Original subtitles

My Lord and I would like to welcome you all, the most promising artists of

today.

Do not look me in the eye.

You'll have five days to display your art in our exhibition space.

Here's to unlimited success.

Perfectly normal bunch of people, these Surrealists.

He found him bagged with the poor woman. It is my sad duty to inform you all

that Miss Lake has passed away in the night.

I'm placing the date in lockdown. What? No way. Goddamn little fascist.

Hold on, my love.

Our secret's safe with me.

Do you seriously think that one of us was capable of killing Sheila?

We don't think so, sir.

We know.

Does this mean we're all suspects?

And no one else has seen this painting, you're sure?

My wife, but she's in Brussels.

The bank book I found in Miss Legger's bedside table.

Starting last summer, she makes monthly payments to a certain Charlie L.

You were drugged, just like Miss Legger.

Opium in the wine.

A glass revolver. It's gone.

To my wireless mate, Charlie L. Lots of love, S.L. I found it in Nash's room.

We need to find him.

Well, I saw him. Lord James.

Keep an eye on

each other, release at the same time.

Stay back, all of you!

Horrible scene. It is.

I am terribly sorry. It must be an awful shock for you.

On Friday, the biggest society event of the year takes place at this very

estate. That means you have three days to sort out this mess.

No ifs or buts.

Am I making myself clear, Detective?

Like crystal, your lodger. Until then, you have carte blanche from my estate.

Whatever it takes.

And no more death, right?

You may go.

Take Gecha for a late one at the cocktail bar and drown them in alcohol

be. I've got bigger fish to fry.

Of course, my lord.

My sincere apologies. I think we could all use a drink.

Follow me.

Who do you think will be next?

Please, please, let's stay calm.

I can't stay calm, Manny.

Not bad.

Nothing like a bit of harsh miserable, is there? I want to leave this place.

Leave and grieve. They have a lot in common.

Plus, we're in lockdown.

They won't let us leave.

We all want to leave.

We lost so much love in such a short time.

What is left of us?

What is the sense of it all?

Is art not your sense?

What is art, if not love?

I don't know. Seems to be very much about killing at the moment. Ellie,

What do you mean exactly?

This killer is an artist. He creates images, visual concepts. I mean, the

en - scene of those murders is, well... Beautiful.

Oui, exactement.

So, what are we dealing with then?

A killer with an artistic flair?

Or an artist with a flair for killing?

Look at it this way. Some of the most exciting artists on the planet are

sleeping under one roof.

Lots of talent and creativity, add some rivalry, and it's easy to see it's one

of us, right? Or someone who wants it to look like it's one of us? An outsider,

you mean?

Why are you even here? To comfort Sheila?

Let's put this in perspective, okay?

Homo sapiens are the most vicious creatures that ever roamed the Earth.

Let's take a lion, for instance.

King of the jungle, as well as the plain.

Sir, of course the lion kills.

He's good at it.

But he never murders.

For fun.

Okay, I'm going to go.

Got any plans you want to share with us?

Operator? Magritte, Belgium jet 9423.

It's easy to see it's one of us right?

Why are you even here?

You think you get used to the bodies.

The smells.

But no.

Trust me.

You suppose there's some kind of sadomasochistic aspect to all of this?

I'm not convinced there's anything sexual to it.

These are works of art.

Or so the killer wants us to believe.

Bless you.

Well, let's get the expert opinion before we get carried away with

Telephone head office and ask the doctor fine.

And whilst you're there, see if we can get legal access to Miss Legg's will.

Find out who'll inherit her wealth.

Sheila?

So she did love him?

I'll figure you two out yet.

Imagine being so rich that you can employ someone just to make butter for

I cannot, sir.

Say this, though. That man knows what he's doing.

All right, what have we got, Quan?

Well, for absolutely nobody's surprise, they found large quantities of cocaine

in Nash's bloodstream.

Anything else?

Same amount of opium.

A snowball.

Well, Nash did overdose, but considering his daily habit, it might not be the

cause of death.

Inconclusive as of yet.

But the coroner's on his way.

What's next on your list?

Well, I thought it would be useful to view the other artist's work.

If Miss Legger's death scene looked like Magritte's Les Amants, there might be

other paintings that resemble the second murder.

And why do they keep their work?

Well... Duke said that the exhibition on Friday is going to be in one of the

outbuildings of Moncton House.

It's all there ready to be hung up.

Duke is helping the artists with the hangings. They're understandably quite

upset at present.

They are human after all.

Yeah, maybe.

Except for one.

Right.

Go on.

I'll get that.

Thank you.

Nice work, maestro.

Merci, but I can't take the credit.

I found it when I got here two years ago. No name, no title, like a lost dog

a motherless child, so I christened it the Doors of Perception.

Is this for Sheila and Nash?

