All language subtitles for [English (autogenerated)] Bookish Season 1 Episode 4 [DownSub.com]

you mean everything to me what the hell was that love lawn in London scene 28 take 3 I hope we did

the right thing letting those people into the lane film struck girl inspector dead I've shut

down filming for the time being what do we know about this film mill Stuart Howard he and Sandra

bound their careers together the nation's sweethearts then there's the Honorable Jesse

McKendrick you're the director and the writer what about Billy someone is trying to kill me

strictly drop it it's poison can you think of anyone who might want to kill you take your

ruddy pick when are we going to tell him not yet it's one of the extras

it's Norena Bean

still rolling Sandra yeah and action

oh no god I'm so sorry Jesse um can I beg 10 minutes uh Siggy will sort me out

cut that scene 49 take 9

action it was dead I knew we had fallen in love kill the sound please

can we stop the film and take a proper look no we'd burn in the projector

I think the difference is pretty obvious you'll see in just a moment

here comes the post

oh guys I see what you mean he's lost six inches just while Sandra Day went off for a gasper

so between takes eight and nine Norena Bean gets her screen break an hour later is that right

well certainly no more than two she's on the cutting room floor well the bottom of the basement steps

I don't know who he is the postman you do

he was down the lane yesterday

I see him in the yard just now

would you be so kind

yep

of course she hit that step with tremendous force

to half an accident

did you fall

or she pushed

you

oh

you

oh

Signed, Basilisk.

If only we could step through the screen.

Oh, romance of the pictures is really getting to, isn't it?

It's not that.

Beyond the door, behind that set, there's a flight of stairs when I think Norena Bean is already dead.

Do you think this is linked to the poison girl?

Oh, special delivery.

Your postman.

Bart Masterson.

Kurt Masterson.

Normally I do landlords.

I've seen a glass pushed in a bloke's face and I've laughed.

See?

Very good.

Robert Newton should watch his back.

But you're not auditioning now, Mr. Masterson.

We're investigating the unfortunate death that took place here last night.

Second one on this production, in fact, after Miss Barbara Markham.

And two looks like carelessness.

Whose, though?

Are you the police?

Inspector Bliss is the police.

Hello.

I'm just helping them.

With their inquiries?

With the fiddly bits.

Now, Kurt Masterson, not your real man?

How did you know?

You went home early last night, Mr. Masterson.

Why?

Well, I was made an offer I couldn't refuse, wasn't I?

I knew the lady, Norena Bean.

I read a column.

I always do.

She gave me a fiver, just to borrow the uniform mine.

Said she would go on for me and no one would clock it.

Now, why would she want to pose as you?

She said she was writing a story.

The poisonous secret at the heart of Loveless in London.

Love-lorn.

Something like that.

She wasn't specific.

But she said she needed one last bit of proof.

I didn't think nothing of it.

I was barely in the shot.

You sell a lot of stories to the press, do you, Mr. Masterson, about actors here?

No.

Well, nothing nasty.

Just whether they like mink or feathers or where they drink.

Or how much?

All right, thank you.

We'll come and get a statement from you.

But that's it?

That's it.

I was a red herring before.

Once.

Arthur Wander tapped his pipe and looked all beady at me.

But I'd never done it.

I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

All right, thank you.

Why was she here, though, Norena?

Why got her the trouble of bribing him and putting on his costume?

The extra security.

She can just hang around in the lane, could she?

So I suppose she needed a disguise.

Title of that article, though, eh?

Maybe she was on to the poisoner.

Maybe she was on to the poisoner.

So she had to go.

What's that?

Something I noticed.

Backwards impression on Norena Bean's hand in ink.

Something she was holding.

Evidently, she was sweating.

Whether from the exertion of going up the stairs or the heavy costume.

And reversed, it reads...

Ty wins.

Ty, Ty win.

Ty, Ty wins.

Twins.

Hardly.

More likely the fragment of two words, wouldn't you say?

I, uh, better go back to work.

Work?

I'm standing in for Stuart.

It's not a profit trade, you know.

Yeah.

Like being a part-time detective.

What's up with him?

Hmm?

Me.

She's dead.

You saw her.

She was at the bottom of the stairs.

Like a broken dog.

Oh God, how awful.

I mean, she was awful.

But still, how awful.

If it was murder, there'd be a lot of suspects.

Half the British film business.

All of it.

It's true.

Everybody hated her.

You hated her.

What did you do last night?

I had a drink with that boy.

Nice kid.

Went to bed early.

Did some film star duties.

No.

