All language subtitles for Sister Boniface Mysteries S04E04 Killer Heels

New BoHo boots
by Groovy Shoo.

The coolest kicks in town.

These killer heels
are definitely

something to
twist and shout about.

BoHo - the only way to Go-Go.

People cannot wait to get
their hands on these boots.

- Don't you mean their feet?
- Exactly.

You'll be in next weeks edition.

He'll be wrapped around
a fish supper come Friday.

- Shh.
- "The coolest kicks in town--

made right here in our town."

You can have that one.

And did you say the launch

has been brought
forward to Saturday?

- Saturday?.
- Saturday?.

By popular demand.

Much obliged Mr. Millington.

- Cheerio ladies.
- Bye.

Right, let's get
those machines humming

and make some
beautiful music together.

I thought we made boots.

With staff numbers already down

we'll never get
it finished by Saturday.

Unless you're gonna
pay us overtime.

Yeah, we'll have
to pull double shifts.

I'm afraid the factory
finances are rather tight

at the moment, ladies.

- Meaning?
-Meaning,

I'm very much relying
on your goodwill

to get this order out on time.

So you want us to work
extra hours for no extra pay?

Well we don't want to
see the factory go under, do we?

- What?
- The rather brutal fact

is-- we pull together

or you could all
be out of a job.

Have you seen this?

- Boho Boots?
- Oh they're to die for.

Not that I can
afford them on my wages.

They don't look
very comfortable.

They're rather daring.

I had a pair of heels
like that once.

Nearly broke my neck
running for the bus

after a night at Passion.

It was a nightclub.

Anyway, never mind the boots--
I sniff a business opportunity.

D'you reckon we could sell
our vino at the launch party?

Mr. Millington's usually
in the Spitfire after work--

you could ask him.

Mmm.

We should be getting
paid for this extra work.

- I'm talking to the union.
- You heard Mr. Millington--

if we don't get
these boots ready on time

we could be out of a job.

Ah, Ladies, I cannot tell you
how much I appreciate this.

Oh, Uncle Arthur.
I'm Sorry-- Mr. Millington.

The women are grumbling
about the additional hours.

Dermot, the thing you
have to understand about women

is how much
they love to complain.

You just have to know
how to handle them.

- Turn on the charm--
- Mr. Millington.

Ah.
The lovely Bernice.

- I was wondering...
- Well wonder no more.

I'm sure Dermot
will be able to help.

Charm, Dermot.
If you can muster any.

Hello girls.

Pam.

We haven't seen you in ages.

Pamela, to what
do we owe the pleasure?

Can't a girl pop by to
see her favourite uncle?

She can, but I bet
she's after something.

You know me so well.

Just give me half an hour,

Pamela, my dear,
I've got a couple of things

to get on top of.

We have a big order to finish.

I can see that.
Stick the kettle on, then.

I'll wait.

Interesting.

- Snowball?
- Oh just a small one.

We're here on
convent business, remember.

I don't understand the fuss.

- They're just boots.
- They're BoHo boots.

I thought they were Go-Go boots.

The BoHo boot is the Go-Go boot.

Apparently.

They'd look great on you, Peggy.

Thanks.

So, how's your
arty farty stuff going?

I am getting
my portfolio together.

Much to Uncle Arthur's disgust.

- "There's no money in art."
- No money in footwear, either.

And I've got
calluses on calluses

from these sewing machines.

Moan, moan, moan.

You don't hear
the men complaining

about the extra work.

They're just glad
of the extra cash.

- Shh.
- Extra cash?

Oi, Derek.

Ere, are you
getting paid overtime?

You and your big mouth.
You're a liability.

- Arthur.
- Oh, hello, Hector.

Now, you promised me
some end-of-line sandals

for my theatricals.

I'm doing one of the Greeks.

- What's this?
-Vera.

Do you fancy a bit
of Lysistrata?

"No poet's wiser
than Euripides--

as he says, no beast exists
so shameless as womankind."

Bravo.

Are you having
a drink, Daisy?

No, no, I'm here to clean.

I'm moonlighting. Shh.

I would have thought
spirits were more your line.

- Holy Spirits?
- Good one.

Yeah. Bring a bottle
to the factory, tomorrow,

and we'll talk.

You're early.

Have you got
a second second job?

- Needs must.
-Well, needs shouldn't.

Wait till I tell you
what I've found out...

Chop chop Mrs. Mop.

I need you on those machines
when the clock strikes eight.