Yes.

We're planning a little send - off moment at midnight.

Just us.

I mean...

You should come, actually.

But don't tell the powers that be, though. We don't want them to ruin

with tradition and snobbery.

I got it.

And, um, merci.

I'm sorry, I... wasn't very nice to you yesterday.

Of course, I do remember your... your show in Brussels last summer, the one at

ELT's gallery.

Well...

Superb concept, yours, Magritte.

And you've got one hell of a strong visual style, too.

Merci, Mr. Ernst. Coming from you, this means the world.

Max, or Maxi, or nothing at all.

René, enchanté.

Enchanté.

This is cause for drinks, no?

Raymond, how are you, my friend?

All the better for seeing you, my lord.

Everything hunky - dory?

Not exactly.

We're all in mourning.

I understand, my lord.

Rather regrettable businesses.

Will you have a spot of lunch?

Work first, pleasure after.

Please do keep me informed.

Of course, my lord.

I've heard the wildest stories about that time. Believe me, the stories are

true and then some.

One hell of a party it was.

Insane.

But in a good way, you know.

I'll try to distract him.

What happened?

Nash and Sheila is what happened.

A marriage maiden held us two.

They were a couple?

My dear Rene, you are such a sweet innocent. Yes, they were something for

Sheila was strung out on coke.

When Nash and her became an item.

And she turned Nash onto the Charlie big time.

He was just a little boy, lost, disappeared into a snow blizzard of

Hasn't stopped since.

Well, now he has stopped.

I'll do that myself.

I'm sorry, Magritte.

There's actually a really interesting poppy field on the estate.

Would that look good?

I apologize, Doctor.

The cook sent me.

I call it the gift, or a little cadeau.

What do you think?

What? What are you doing?

Don't, don't.

You don't see how problematic these pictures are, baby?

The detectives will.

This is art, Lee. This is your work. I told you to get rid

of those.

Now you're going to be arrested.

Don't you worry, Gala. Those are nothing.

They're nothing, are they?

Well, everyone knows about those babies.

I can guarantee it, Detective.

He's been doing those for years.

They're kind of getting old before that time, Sala.

Just like you, Mac.

Just like you.

What does your fable of metaphysical legitimacy mean?

Well, yes, some death cases and tryouts and some shit.

Don't look at it too much, René.

This is strong material, nevertheless.

Thank you.

You're very kind.

He always tells us about his half - baked ideas over breakfast.

Well, you need to chew the concepts over.

Detective, not everybody understands, but wall - shattering art doesn't happen

overnight. And for your interest, detective, everyone is welcome to...

View our studio, so anyone could have seen this work.

Off the hook, you'd say?

Until we catch the killer, no one is off the hook.

I'm getting very tired of this hook.

Just so everyone knows, anyone stealing my ideas gets guillotined and done.

Did you hear me?

I want to be extra clear, just in case the killer is amongst us.

First Magritte, then Dali.

Who will the killer pay tribute to next?

That was brutal.

Yeah, which part?

Have you seen those drawings by Salva? Yeah, disgusting.

No, honestly, that's pretty genius. He's going to be famous.

Yeah, the circus, maybe.

But the glue, light, and paper he uses for sketching comes from calling in

oysters, Canterbury.

And you smell that?

No, I can see it by the watermark.

Sure. Interesting.

It's just that we artists were freaks about that stuff. Like, we can get crazy

about paper, painting, texture, lighting.

Anyway, Canterbury, doesn't that mean anything to you?

Sheila Legger.

Duchess of Canterbury.

She lived there all her life. Until she fell into a depression and moved in with

her cousin, Lord James.

Right.

Do you think Dali visited her?

He had to.

They have been friends for years.

A friendly visit or more?

Who knows? But a connection nevertheless, right?

You're not bad at this, McGree.

The bloody watermark.

I'm off.

Thanks.

Wait.

So that's it?

What do you mean?

I need to... I want to do more.

If you uncover anything, I'm here.

What are we dealing with, then?

with an artistic flair?

Or an artist with their procliving?

Did you go every summer to pick up a house?

Not every summer, sometimes.

But you did last year.

Yes, I did.

Impossible to forget.

Sheila's son, little Sebastian?

I heard he died there in mysterious circumstances. Who told you?

Sheila. The night she died.

Well, nothing mysterious about it.

So what do you remember?

Nothing.

Okay?

You saw the child, right?

To see a child suffering like that.

Paralyzing.

Anyway, that was the end of the hill we all knew.

That Samara part of us died alongside with little Red.

Do you know who the father is?

Telephone for Mr. Darley, sir.

Excuse me.

So, congratulations.

Sal.

Salva.

Are you okay?

Yeah.

I'm good.

Actually, I'm not.

Ma 'am! Ma 'am!

I can't accept.