Yes, you know.

Signing photos.

Answering questions from fans.

What's your ideal night out?

What'd you like for breakfast?

Hmm.

You were just shooting here?

Yes.

Do take after take.

Simple stuff, really.

How many stars have sat here like me?

What's in the creases grow?

The hair thin.

The flesh.

The rope.

The chins.

I met a man once.

He was an astronomer.

Now he knew about the stars.

The real ones, I mean.

Did you know that the stars that we see in the sky aren't really there?

Most of them.

Anyway.

It takes so long for the light to reach us.

But there's just echoes.

Ghosts.

Just a memory of what was once there.

Christ, darling.

But some of those stars don't go quietly.

We're now towards the end.

Later in life, shall we say.

They get bigger.

Bigger stew.

They give out more and more light and heat until nothing can eclipse them.

Nothing.

I don't want to go quietly.

I want to burn.

Light up the town like I used to explode.

Boom!

The chocolates were injected with one of these.

So why have you got one?

Well, it's hardly a secret, is it?

Diabetic, aren't I?

Yeah, everyone knows that.

Interesting.

So anyone could have gained access to this, for instance.

Hmm?

Well, you might have done it yourself.

Why the hell would I have wanted to poison Miss Dare?

Well, that's just a thing, Sonny Jim.

Miss Dare wasn't the target.

Then who was?

Her fiancé.

Yes, puts a rather different complexion on things, doesn't it?

Mr. Howard fired you, didn't he?

Yeah, yeah, but not till after the chocolates.

Yeah, but he treated you badly.

You were his whipping boy.

You need to develop a fixed skin in this business, Inspector.

I've dealt with bigger egos than Stuart Howard, believe me.

If I'd wanted to get my own back, I'd have pissed in his tea, not poisoned his chocolates.

And then there's the late Miss Noreen Bean.

Yeah, well, she was a right old.

Mustn't speak ill of the dead.

Does she have anything on you?

Like what?

You can account for your movements last night, can't you?

Shot right through.

Right.

No coffee breaks?

Yes, of course coffee breaks.

So theoretically, you could have pushed Noreen Bean down the stairwell, couldn't you?

Yeah, well, theoretically, I could have won the pools and rung up Veronica Lake for a date.

But I didn't.

What's this?

Tomorrow's pink page.

Rewrite?

Mr. McKendrick's rewrite of Seen 34.

Just a little one, but in this business, the details matter, Inspector.

You don't want actors bumping into the furniture.

Have a details made myself?

Oh, yeah, I'm terrible at the pictures, me.

I always know we've done it straight off.

Irritates the marrow out of Mrs. Bliss, but as I always say to her, the why is the thing.

So why not take her to a western?

Watch all those cowboys getting shot in the chest and falling forwards.

Don't think so.

Never get home, Billy.

If I try hard, Mr. Book, I can remember the daylight.

Can I go now?

Well, we'll need to get this testy.

For insulin.

For strychnine.

Basilisk.

Eh?

Ring any bells?

Basilisk.

Nora and I have spent most of the morning dredging through your back issues.

My head's swimming.

And we finally found what we were looking for.

A Sandra Dare fan who wrote to picture-goer a lot.

This one is from two years ago.

For looks, talent, and sheer screen charisma, no one can compete with the divine Miss Dare.

There's loads like that.

In her latest picture, the 43-year-old star elevates the art of acting to great heights.

But why she's wasting her time sharing the screen with Stuart Howard, I will never know.

A mumbling, soppy-eyed fop.

And here's another, a year later, the public's infatuation with Dare and Howard is beyond me.

Miss Dare should be striking out alone, not saddling herself with this talentless whippersnapper.

Of course, there is always difficulty when one reaches for the stars, but the difficulty as I see it is Stuart Howard.

And there's a lot more like that in the same vein.

An all-signed basilisk.

I see.

Well, they obviously didn't like Stu.

You think they might be the one who sent the chocolates?

I don't know.

Is it too much of a stretch to go from disliking a film star to sending them strictly?

I don't know what to do with me.

Sometimes the discussions can get very heated at the meet-ups.

Meet-ups?

Oh, yeah.

We meet up and have chats and that.

Sometimes the studio will send a star down to open a fate or something.

That's how I first met Barbara.

And you've never come across this basilisk.

Well, how would I know?

If they never used their real name?

Anything?

Mr. Howard's room's as bare as George Zucco's pate.

Oh, what about Miss Dez?

Same.

Same.

Probably.

Who's next?

Soundproofed?

Naturally.