Knock knock. Boss in?
I've brought him a snifter.

He's in his office
but he doesn't like

- to be disturbed before nine.
- Ah well, I've gotta be

in the chapel in half an hour.

Erm, no, no.

Never too early for a vin...

Oh...

Lacerations and swelling
suggest a blow to the head

Perhaps it was
a robbery gone wrong?

The money's still
in the petty cash tin

but perhaps Mr. Millington
disturbed a burglar.

Or the burglar disturbed him.

Looks like he slept
here last night.

Blood on the corner.

From the position of the body,

I'd say that he
hit his head as he fell.

So, an accident?

No, I don't think so.

Best open a window.
Bitter almonds.

Cyanide?

There's a coffee pot here
and a half-drunk cup.

Oh yes, splendid.
I'll take them for testing.

Somebody's been moulting.

And this hair doesn't
appear to be Arthur's.

Sister, time of death?

Well, no rigor mortis.

The body's still warm.

Can't have been more
than a couple of hours ago.

Sister Reg said there were some
workers here when she arrived.

- They're out there.
- This is horrible.

We have to open as normal.
The launch is on Saturday.

Not being funny, Dermot,
but you could look

a little bit more
grief-stricken.

I feel sick.

Did any of you see or speak
to Mr. Millington this morning?

He was in his office
all night working on the launch.

Nobody goes in there
on pain of death.

- Or sacking.
- We wouldn't dare.

Hello, who's left
their greasy mark here?

And there's
another one here, look.

What is it?

Financial records.

Sister, someone's been lighting
a fire in here recently.

In the heat of summer,
well, albeit, British summer.

Oh yes.

Someone's been burning paper.

But why?

I salvaged as many
fragments as I could.

Why the hair lacquer?

Perhaps the fragments
have a hot date.

I need to stabilise
their structural integrity

before I can examine them.

I'm running tests on
the greasy smudges as well.

Okay,
what about the cyanide?

Oh, most peculiar--

Sample from the
coffee cup and pot.

When I add a mixture
of iron sulphate,

caustic soda
and distilled water...

This is usually
the point you say, "Bingo."

If any cyanide were present the
liquid would turn bright blue.

So, it wasn't cyanide
that killed him?

But that smell of bitter
almonds was unmistakeable.

And cyanide acts quickly.

He must have ingested
it this morning.

But there isn't any sign that
he ate or drank anything else.

And here's another
interesting thing--

the hairs that I found
on the floor aren't human.

It's uni-seriated.

The shaft looks like
a tiny ladder.

- Animal hair.
- Cat? Dog?

No, the texture would
be smooth if it were dog.

Spiculated--
spiky, if it were a cat.

This is coarse,
probably horse hair.

Uncle Arthur turned the stables
into a garage years ago.

No pets at all?

Dermot and I weren't allowed so
much as a goldfish growing up.

We were more than enough
to look after, apparently.

You were raised by your uncle?

Our parents were on
a ship sunk by a U-boat.

Uncle Arthur inherited us.

These bristles
are horsehair.

Ah.

So when were you
in Arthur's office?

I thought no one entered
on pain of death?

Oh, well...

Look.

The BoHo boot design?

I barged in on Uncle Arthur,

yesterday afternoon,
to have a go at him...

You stole my designs.

You should be flattered
I thought them good enough.

I'm not flattered.
I'm furious.

Look, don't kick up a fuss
about your precious doodle

and I'll pay for
that fancy art school

you're always banging on
about-- how's that?

We made a deal.

Still, he took your
designs without asking.

That must have made you angry.

Are you alright?
You looked very flushed.

My uncle has just died.

I wouldn't kill someone
over a stolen "doodle."

Besides, you said he died
at the factory this morning.

I was at home until
Dermot rang with the news.

Ask the housekeeper.

No, no, the boot launch
is full steam ahead.

No, No, no, no.
The police are looking into it.

They've got a nun on the case.

Yeah, Miss Marple in a wimple.

Solving crime through
the power of prayer.

No, I know. No, no.

Alright, well I'll see
you on Saturday, alright.

Excuse me, Dermot...

It's Mr. Millington
to you, now.

Mr. Millington.

I know you must be
upset about your uncle...

I'll be more upset if
those boots don't get finished.

About that.

The men at the warehouse

were promised overtime pay.

Yes.

Well, those lads work hard.

You can't begrudge them?

The women work hard.

What, sewing?.

Look, just finish those boots
or I'll end your employment.

