR: Might be.

GIDEON: What do you mean?

EDITOR: It means, you’re not costing me a bean. Turns out there’s a fund for those employing… colonials. Letter in me intray, the “George Ezra Fund”

GIDEON: Who’s George Ezra?

EDITOR: Well, makes the same amount of sense as Torchwood if you ask me. Anyway, so long as you keep on not costing me a bean, I’ll keep my complaints down to one bar. But, it’s about time you come up with something.

GIDEON: I will do.

EDITOR: In my experience, boy, results come from combing through what you’ve been sent. Good hard graft, you shouldn’t be afraid of it.

GIDEON: I’m not. I’m going to lunch.

GIDEON: (laughing) It’s a funny name, that’s all.

NORTON: Thanks, Gideon.

GIDEON: It’s from the bible. Most of my mothers best ideas were.

GIDEON: Weird, feeding ducks in this fog.

NORTON: Ducks you can’t see are the best kind.

GIDEON: Finally, I know something about you. You’re afraid of ducks.

NORTON: Who isn’t? They can break your arm!

GIDEON: That’s swans.

NORTON: Oh.

GIDEON: And you’re doing my trick of changing the subject.

NORTON: What subject? We were talking about ducks.

GIDEON: I don’t know anything about you. I’d love to see your library, I bet it’s fascinating.

NORTON: It really isn’t.

GIDEON: You’re being modest.

NORTON: I’m really not. Anyway, it’s a private library, you need to join.

GIDEON: I could join. I like books.

NORTON: I’m sure you do, there are other libraries you might find more suitable.

GIDEON: More suitable? Oh my God.

NORTON: Excuse me?

GIDEON: You’re saying people like me wouldn’t be welcome there.

NORTON: No! Of course not! Tha- (sigh) That was a deliberate trap.

GIDEON: No.

NORTON: Wasn’t it?

GIDEON: No.

NORTON: That kind of thing might work on everyone else, but it doesn’t work on me.

GIDEON: What does work on you?

NORTON: Feed the ducks, would you?

GIDEON: I just don’t know anything about you, and I never go anywhere with you, apart from that teahouse.

NORTON: We’ve gone somewhere now.

GIDEON: Standing in a park in a pea-souper? Not sure it counts.

NORTON: Well, we could, make it count…

GIDEON: Excuse me?

NORTON: No one would see us…

GIDEON: What?

NORTON: Those bushes over there seem disappointingly free of guardsmen. We could go sneak behind them.

GIDEON: Uhhh

NORTON: Oh.

GIDEON: It’s not- It’s not that I don’t-

NORTON: I didn’t think you didn’t. Ha, see I do negatives too.

GIDEON: No you don’t

NORTON: So.

GIDEON: So.

NORTON: You’re ruling out a quick knee-trembler up against a tree?

GIDEON: Yes.

NORTON: Pity, it’s a nice tree.

GIDEON: I’m sure it is. Your library must have stockrooms, neglected ones, with thick walls.

NORTON: Oh, it has. Clever, but no. And anyway, it’s not your style, is it? You prefer a bit of romance.

GIDEON: Might do.

NORTON: More than a walk in a park with some ducks.

GIDEON: Invisible ducks.

NORTON: Pigeons do a good impression, they’re crafty.

GIDEON: Romance.

NORTON: I could come over to your room one evening, bring some pale ale, a pork pie, and a candle.

GIDEON: Uh, no guests, no alcohol.

NORTON: And probably no candles. (gasp) We could break all the rules.

GIDEON: I can’t, I…

NORTON: I see.

GIDEON: You’re not inviting me back to yours?

NORTON: No.

GIDEON: Would your wife object?

NORTON: (laughs)

GIDEON: Okay, okay, no wife.

NORTON: Uh, no. But I’ve got someone staying over.

GIDEON: So?

NORTON: I’ve got to get back to the library.

GIDEON: I’ll see you for lunch? At the tea place?

NORTON: I’ll be busy for a few days, sorry!

GIDEON: Damn.

EDITOR: You look glum, boy.

GIDEON: Don't... Never mind. Pile on.

EDITOR: What's the matter?

GIDEON: My source has petered out.

EDITOR: So? Get another one.

GIDEON: But I was so close with this one and then I... I was quite as far as I could go.

EDITOR: I shouldn't need to tell you how to do this. Torchwood's been around for nearly a hundred years. They're a bureaucracy. They're going to employ far more people than they need. Find another low-hanging fruit.