Now, we know your movements last night, Mr. McKendrick.

I should think so.

The director never has a moment to themselves.

In the tea break, I went to my office.

Just a minor change for tomorrow.

A pink page, yes.

You can check with my secretary.

These stairs, where do they lead?

Prop store, offices.

It's a warren, this place.

Film vault down there.

Nice place, if you like asbestos.

The treasures are pretty similar.

Not really.

No.

What then?

Well, our film opens in Leicester Square.

Then it goes out across the country.

Then to the second-run houses in the flea pits.

And when it's so scratched that every scene looks like it's happening in Antarctica, it comes here.

Back home.

It's taken to the tank.

The tank?

What happens there?

It's put out of its misery.

It's dissolved in sodium hypochlorite.

Why back here?

The fumes, Mr. Book.

The fumes.

It goes some old tat starring a terrible provincial comic.

And out comes something useful.

Waterproof paint.

And silver halide.

What an odd little cottage industry.

It's valuable.

More valuable than what's on the films themselves.

That seems a lot of effort to go to.

No, it's a simple process.

A chemical solution does the work.

No, I mean, making a motion picture.

You know, the stars and the lights.

You know, and shooting all those scenes.

And then just to melt it all down for scrap.

British cinema is mainly stupid, Inspector.

It's never been about anything.

That needs to change.

When it does, I'll make movies that won't end up here.

All in for one standby.

Mr. Howard.

White straightly Élite.

Howard.

Whatever.

Go down inside.

Bye, darling.

Bye.

Mr. Howard.

Mr. Book.

A moment.

Of course.

A hoary old query.

Who is?

What were you doing last night?

Well, after drinks with your Jack, I went to bed early.

But I couldn't get off.

I spent a lot of time staring at the ceiling, contemplating mortality, as you can imagine.

Any witnesses?

Sorry to sound so official.

Of course not.

Sandra and I are engaged, don't you know?

I had heard something of the kind.

And Lorena Bean?

Was she blackmailing you?

About prison?

I've been very careful.

Incredibly, I don't think she ever got a sniff of it.

Mustache.

TTFM.

Right, there's been a smash and grab in Crystal Palace.

A tray of missing wedding rings and a cracked skull.

Ooh, very much a B-movie crime.

Might you, uh, stick around here?

Keep in mind the beautiful people.

They are beautiful.

What can I get for you?

What else are they?

Of course.

Come on, Sergeant.

Let's go.

Here's a cock.

Here's a cock.

Clippings.

We found your trail book.

Oh, excellent work.

Oh, Mrs. Book.

Didn't expect to see you here.

Mr. Howard said we should visit, and I've bought something for my husband.

Lunch.

Clues.

Eh?

Very interesting trail here.

And I thought I saw something earlier, too, in the note.

A repeated phrase.

And these are all signed Basilisk.

What?

It's a mythological creature.

It could kill you just by looking at you, rather the way Miss Dare is looking at me now.

Would you excuse me?

Well done, darling.

Would you like a little look around, Mrs. Book?

Oh, I'd be delighted.

So, er, wallpaper didn't suit your story, then?

Well, no.

Because the hero, Tony, he desires pleasure, but he's afraid of it.

He's repressed.

That's Freud, you know.

Oh, so I understand.

Wallpaper simply doesn't give us that.

Wallpaper is about covering things up.

I thought cakes.

Cakes are the opposite of books, really.

I must have missed that bit in Freud.

Ah, yes.

Very good.

Please.

Skirts gathered ready for the pursuit of art?

Ha, ha.

Er, yes.

I suppose so.

Well, before you rush off, perhaps I can check some details.

Hmm.

How do you help the police exactly, Mr. Book?

I check details.

You must be relieved to know the chocolates weren't intended for you.

Naturally.

But also terribly worried for Stu.

Of course.

Now, I know where you were last night, Miss Dare, because I've seen the rushes.

You were doing that scene where you look through the window and think about the resilience of your love.

Yes.

With Marina Bean amongst the background artists.

Marina?

Was she on the set?

In the shot?

Yes.

Moments later, she was on the stairs.

Yes, yes.

And then at the bottom of the stairs.

Yes, well, I know about that.

Perhaps she was killed because she knew who'd sent the poison chocolates.

Is that what you think?

It's a working hypothesis.

Wait a minute.

You don't think that I...

No.

I love Stuart.

We're everything to each other.

Everything to the box office at any rate.

Oh.

And someone's been telling tales.

Well, if that were the case, I'd have even less motive for killing Stuart, wouldn't I?