I'm in charge, now, love.

We'll see about that.

The smudge on the file
is some sort of emollient.

My first thought
was hand cream--

possibly face cream.
But, um--

when I Iron Chloride.

The emollient
contains lactic acid.

To remove dry skin.
It's most likely a foot cream.

For bunions.

Bunions and calluses...

Dermot needs us as much
as we need our jobs.

I need every penny I can get.

Erm, why--
why aren't you lot working?

You lied to us.

This place isn't going under--
it's booming.

You just didn't want
to pay us any extra.

Oh, the men are getting
overtime though.

And they already get
twice what we do.

Of course the men get paid more.
They're the breadwinners.

Most of you lot are just
here for some pocket money

and a chance to get
out of the vacuuming.

Alright ladies.

Let's see how he manages
to organise a boot launch

without any boots.

- What?
-You heard.

- I'm calling a strike.
-Yeah!

Someone get
Norman at The Bugle.

I really can't afford...

Time of the
month is it, girls?

Look, just get back to work
before I sack the lot of you.

-Daisy?
- I can't.

Bernice, can we
have a word please?

So it's foot cream
but you use it on your hands.

So?

It's good for calluses.

Well you left traces of it when

you went through the accounts.

Alright.

I came back here last night to
take a sneak peek at the books.

Mr. Millington said
the factory was going bust

but not according
to the accounts.

He was raking it in.

A blinking liability.

Well, if you
told me what was going on.

So Perhaps you thought a change
of management was in order.

Maybe you thought his
nephew would be a better boss?

Dermot?
He's worse than his uncle.

He's obnoxious and incompetent.

Couldn't run an egg
and spoon race.

Look, if you're looking for
someone with a motive--

look at him.

Because he called
his nephew a liability?

Last night, Mr. Millington
was shouting about

how he would never leave
his beloved factory to Dermot.

Not even if he was the
last man in Great Slaughter.

I'm the closest thing
he had to a son.

So you stand
to inherit everything?

Yes, as Uncle Arthur's
right-hand man.

Unless your uncle
didn't think you were capable.

You know, perhaps he
was going to change his will

and leave everything to Pamela?

He wouldn't leave
his precious factory to a girl.

Look I hope-- I hope you're
not accusing me of murder?

My uncle was very
good friends with your boss.

We're not accusing you
of anything-- yet.

But don't go anywhere.

Of course I'm not
going to go anywhere, am I.

I've got this blasted
boot launch to sort.

And Bernice has got all
my machinists out on strike.

-What do we want?
-Fairer pay!

- When do we want it?
-Now!

- What do we want?
-Fairer pay!

- When do we want it?
-Now!

It was you, wasn't it?

Telling tales to the police.

And you were here
snooping around last night.

So?

Is that when
you poisoned my uncle?

Me? I'm not the one
inheriting his factory.

Consider yourself fired.

You can't sack me,
I'm on strike!

- What do we want?
-Fairer pay!

-When do we want it?
-Now!

Can I get
a quote for the paper?

What do you think your
uncle would say about all this?

His uncle would never
have allowed it to happen.

Oh, Chief Constable,
thank goodness.

Bernice McDowell is
who you're after.

Well, I'm not here
in official business.

I'm here because Arthur was a--

well he was a very
good friend of mine

and I've brought Vera along
to try and talk some sense

into this lot.

Woman to woman, as it were.

- Mrs. Clam?
- Brilliant.

- When do we want it?
-Now!

-What do we want?
-Fair pay!

I worked in this factory
during the first war.

Making boots for soldiers.

No ho-ho boots in those days.

Not with a war on.

You ought to be ashamed
of yourself, young lady.

Taking advantage
of this gentleman's grief.

Grief?

The only thing he's mourning
is his profit margins.

Some of these women
are struggling...

Struggle?

You wouldn't know
the meaning of the word.

Getting through two wars,
that was a struggle.

You tell her, Vera.

We were prepared
to make a sacrifice

for the greater good
in those days.

Ten hours a day
I worked in that factory.

And proved you were
every bit as good as the men.

- Exactly.
- You're my hero.

Oh. Am I?

But you were earning a fraction

of what the men in
the factory were getting,

for doing the exact same job.

I, well--

I hadn't--
was I?

And we've barely
seen a pay-rise since.

Unlike the men.

Why should the women earn less?

Because, they're women.

It's only a bit of sewing.

A bit of...

Show them your hands.

Red raw from machine work.