Right, Figment?

Not good.

Picasso is confirmed for Friday, but only wants to drink sparkling water.

And Figment would also like to attend, if he can.

No shortage of fools, then. I'd rather avoid Freud at dinner. He never shuts

What about the two that really matter?

Nancy Cunard and Peggy Guggenheim a lot. I am still waiting for confirmation,

but they do like to keep us hanging until the last minute.

Those two.

With permission, my lord, they are far too curious not to attend.

And if there are corpses in the cellar.

Especially if there are corpses in the cellar.

Let's hope so.

If you don't mind my asking... please ask away.

Are you charging our precious buyers the usual fee?

Of course, 75 % in all sales.

What? They're lucky to be allowed in here at all.

I'm giving them what money can't buy.

Happiness?

Cloud.

Correct, my lord.

Don't worry.

It's just a sex thing.

Okay.

Salva received a phone call before his attack.

Do you know anything about it?

I don't have a slightest idea.

Could I have prevented this, Magritte?

I should have seen. This is a bit much for his kind heart.

Hey, Gara, you're innocent of this, okay?

Take example of your husband and just have a little sleep.

Thank you, Magritte.

Sorry about before.

I wasn't sure about you, but now... I can see that your kindness is a great

talent.

Okay. Yeah.

Okay.

The Dali, they drug themselves for sleep.

Why?

I was under the impression that everyone here liked their drugs.

Yeah, no, that's true. Read the label.

Laudanum.

Opium derivative.

The same drug that was in the wine.

I'm going to take this for evidence.

Thank you, McGree.

Keep searching.

Sure, Paul.

Go, go!

Go and fetch DCI Sisselwick. Yes, Doctor.

The Darlies drug themselves to sleep with laudanum. Looks like it.

All right, I'll talk to them.

Good work.

The glass gun still bothers me.

Still not found?

God, where have we not searched?

Downstairs.

Servants' quarters?

I'll give it a go, you never know.

Excuse me.

Cornyn wants you downstairs, sir.

And me.

Right, let's hear what Raymond has to say, Quant.

Miss Leck died by manual strangulation.

Between the hours of 0300 and 0500 on the night.

Powerful hands, um, rather small.

Male or female, both possible.

Not easy to do, though, but it was done rather cleanly.

Someone with experience.

Could have done it before.

Textbook stuff, fingerprints not found.

Also, rather large doses of laudanum in our blood, consistent with being

unconscious during the hour of a strangulation.

His legs didn't feel or know a thing.

Good way to go.

Now we come to young Master Nash here.

Look at the nose.

Look inside.

The cartilage.

All indicative of cocaine use.

Opium didn't help.

Long - term cocaine user.

Opium is probably recreational.

Well, maybe he couldn't sleep.

Here we have it. Raymond, a warning.

Look, follow the deep hole all the way through to the back

of the brain.

Looks like a small bullet hole.

That's correct, but impossible.

How so?

There's no bullet in the brain, no exit wound in the skull.

Even the smallest bullet shot through the nose would need an exit in the back

the skull, no doubt about that.

Hold on. You're saying that he was shot through the nose?

I am, yes.

But, again, that's impossible.

So, we could try an experiment.

A salt bullet.

What sort of experiment?

Pretty slick, huh?

It's a .22.

I'm making myself a chisel the bullets out of salt block.

Pink sea salt from the Karmak works best.

Really? It's a toy.

In Poughkeepsie, I shot a wild dog with it, and it just whacked him out. Like

Sheila Legger?

That's right.

These babies are a teensy bit dangerous, but they're not deadly.

Can't help you any further than that.

Do you own a lot of guns?

Have you ever seen war, D.C. Quant?

No.

Yeah. I own a lot of guns.

Besides, a girl like me has to be able to fend off all those grubby little men

with their sausage fingers trying to squeeze my ass.

I pull my toy gun, point it right at their balls.

Works wonders.

Every single time.

A moment, sir.

How secretive.

You could shoot a salt bullet through the nose into the brain, right?

And the salt would dissolve in the heat of the brain tissue. And no exit wound.

Fantastic thinking.

Where was that gun of yours again?

It disappeared on that first night. Never seen again.

I've ordered a new one from Smith and Wesson back home.

But no sign of your glass gun anywhere.

Feel free to search, but last time I checked it wasn't there.

And also there's something weird about little Sebastian's death. Sheila's

son? Yeah.

Come, Salva didn't want to get into it, so it must have been a tragic accident.

But I just think it's so strange that nobody knows who the father is.

somebody knows.

They're just not telling us.

Yet.

You're doing all right, Magritte.

Bloody drugs everywhere.

Messrs?

Why are you even here, Magritte?

Sir.

Magritte found this place.

Well, did he now?

Light it up.

Light it up.

Yes ma 'am.