GIDEON: What did you just say?

EDITOR: You heard. Or go back, have another go.

NORTON: Well, I'm very boring. As I said, just a sad little librarian, overlooked for promotion. Nothing to see here.

GIDEON: And yet I'm looking at you.

NORTON: Aren't you? Dull old me.

GIDEON: Who is that? What is that?

BELLE: Norton? Norton!

NORTON: Oh, lox.

GIDEON: Friend of yours?

NORTON: Customer of mine.

GIDEON: In the library?

NORTON: Yep! Got to go, got plans tomorrow night?

GIDEON: What?

NORTON: Quickly!

GIDEON: 14 Lancaster Gardens, room 3.

NORTON: I'm sorry?

GIDEON: It's where I live, 8 o' clock.

NORTON: Right! Excuse me.

BELLE: I was not brought up to be lectured by slatterns!

BELLE: I found out something I thought you'd like to know, about Konstantin. No one's seen him, he's done a runner.

NORTON: If he's got the package it could be anywhere.

GIDEON: Konstantin?

NORTON: Oh, hello! Overdue book fine. Nothing to worry about. Thank you, Belle. And, as for you, ha, mustache.

GIDEON: Tomorrow?

NORTON: I've not forgotten! Sorry, urgent library business!

GIDEON: Well, okay.

BELLE: What are you looking at, Squire? Never clapped eyes on a teddy girl before?

GIDEON: Not really, no. Your speech is very strange.

BELLE: Not half as strange as your face. Aha ha ha ha! Oh, in my day, bless you, you'd never have dared speak to someone like me for fear of losing your teeth.

GIDEON: In your day?

BELLE: I'm older than I look, sweetheart.

GIDEON: And Norton?

BELLE: He's no longer as young as he'd like. It weighs on him.

GIDEON: What does?

BELLE: I preferred it when you lot didn't talk.

GIDEON: Because we ask awkward questions.

BELLE: And there you go again.

GIDEON: Where does Norton really work? And who's Constantine?

BELLE: Oh, you don't leave off, bless you. Have you considered going to a bar and sinking a quart of gin? The Stagnant Pond. Call in. I think it'd make you more agreeable.

GIDEON: I don't.

BELLE: Come away.

GIDEON: It's just a taxi.

BELLE: I can't stand the things. Miss the hackneys. No getting used to the new ones, especially not now. Can't stand the way they prowl.

GIDEON: What do you mean?

BELLE: Weather's a proper pea-souper, but they're still moving about. Most just accept it because it's normal, but it ain't right, is it? And have you seen passengers in one? Get back.

GIDEON: What?

BELLE: There's something wrong about them.

GIDEON: What?

BELLE: The driver.

GIDEON: What about him?

BELLE: The driver.

GIDEON: What about him?

BELLE: Look at him.

GIDEON: I can’t see, he’s just a shape.

BELLE: Exactly. There's something wrong with him there's, there’s something really wrong with London. But trust me, one way or another Norton is gonna have to put it right.

LIZBETH: That package is docked at Le Havre.

NORTON: Huh?

LIZBETH: Oh, mope all you like, but if you burn another crumpet on the fire, I'll swing for you.

NORTON: Oh, sorry.

NORTON: Margarine?

LIZBETH: I'd kill for butter. Swear I can't even remember what it tastes like.

NORTON: What package?

LIZBETH: (with her mouth full) Oh, you wait till my mouth's full?

NORTON: Sorry.

LIZBETH: Were you brought up in a barn? The package.

NORTON: No trace of Konstantin or his package. Of course, hardly surprising that the trace haven't gone so cold. Damn!

LIZBETH: No, not that one. There's another package in the system. I've been following dockets and shipping crates across Eurasia while you've been moping into the embers.

NORTON: I don't mope. It's dignified meditating.

LIZBETH: Meditating with all the dignity of a chorus boy with the clap.

NORTON: It's still out there. I can't stop thinking about Konstantin's package.

LIZBETH: (snorts)

NORTON: I'm serious. We don't know the damage it could do.

LIZBETH: Oh, you beauty. One of our operatives has telefaxed this over. They couldn't get to the container but they used a long-distance lens, see?

NORTON: That's the package. I can't make out who it's going to.

LIZBETH: Should be on some of these documents. We'll have to do a bit of work to dig it out.