We're joined at the hip.

When you finished filming, you went back to your dressing room, eh, much?

Yes.

Oh, Billy, darling, you wouldn't get me a coffee, would you, please?

Of course, mister.

A dash of milk.

Me too, Billy.

Good, strong one.

Sure thing, sir.

You all work such long hours.

We like to turn the sign at 5.30.

Oh, my dear, well, in the quota-quickie days, there was one picture shooting here during the day and one at night.

When that door opened with a 10 o'clock turnaround, oh, no idea.

Stale beer, orange peel, gas.

Thank you, darling.

Oh, the 1930s.

Those were the days.

Sugar, sir?

What?

Tastes horrible.

It's bitter.

Would you like some milk, sir?

No.

Billy, get me some water.

Oh, my lord.

Jesse?

Same sentence.

Oh!

Jesse, you really...

Oh, my God.

Oh, my God.

Eat it.

Oh, my God.

I can't shake it.

I can't swallow it.

I can't swallow it.

I can't do this again.

What are you doing, Tim?

Trying to save his life, I think.

But perhaps someone should call an ambulance in case I've got it wrong.

Ambulance, quickly.

What's up, Mr. McKinley?

Take it with us.

No.

Oh, no.

Look at me.

Look at me.

We didn't even get to the top of the hill.

See her?

It's largely cosmetic.

Well, someone's stuffed around his mouth.

It's largely cosmetic.

Mascara.

Oh, charcoal.

I believe that's what mascara is.

Oh, and petroleum jelly.

A bit of a risk, though, Mrs. Book.

Charcoal's good for strychnine.

But I'm still waiting for the report on what was in Barbara Malcolm's chocolate.

It could have been anything.

Mr. McKendrick twitched, though.

Strychnine gives you the twitches.

That's right.

Great presence of mind is my wife.

All my thoughts, dear Jesse.

Oh, wait.

My bag.

I need my things.

Oh, allow me.

Oh, silly me.

Thank you, Mrs. Book.

Thanks.

Oh, it's in the coffee.

Everyone else has drunk it.

They seem to be fine.

Not entirely awful.

Oh, so it's in my cup.

I did afterwards.

You'd think so, wouldn't you?

It's so indiscriminate.

I just heard.

Jesse?

Poisoned.

Oh, God.

Was it meant for me?

I don't know.

The new schedule.

Mr. Howard?

Mr.

You can go, Jack.

That'll be the end of shooting for the day.

Okay.

Oh, God.

Quiet.

It's cold today.

Shall we, Trotty?

What's the matter with him?

I don't know.

He's been rather off with me all day.

Nora, are we diversifying?

Just catching up on my reading.

He is mud in your eye.

Ah, ah.

Boy.

I'm still a child.

Your uncle had my guts for garters.

I'm going to bed.

Are you all right?

Long day.

What's wrong with your usual diet of blood and guts?

Got a bit bored.

They're starving a woman to death in pinge.

Nora, a favour.

Where are those film almanacs?

You mean the magazines that girl bought?

No, no.

We have a stack of almanacs.

Early films.

From when they still called them Flickers.

If memory serves,

between William Friesgreen and how green was my valley.

Right.

I...

There she is.

Christiana Edmonds.

And Astra Aspera.

What?

Night.

And the stack case doesn't go anywhere.

Oh, it's all right.

These people never go upstairs.

Sounds like home.

No ceiling, though.

The rooms in films never have ceilings.

Why is that, eh?

It stopped the light getting in.

Continuity.

Missed the book.

Oh.

Sorry.

How is the life of a standard?

Static.

Jack, a word in your shell, Mike.

Jack.

Let's get it again.

Let's go.

Jack.

Jack.

Back into the light.

Yes.

Ah.

Mr. McKendrick.

Glad to see you looking hale and hearty.

Fully recovered, I hope.

Yes.

Thanks to Mrs. Book.

When I went into the picture business,

I never thought it would be so bad for my nerves.

It's exhausting.

More exhausting than running.

So much more.

Near the end, though, now, aren't we?

Yes.

I'm so sorry, Mr. Book.

Would you excuse me?

I'm rather busy.

Of course.

Oh, what is the story so far, Mr. Howard?

We've been having a passionate affair of the intellect,

Madeline and I.

But then this telegram comes.

Telegram of doom.

And what do you know?

Her husband's been found in a Japanese POW camp.

Oh, bad luck.

Yes, and he's on his way back to Blighty

with his ribs sticking out,

but still very much a going concern, love-wise.