Oh, I remember those calluses
like they were yesterday.

Calluses? The men were on the
front line risking their lives.

Dottie lost her mother
to a stray bomb.

I know women who crawled out
from under rubble to get to work

so that you could
have boots to march in.

- What do we want?
-Fairer pay!

- Mrs. Clam: When do we want it?
- Now!

- What do we want?
-Fairer pay!

- When do we want it?
-Now!

They're refusing to work
until Mr. Millington negotiates.

- How exciting.
- Good for them.

Yeah, although
not so good for us.

If that launch doesn't go ahead
that's twelve cases of wine

we're lumbered with.

Sisterhood solidarity.

We could organise food
and collections in the morning.

Maybe I could
arrange a sing song

on the picket line--
raise everyone's spirits.

A rousing chorus
of Kumbaya, perhaps.

-What do we want?
-Fairer pay!

-When do we want it?
-Now!

- What do we want?
-Fairer pay!

- When do we want it?
-Now!

-What do we want?
-Fairer pay!

-When do we want it?
-Now!

The three of you
don't even work here.

I'm only going in to clean.

You're still breaking
the picket line.

I'm sorry. I need the money.

Right, if I-- if I could
get everyone's attention.

I am prepared
to make you an offer.

If you will agree to stop
all of this nonsense,

get back to work,

then I will
generously make sure

that every woman

gets a free pair
of BoHo Go-Go boots.

You can shove your
BoHo boots up your--

Morning.

Is it morning?
Oh, goodness.

Twas the lark not the
nightingale, after all.

Romeo and Juliet.

Well, Mrs. Clam woke up
at the crack of dawn

to get to the picket line.

Yeah, we had to make
breakfast on our own.

Turns out Felix is
a whizz with a poached egg.

The secret is
a little dash of vinegar.

Whereas I have finally
stabilised the fragments

of paper that we found
in Arthur's fireplace.

I need a little longer
to examine them

under the microscope.

In the meantime,
something curious...

There are no fingerprints
on this at all.

None?
Not even Arthur Millington's?

None. Suggesting it
was wiped clean, deliberately.

Which seems
a little like overkill,

if you'll pardon
my vernacular--

since whoever opened the
tin was wearing gloves.

How do you know that?

Well, because they caught
their glove in the hinge.

And left a piece behind.

- That looks like...
- Rubber.

Yes.

So, who at the factory
has rubber gloves?

- I'm not a thief.
- But you were caught with

your hand in the till--
or tin, rather.

There.

The missing piece of
your glove that we found

in the petty cash tin.

Look, we know that no money
was taken out of there.

Did Arthur catch you in the act?

My husband left me.

Just over a month ago.

I found out he hadn't been
paying the rent or the bills.

He'd been taking my wages too,

and spending them
on God knows what.

Sorry Sister.

Then the night before last,

the landlord come
banging on the door

threatening eviction...

So, you thought you'd help
yourself to petty cash?

Mr. Millington is usually
in his office when I get here.

I was getting stuff out the
cleaning cupboard by his office

when I saw him pop out
to use the lavatory.

I knew he kept the petty
cash tin in his office...

And then I thought...

I should have gloves on.

What the hell do you
think you're doing?

It was a moment of madness.

He said he was going to speak
to me at the end of the day.

Were you afraid he was
going to go to the police?

I-- I don't know.
I was more worried he'd sack me.

But if you killed him
then no one would know

that you'd been sacked.

I didn't kill him.

I've got three kids
to look after.

I'm not going to abandon
them like their dad did.

That's why I can't go on strike.

How would I feed 'em?

Now all my friends hate me.

If they're your friends,
I suspect they'll understand.

- Mrs. Clam: What do we want?
-Fairer pay!

- When do we want it?
-Now!

- Mrs. Clam: What do we want?
-Fairer pay!

- Mrs. Clam: When do we want it?
-Now.

So we still don't know how, when
or where Arthur was poisoned.

What's going on?

What have you done, now?

I've borrowed some
machinists from Jenford's.

Had to pay a chunk
for the privilege.

You see.
Nobody's irreplaceable.

You could have used that money

to pay your own
workers the overtime.

You're as bad as Uncle Arthur.

Pam.

Here's a headline for you--

"Emotional Women Throw
Toys Out of Pram."

- I'll use that.
- Emotional?

Not you, Peggy.

I'm sure your emotions
are well under control.

Excuse me.

Ladies who just
got off the bus.