NORTON: Let's get started.

LIZBETH: Are you actually getting excited by this?

NORTON: My interest is definitely piqued.

NORTON: Look at this!

LIZBETH: Oh blimey. Oh, blimey, I'm onto something.

NORTON: You’re?

LIZBETH: This is big. My ticket out of here.

NORTON: Your ticket?

LIZBETH: Oh yes, the original idea was yours-

NORTON: More than that.

LIZBETH: But I've seen what this thing is, the potential. You had your chance to do something with it and you muffed it, so wiser hands are taking the reins.

NORTON: That's not fair.

LIZBETH: Now don't be like that or I'll call Nanny. Listen, this could be good for both of us. If I get out of here, maybe I'll take you with me. We're going far.

LIZBETH: I need to see Rigsby. Now.

RIGSBY: Enter.

LIZBETH: Do you have to be quite so headmasterly?

RIGSBY: Oh, Hayhoe. Charming. Forgive me, I was about to have tea. Like a cup? Afraid I can't offer you a biscuit, our rations up.

LIZBETH: I'm fine.

RIGSBY: Then you won't mind if I-

NANCY: Tea, Mr. Rigsby. Popped you a custard cream on the side.

RIGSBY: Thank you, Nancy. Close the door on your way out.

NANCY: Of course.

LIZBETH: There appears to be a biscuit after all.

RIGSBY: Yes. Shall I be mother? So, what's all this about, Lizbeth? Nancy's squeezed you three minutes in before I have to dash to the cabinet secretary.

LIZBETH: It's about these packages that Room 13 has been looking into.

RIGSBY: Most probably just some jazz cigarettes. On the rise now we've got the wrong sort slipping in. Drugs, nothing legal. Not really our pigeon.

LIZBETH: Look at this photo telefaxed over from Le Havre.

RIGSBY: What budget is that coming from? That's an expensive process.

LIZBETH: Look at it.

RIGSBY: I'm not sure quite what I'm seeing.

LIZBETH: Brandmark, top left of the crate.

RIGSBY: What about it? Some bogus tea company or other.

LIZBETH: Cover off the two triangles on either side. Here, use these two strips of paper. Now, what do you see?

RIGSBY: Good Lord. Is that the Project Hermod insignia?

LIZBETH: Absolutely. Norton found it.

RIGSBY: Bright enough, fellow. Project Hermod, eh? So these packages are coming from the Nazi version of Torchwood. Wasn't Folgate claiming to have shut them down the other week?

LIZBETH: Well...

RIGSBY: Ah, so his reports of the demise of Project Hermod were a little premature. Always racing on that boy, being held back would do him no harm. Glad I didn't give them a wider airing. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, but I don't think further disciplinary action against him is necessary.

LIZBETH: That's not my point. These packages are being smuggled into this country from Project Hermod onto the black market. You and I know the kind of thing that Project Hermod were doing. Do we want the gangs getting hold of it?

RIGSBY: Dear God, no!

LIZBETH: I've been warning you about this, Reggie, for years. But instead of listening to me, you've been taking my resources away.

RIGSBY: We all must do more with less.

LIZBETH: Norton nearly found one of the smugglers. Your people botched it. This is now your mess, and you're going to clear it up.

RIGSBY: Steady on now, I hardly think that's fair.

LIZBETH: You've told the clerks to quibble everything.

RIGSBY: Proper procedure.

LIZBETH: You've allowed London to be flooded with dangerous alien technology.

RIGSBY: Forgive me, Project Hermod comes under the aegis of your department.

LIZBETH: Oh, stop covering your arse, Reginald.

RIGSBY: Ha, ha!

LIZBETH: Wouldn't you like to know what's in that crate? Because we've got about 12 hours before that package reaches London.

NORTON: We could impound the boat at customs. If I drive down to Dover-

LIZBETH: You? drive?

NORTON: I can drive.

LIZBETH: You're not leaving this room.

NORTON: Not fair.

LIZBETH: Fair.

NORTON: You're stealing the credit from me, it's petty.

LIZBETH: Actually, I'm making sure that if this screws up, no more blame gets pinned on you.

NORTON: That’s sweet.

LIZBETH: Pragmatic. Rigsby still has the knives out for you, but he's also given us some resources. Let them screw this up.

NORTON: And we can save them and look even better. Oh, Lizbeth Hayhoe, you're a master plotter.