That's the end of that supply.

It's turning out to be a rather expensive little week, Tewksie.

I wonder how they found it.

You ask the best detectives.

You get them.

I hope I get, or find other ways to stay inspired.

You still there, Michael?

Off you go.

And your decision is?

What do you mean you can't?

What sort of bank do you represent, Babington?

Without my father, you would still be a sad gathering of peasants. Times haven't

changed that much.

Make it happen. Get me my money.

How could you do that?

What was it, Amor?

Tell me everything.

If you would let me help.

Together we can handle anything, right?

I'll let you rest.

But soon I want to see outside.

There's not a problem in the world we can't handle.

So, a dissolving bullet, was it?

I'm not really supposed to talk about this.

The police, you know, and their little rules.

Come on, Raymond.

Well, yes.

Shot in the head and no bullet to prove it. They'll do some testing, of course,

but I've never seen it before.

Quite original.

My.

Well, now your work is done, let's enjoy one of life's little pleasures.

The proper old port.

Plottle when Lord Nelson beat the shit out of old Boney at Trafalgar.

I'd like to propose a toast to the memory of your brother and my dear, dear

friend, Lord Denver.

To Toby.

I do miss him, you know.

Gone too soon.

Like all the good ones.

Well, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.

What's done is done.

Isn't that sad?

He would want us to drink to life.

You know that's true.

Excuse me. I think I'm needed downstairs.

Shot. Make it fun.

Looks it.

Bit longer still.

Sorry about that.

Scotland Yard being rather noisy.

We should be thankful for their efforts, I suppose.

Let's hope they get the bastard.

Sooner rather than later.

Anyone fancy a drink?

Or two?

Or a whole bottle?

Yeah.

Brain flooded on the wall.

Unlike Nash.

Just like Nash's brain.

Or it didn't get through.

Now, over here, detectives.

The water's reached 36 degrees Celsius, about the temperature of a human brain.

Now, let's see.

Result?

The salt content of Nash's brain was abnormally high.

We've got a match.

This is one for the Black Museum back at headquarters.

Congrats to the killer.

Ingenious little bastard.

An artist, would you say?

Well, I leave that speculation to you, Thistle.

Good night. Sleep tight.

I've got dessert waiting.

Thank you, Raymond.

We know the cause of death, Quant.

The question is, who pulled the trigger?

And who strangled Miss Legg? Possibly the same person who put the gun back in

Lee Miller's purse.

We're getting closer, step by step.

He or she knows that too.

Let the mind games begin.

Who was there last summer?

Picasso with his photographer lady, Dora Maar.

A lot of first love last year.

Me and Salvo, of course.

My girl Diva, who could ever forget.

Plus some hangers - on, Aunt Raj.

Be careful, putty - potty.

Please, man.

God, you're such a relic. So only Sheila and Nash were there when tragedy hit.

Nobody else responsible.

Please, can we change the sub - ticket, please? Thank you.

Forgive my man.

He was the one who found the little boy.

So, wasn't there an inquest?

Why? Accidental death.

Due to neglect.

What I don't get in all of this is who never gets mentioned.

The obvious, I guess.

Sebastian's father.

Nobody knows.

Bullshit. What if you do?

Do they know?

Do you know?

Me?

No?

Why would I know?

Listen, I know you all think Ratcliffe are entertained by the idea that I did

it. And honestly, I would think so too.

But I didn't.

Okay?

I just want to know who did.

Why is Sebastian's father a secret?

And why all this mystery?

Okay. Then I don't know.

But what I do know is that one of you here is holding back information that

might help solve these killings or at least prevent more murders.

René, my friend.

I think it's time to... Okay.

See you all at the funeral.

Nice little group of friends you all are.

Hey.

Hey.

You alright?

Yep. I'm good.

What's in your mind?

Nothing.

I try to think good in people to find the truth. Let me guess.

Nobody seems to appreciate it.

Yeah.

Well.

If it's any consolation, I think you're doing great, Magritte.

Yeah?

The father of Sebastian could be the key.

He has the perfect motivation to get rid of Miss Legg and Nash.

Because of the accident with Little Ted?

Blaine feels hate.

Good for Thornton. So if we find who the father is... Then we might find the

killer.

So why do you do this job?

Murder victims don't get to finish a story of their own life.

And that bothers me.

So you help them?

I don't know.

That sounds terribly arrogant.

But maybe I shine some light in the darkness.

See?

What? You are an artist.

As much as I am a detective, and vice versa.

Telephone for DC Quant.

Who is it?

Scotland Yard, Headquarters.

At this hour?

I'm afraid so, Miss.

We'll talk later, right?

A red flag came up.

Why did this take so long?

Someone at West End got done for what?

Attempted murder.

And you're finding this out now?

Give me the name.

Jay.