We are on strike

because Groovy Shoo

do not pay
a fair wage to women.

Ladies.

We are worth
as much as the men.

We're worth more than most.

Mrs. Clam: We deserve
to be taken seriously.

We deserve to be paid
what we're worth.

Silly old bat.

What did you call me?

Mr. Millington looks like he's
about to face the firing squad.

Please! Please have mercy.

I'll give you anything you want.

Ready.

Aim.

Fire!

Oh dear.

You don't--
you don't even work here.

I stand in solidarity.

And I call on all women
to stand in solidarity.

In a general women's strike.

A what?

Mrs. Clam: I hereby
call on every woman in

Great Slaughter to down tools.

Let's see how
emotional the men get

when nobody cooks their tea,

washes their clothes,
looks after the children.

Let's see how well
Great Slaughter

functions without women.

You can use that one, Norm.

Oh, come off it, Vera.

And, I looked up that
play you've chosen for G-SADS.

Lysistrata.

Absolute filth.

Gracious.

What's the play about?

It's about a group of women who
go on a strike to stop a war.

- It's a comedy.
- Sounds like a tragedy to me.

♪ We shall not,
we shall not be moved ♪

♪ We shall not,
we shall not be moved ♪

♪ We shall not,
we shall not be moved ♪

Oh. Great Slaughter's
at a standstill.

All the women are striking.

Yeah, everywhere you go--
just confused-looking men.

We were worried that you
two might join the protest.

I thought about it.

- Why?
- WPCs get paid less than PCs.

Yeah, but that's because
you're on a different pay scale.

Exactly, which isn't equality.

Sister Boniface
has found something.

I've managed to piece
together parts of the document.

Used a lightbox to take
away some of the charring.

It appears to be a scientific
study on Acetonitrile.

- In particular, its toxicity.
- Toxicity?

It can be used to assist
in the manufacture of...

Well, come along.

Aha.

What is it, Sister?

Our murder weapon.
Acetonitrile.

They must use it
to help make the boots.

Well, they shouldn't.
Plays havoc with your breathing.

It was in the papers.

- Peggy...
- On it.

- Come on, Norm.
-Where are we going?

The Bugle.

So, this is what
poisoned Mr. Millington?

- I thought it was cyanide?
- Oh, but it is.

And this is the clever part.

If you ingest acetonitrile,
then your body converts it

into cyanide, so in effect...

You poison yourself.

But the chemical process

can take about eight hours

so Arthur may have

swallowed the acetonitrile
the night before

but only been
poisoned by cyanide

early the next morning.

Well, we know where he was

the night before he died...

- The door's locked.
-Lala sa riken.

Well, if that just doesn't put
the tin hat on everything.

Ass a hemady scrump.

No, thank you, Tom.

Though I'm sure it's delicious.

What's going on?

- Tom and Lowsley: Pub's shut.
- One moment please.

Because the blasted
landlady's on strike.

And I've had to cancel
my rehearsal of Lysistrata.

Isn't that the play
where the women go on strike?

Yes, thank you, Felix,
I do see the irony.

Scrumpy der scrumpy?

Ass himin fell.

You're right.

Don't blame me,
blame the bloomin' women.

Look, tell you what,
first round's on me.

Pub's shut!

Not for us.

There.

Splash marks.

And a ring, where
the varnish has corroded.

Whoever poisoned Arthur's
drink had shaky hands.

They didn't get it quite
all in the glass.

What was Arthur
drinking that night?

Brandy. Hang on.

Well, brandy would have
masked the smell of ether

from the acetonitrile.

Okay, so the place
was full that night.

Anyone could have had
access to Arthur's drink.

- We may have found something.
-What have you got?

"Local Girl Dies
of Asthma Attack."

Any mention
of the girl's name?

It hadn't been released
when they went to press.

But, we found an obituary

in the following week's paper...

Cora Ashfield.

Working at the factory, she's
connected to all our suspects.

This doesn't exactly
narrow it down.

Bingo.

♪ Give me fire in
my heart, keep me striking ♪

♪ Keep me striking ♪

♪ Give me fire in
my heart I pray ♪

♪ I pray ♪

♪ Give me fire in
my heart, keep me striking ♪

♪ Keep me striking ♪

♪ Keep striking
till we get more pay ♪

Ere, get that down you.

Castel de Grand Saint Vincent.

- Puts hairs on your chest.
- Thank you, sister.

We'll see you
and your kiddies right?

Who needs a husband
when you've got friends, eh?