LIZBETH: You could learn a lot from me. For instance, the boat isn't docking at Dover, but Portsmouth.

NORTON: Oh.

LIZBETH: Be a love and put us on some coffee, would you? No chicory.

NORTON: Wouldn't dare.

LIZBETH: Middle of the night, and I'm still getting used to how light the city is these days.

NORTON: All that sulphur twinkling through the smog. Romantic. I've made you some cocoa.

LIZBETH: Are you trying to knock me out?

NORTON: The boat doesn't dock for a few hours.

LIZBETH: Are you suggesting I sleep on the sofa?

NORTON: No, I'm bagsy-ing that. I can make you up some blankets by the fire.

LIZBETH: Charming. I've had a thought.

NORTON: (gasp) You need a lie down.

LIZBETH: That parcel. Presumably the supply chain is watched over. Checked.

NORTON: Why else would Konstantin have killed the fishermen?

LIZBETH: To stop them reporting back. But that, in itself, will have broken links in the chain. Created suspicion.

NORTON: So…

LIZBETH: Oh, stop trying to make it sound like you're leading me into a conclusion you've reached already. You don’t know more than me.

NORTON: Sorry!

LIZBETH: We need to subvert the supply chain, make it seem like a completely normal delivery. No seizures at gunpoint, no subterfuge, nothing.

NORTON: We allow the parcel to be delivered and then swoop.

LIZBETH: God, no! If it's some kind of pulse bomb, imagine if they triggered it.

NORTON: I wouldn't have to imagine it. My last thought would be about my bubbling eyeballs.

LIZBETH: The package cannot be delivered. The package must be delivered. Conundrum!

NORTON: Hang on.

NORTON: Ah, got it! All the info we've got on the package.

LIZBETH: Absolutely splendid work. But when I said it was light out here, I didn't mean it was that light. Shed a little, would you?

NORTON: Torch. Sorry, you old trout.

LIZBETH: That's better, child. Look at this. The delivery address.

NORTON: No, it can't be that easy.

LIZBETH: Fetch me a map, quickly. Quickly!

NORTON: On the balcony?

LIZBETH: No, you idiot. Sweep everything off your table. Oh, and put the kettle on.

NORTON: I can only be in one place at a time.

LIZBETH: A failing!

RIGSBY: Crack of dawn, eh Liz? Just like my SOE days. Oh, I see you brought erm...

NORTON: Norton Folgate. I still work here.

RIGSBY: Yeah, of course. You chaps been burning the midnight?

LIZBETH: Chaps.

RIGSBY: Mrs R sent me in with an egg. Nancy, do something with this egg, would you? Maybe rustle up some soldiers to keep it company?

NANCY: Of course, sir.

RIGSBY: Splendid! Women, eh? Help us keep the world spinning. Not that- uh- Folgate you’d really- uh-

NORTON: (sigh)

RIGSBY: Anyway, sit, sit. Make yourselves at home in my humble abode. Bring me up to speed. Let's see this tea. Oh, well, I'm sure Nancy will bring me some fresh. So, don't keep me waiting.

LIZBETH: The package is right now clearing customs before being entrusted to the Royal Mail to whistle up on the train from Portsmouth.

RIGSBY: This is the night mail, diddly-dum.

LIZBETH: As far as any watches are concerned, it's proceeding completely normally. The package has not been tampered with in any way.

NORTON: The label, however, that's a different matter.

RIGSBY: You've lost me. Surely-

NORTON: It's going to 53 Landsmeer Terrace. I've pulled up pictures of it from the Ordnance Survey. It's a bombed street, hasn't yet been renumbered or rebuilt. By and large, the even numbers are untouched. The odd ones, not so chipper. 53 Landsmeer Terrace is the shell of an old house. Solid enough front, propped up and boxed in. Sturdy enough to still receive post. Ideal dead drop for the parcel.

RIGSBY: But if we storm that, they'll be on to us. You need to do better, Folgate.

LIZBETH: And we have. This photo, 58 Landsmeer Terrace, is an old tobacconists. Owner got smithereened while walking as Greyhound in ‘43. Greyhound was called Lucky.

RIGSBY: Oh.

LIZBETH: Shop hasn't been touched since. There's a daughter in Ontario who makes periodic visits.

RIGSBY: The tobacconist- I'm lost, forgive me.

NORTON: One of your operatives on the train has altered the 53 to a 58. So the package will be delivered to the tobacconists.