And so she tells me she has to leave me.

What do you say?

Nothing.

Of course.

Writers never want to write those bits.

They're like a nice, clean reaction shot.

Something's swelling in the soundtrack.

Positions, please.

But credit due.

Jesse listened.

So instead of standing there catching flies,

I gird my loins and go stoically back to work.

Like Uncle Vanya.

I'm sure that's what Jesse had in mind.

Ask him.

I might have that.

What did you do today, today?

What did you do to clap?

What did you do to clap?

A minute or two to do.

What did you do to die today?

What did you do to do?

What did you do to die?

Scene 34, take one.

Anne.

Action.

Now the telegram is here.

The one I think we knew would always come.

Is this the end of the affair?

Oh, don't say that word, Stuart.

You know that it lads me.

I shall think of us hiding together.

You said Stuart.

What?

You said Stuart.

Cut.

Let's go again.

Close positions, please.

Close positions!

Billy.

Yes, Mr. McKendree.

Run this one.

Would you call of nature?

Got it.

Quiet, please!

There's still time, you know.

Time for what?

To do the right thing.

Stop the filming.

I've been aware for a while about a certain secret relationship in your life.

Oh, we are not.

She isn't.

Not with Sandra.

With strychnine.

I've read those grave little paragraphs in the Farsity Sporting Review.

How you took it as a stimulant to get you through those last agonizing yards of the race.

Rather reckless, really.

Her father wasn't very pleased, was he?

No.

So I got into trouble.

So what?

And then there's Christiana Edmonds.

The heroine of your new film script.

Household name, once.

Fell in love with a doctor.

And believed that he was in love with her.

Pure fantasy.

And she thought she could help him escape from his wife by bringing her a box of poisoned chocolate creams.

Which the wife spat out just in time.

And her poison of choice?

Strychnine, of course.

Bit of a leitmotif, isn't it?

I've had a lot of time to think.

Too much, I dare say.

And I think we've been living in a kind of a dream.

It's time for that dream to end.

You, you must stay here with your books.

And I...

I must go back to my husband.

I certainly must.

You didn't mean to kill poor Barbara Markham.

And that might save you from the gallows.

But you couldn't make the same argument about what's happening here, could you?

This is your very last chance, Jesse.

Oh.

Oh, damn, damn, damn you.

Book.

Ow!

How was that with bloody pain?

Thanks, fuck.

No, well.

Too late now.

You all right, Stu?

I was on the cash register.

It went right into me when I...

When I pressed the button.

Oh, my God.

Oh, my God.

You.

I have a name, Mr. Howard.

This is what happened to that girl.

No.

Barbara Markham swallowed strychnine.

This time, the poison was on a pin in the cash register.

So it would go straight into the bloodstream.

If Jack and Billy hadn't followed my instructions perfectly

and swapped it with a clean one.

The pink page told me where to look.

But it was Billy who found it.

You should be grateful he's so diligent, Mr. Howard,

considering how bloody rude you are to him.

You should thank him, too, Jesse.

One less name on the chance sheet

next to little Barbara Markham.

It was for you, my love.

All for you.

What?

So we could be together.

And I could make you a bigger star than ever.

Not in cheap trash like this,

but in a real film or masterpiece.

What the hell are you talking about?

He's been obsessed with you for years, Mr.

Used to write letters to picture-goer.

Under a pseudonym, of course.

Basilisk.

His family crest.

And all those books he read in the shop last year.

That's how he came up with his magnum opus.

Unfortunately, he left a little trace behind.

He saw that we were getting a little too close to the truth,

and that's why he suddenly tasted something strange in his coffee.

Faked the poisoning.

You could have said bitter almonds, like people do in the films.

But you chose to twitch because you knew that Barbara Markham had been killed by strychnine.

You were familiar with the effects.

They're pretty ugly, aren't they, Trotty?

Yes, spasms.

Spasms, a sort of breathless agitation.

I'll never forget it.

You put in a good performance, Jesse.

But let me give you a note, Mr. Director.

It takes a few minutes for the spasms to start.

Your timing was out.

Ad Astra per Aspera.

Through hardship to the stars.

Your family motto.

You got to the stars, didn't you, Jesse?

Or to the only star that mattered to you.

Sandra Dare.

My family has money.

So much money.

That's how I bought my way into this filthy industry.

I could have financed our picture, Sandra.

But he was spoiling it.

Him.

What better publicity?

A tragic widow overcoming her grief.

Tackling the part of a lifetime alongside the brilliant young writer.