Thank you.

Men-- more trouble
than they're worth.

Miss Millington?

What do you want with Pam?

Because if you want her you're
gonna have to come through us.

It's alright Bernie.

Shall we talk inside?

You still don't think
I killed my own uncle

over a silly boot design?

No, of course not.

Your motive went
much deeper than a motif.

What's going on?
Pam wouldn't hurt a fly.

You should come
with us Mr. Millington.

No, I'm not leaving my sister.

Cora Ashfield.

She died of an asthma attack.

But you knew there
was more to it.

Acetonitrile.

You confronted your uncle

with scientific proof
of its toxicity.

Yes, but he wouldn't listen.

I'll pay for that
fancy art school

you're always banging on
about, how's that?

Oh, that's not even
what I came to talk about.

There's an ingredient
you use in the factory--

it's lethal.

Cora Ashfield
shouldn't have died.

- This factory killed her.
- Don't be dramatic.

She died of an asthma attack.

What's that?

A study into the
toxicity of acetonitrile.

Cora always felt dreadful
after a shift here,

and she was working
closely with it.

Well, if you have a weak chest

perhaps don't take
a job working with solvents.

Did you already know about this?

Nobody forced her to work here.

Pamela, you're a clever girl.

You know which side
your bread is buttered.

You do want to go
to art school, don't you?

But that doesn't
mean I killed him.

- Over some girl she hardly knew?
- Hardly knew?

Look at the
necklace Cora's wearing.

It's the same engraved motif

that's on the
Groovy Shoo BoHo boots.

- Your design.
-A design that

you didn't think
anyone else had seen.

A design that you created
specially for Cora.

- She was your friend.
- She was more than that.

I loved her.

And you blamed
your uncle for her death.

He put profit before people.

So you killed him with
the same toxin that killed Cora.

You can't prove that.

Whoever slipped the poison
into Arthur's drink

spilt some of it on the table.

And on their own hands.

Even if they washed
them straight away

they would have
given themselves very mild

cyanide poisoning.

Which is why you felt sick the
morning of your uncle's death.

And why you looked flushed
when we visited you at the Mill.

If you show me your hands now,

I suspect there'll be
a nasty rash on them.

How did you poison
his drink without him seeing?

I put the acetonitrile
in a miniature brandy bottle.

Cheers, Pamela.

Offered him a free top up.

I knew he wouldn't say no.

Anything to save a few bob.

That's all that mattered to him,
money, over everything.

I'd shown him proof
that acetonitrile was dangerous.

That it had killed Cora.

I thought even
he'd be horrified.

But all he was interested
in was covering up.

Protecting the business.

Cora died
and he wasn't even sorry.

And now...

I'm not sorry either.

Norman, write about
the acetonitrile,

about Cora, please?

- But the launch...
- Dermot.

Let something good
come out of this.

Good?

You can change things now,

make the factory safe.

I wouldn't know where to begin.

I can help.

You?

I know I'm not your
biggest fan Mr. Millington,

but surely we can
look after the workers

and both get what we want?

Please, Dermot.

Be your own man,
not Uncle Arthur's.

I'm willing to
negotiate if you are?

I suppose we can talk.

You can relax now,
Mr. Millington.

One of the catwalk models
is stuck on a train.

- I don't suppose you...
- No chance.

I make 'em, I don't model 'em.

But don't worry, I will
find you a willing volunteer.

Those two seem to be
getting along better.

He's paying us the overtime.

And he's agreed to
discuss a small pay rise.

- How are you, Daisy?
- Much better, thank you.

It's like Bernice says -
who needs a man

when you've got good friends?

Erm - I've been
wanting to apologise.

I don't think
I fully appreciated

the efforts women such as
you put in during the war.

Or since.

You never did compliment me

on that crumble I made in March.

March?

I-- I apologise.

I also have to tell you
that I have decided

not to go ahead with my
production of Lysistrata.

I'm sure there are, well, less
salacious texts we could choose.

- There certainly are.
- Ah, good.

So--
where is Peggy?

Ah.

Right, now your
esteemed colleagues here

have been talking
to me, WPC Button.

About how much they value you.

So, the station would like
to offer you a gesture

of appreciation
for your service.

Thank you so much.

Mr. Millington.

I think we've found
your replacement model.

What?

New BoHo boots
by Groovy Shoo.

The coolest kicks in town.

These killer heels are
definitely something

to twist and shout about.

BoHo-- the only way to Go-Go.

Sensational.