RIGSBY: You still lost me? Hayhoe, can you elucidate?

LIZBETH: There's a garage out the back of the tobacconists. We sent some boys in that way, cleaned out the front, made sure the letterbox was working. Nothing too neat that anyone will smell a rat.

NORTON: Though they probably found plenty.

RIGSBY: And so...oh, I see it! The package gets delivered!

NORTON: Mmm, knock at the door. (in a Canadian accent) “Ooh, what's this about?” Says someone in a housecoat who could be the tobacconist's daughter from Ontario. “Well, I wasn't expecting this, eh, but I'll take it in. Good day, eh?” Door closes, shop shuts up and it's like it never happened.

LIZBETH: Package and operatives scramble back into their van, out the back and drive straight here.

NORTON: Should be on your desk by tea time.

RIGSBY: Clever stuff, Liz. Oh, talking of tea time. Nancy!

LIZBETH: Stop pacing, sit down, have a cigar.

NORTON: I can't stand the waiting.

LIZBETH: It's like labour.

NORTON: You were in labour?

LIZBETH: My land girls were billeted close for comfort to some GIs. Spent the odd fretful night at the cottage hospital. We always got there in the end and bless them, they'd still be digging turnips into their eighth month.

NORTON: You miss the war.

LIZBETH: Christ, no. Pretending to run a farm while looking after a cache of alien weapons in Wookey Hole. Got even less sleep than tonight.

NORTON: It's the middle of the afternoon.

LIZBETH: Confirms my point. I'm old and I can't do this anymore.

NORTON: Yes you can. I feel full of beans.

LIZBETH: You've had an hour on the sofa, you weasel. Stop checking your watch. It's not like you've got theatre tickets later.

NORTON: Actually-

LIZBETH: Don't care.

NORTON: Was made to care.

LIZBETH: This is so exciting. We're going to find out whatever Project Hermod has been selling off and it'll be delivered right here.

NORTON: To Torchwood. Imagine Hermod's faces. If they weren't all dead. Where's Rigsby?

LIZBETH: Ah, the shock of an early start sent him to his club for a nap.

NORTON: Poor lamb. He's a mediocrity with my job.

LIZBETH: And you're not bitter.

NORTON: haven't given it a second thought.

LIZBETH: But this is finally our way out of Room 13.

NORTON: Your way, provided he doesn't snaffle the credit when it lands on his desk.

LIZBETH: Actually, it's sloppy seconds for Rigsby. I'm having the package brought here first. This is my victory.

NORTON: Here?

DELIVERY MAN: Sign for the delivery.

LIZBETH: With absolute pleasure.

LIZBETH: Thank you! 58 Lansmere Terrace. All the way from Project Hermod to Room 13.

NORTON: Hadn't you better take precautions?

LIZBETH: I'm wearing gloves.

NORTON: Driving gloves. I don't think you should open that.

LIZBETH: Oh, pshaw. Do you want to bet what this is? Some kind of gun? Hermod like guns.

NORTON: We should be careful, Lizbeth.

LIZBETH: Shredded newspaper. Worth examining later. We can pick someone we don't like to stick it all back together. Ah, and ha!

LIZBETH: Leather briefcase? Missile plans?

NORTON: Maybe an IOU. Leave it.

LIZBETH: Ah, locked.

NORTON: Let me call someone.

LIZBETH: Paper knife.

NORTON: (sigh)

LIZBETH: There. Norton, they've sent us an egg.

NORTON: Close the briefcase, Lizbeth.

LIZBETH: This would make a pretty big omelette.

NORTON: What do eggs do, Lizbeth? They hatch. Put it back.

LIZBETH: What is this? It's, it's, it's, ooh, spongy like a-

NORTON: You've had your triumph. Put it back. Get the specialists in.

LIZBETH: All this cleverness for an egg?

NORTON: Lizbeth, we've been too clever.

LIZBETH: No such thing.

NORTON: Listen, if you wanted to send an object to Torchwood, you'd think it would be impossible. But not if you did this. This has all been a trap, to get that package into Torchwood, into this room. Lizbeth, put it back before it hatches.

LIZBETH: It's not an egg, it's more like a mushro-

LIZBETH: Oh god. (coughing)

NORTON: Lizbeth? No, oh my God! No!

ANDY: Norton, take my hand!

NORTON: Andy?

ANDY: Now or you're dead!