Writer-director.

Writer-director who consoled her.

It's a scene.

Deranged.

Oh, you poor fool.

It would be a whole new Sandra Dare, my darling.

Playing your own age.

No makeup, a true character part to show your real range.

No makeup?

Are you mad?

I'm Sandra Dare.

So it was him.

He killed that poor girl.

Yes.

And Norena Bean.

No, not Norena Bean.

What?

Not Norena Bean, the girl with the poison pen.

Jesse has a cast iron alibi.

He was in his office.

His secretary by his side, passing him the carbon paper, typing out a way to murder you, Mr. Howard.

Then who did do it?

Where did we find her?

Bottom of the stairs.

Which lead where?

Prop store.

Offices.

The vault.

The vault.

Yes.

Wherein lie some of the forgotten remnants of British cinema.

And one film in particular.

I found the reference in an old movie almanac back in Archangel Lane.

What film?

Kitty Wins the Calcutta Sweep.

The hell is that?

It's the film I found in your room.

Sandra.

Billy, call Bow Street.

Get Bliss here.

Yes, Mr. Burke.

You never loved her, Stuart.

Not like I did.

It's a long time since I've done this for real.

Oh, my God.

Sandra, it's all over.

Why don't you come out and explain?

I wasn't Sandra Dare back then.

I was Deirdre Pettock.

It was so long ago.

The film was lost.

And then Norena discovered it.

And then I discovered her.

It was pure chance.

I was going back to my dressing room, and I saw this person an extra.

And then I recognized her.

And I saw what she had in her sweaty hands.

I had never been so angry, not in all my life.

No!

Give it!

No!

No!

No!

Give it!

No!

No!

No!

No!

She hit that step like a fairground coconut.

She died instantly.

But it was an accident.

I swear, it was an accident.

But there it was.

The monster print.

This business will forgive you a lot of things, but not getting old.

Are you smoking, Sandra?

When nitrate film burns, Sandra, it makes its own oxygen.

You think I don't know that, Mr. Borg?

I'm a veteran of the silver screen.

That's why they keep it in an asbestos bolt.

If you drop that cigarette, Sandra, it'll go up like a torch.

And Trotty and I won't escape unscathed.

And neither will Stuart.

Stuart.

Darling.

It doesn't have to be like this.

But she would have told him all my secret.

That I was making films when Lennon was in office.

They would have made me box office poison.

And I've told you.

I want to go on and on and light up the town, explode.

Sandra.

That script that Jesse wrote.

I read it.

Sandra.

That script that Jesse wrote.

I read it.

It's about a woman who makes a terrible moral mistake.

but she faces her fate with dignity

Inspector Bliss will be here soon

and you'll be under arrest

but before he arrives

it could save you a little bit of humiliation

what do you say?

let's go out to the tank

bring that film

the one with you as a 17 year old

with your whole life ahead of you

if all this business made you what you've become

oh no Mr. Book

ah

I've always had it in me

I've always been a star

I think that's what the camera saw

and why they've always loved me

just give me a moment will you

not bad

that's long enough

keep the bloody door in

I think that's what the camera saw

and why they do not look like

I'm a little tired

I'm a little tired

Come on.

Come on.

Come on.

But I'm sure the jury will be kind to Miss Dare.

It was an accident, after all.

Now you're a free man, Mr. Howard.

Just what I wanted.

What a cost.

Mind you.

Tragic ex-fiancé.

Broken-hearted leading man.

Suddenly single?

What is it?

It was an accident, wasn't it?

Marina Beanstaff.

Well, you shall never know, Inspector.

After all, Sandra Dare is a terribly good actress.

What is it?

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

Hello, Jack.

What's up?

Jack, we need to tell you something.

I'm sorry we didn't say it before,

but we wanted to let you settle in, and it's a delicate matter.

It's about our relationship.

Oh.

I think I guessed it.

Is it that obvious?

Well, it wasn't at first, but...

Yeah.

I found a photograph.

A photograph?

My dad.

You have a photo of my dad.

It's just like the one that I have.

And this.

I know I shouldn't have taken it.

I'm sorry, but with the picture, I...

Eric Percival Banks, your first husband...

Is this him?

Is this him?

I know why.

I know I'm sorry.

I know I can't believe it.

I know I can't believe it.

It's true.

I know.

I know.

You know I know.

I know...

I know.

I know.

You know, I know.

I know.

Oh, my dear. Not at all. I'm so sorry.

What's all this about?

Jack.

We have rather a lot to tell you.

What's all this about?