Original subtitles

This is the monastery's accounts dating from the early 15th century.

Oh, precisely what I thought.

But surely this has great political significance.

A matter of particularly delicacy.

Sorry to disturb you, sir,

but Inspector Hopkins would like to see you urgently.

Come in, Inspector Hopkins.

Draw up to the fire and warm your toes.

I hope you've no designs upon us on such a night as this, Inspector.

This is my brother, Mycroft.

Maybe you've not met before.

I'm sure. I would have remembered.

May I shake your hand, sir?

Pardon?

Yes, if you must.

Mrs. Hudson knows a prescription

containing hot water and a lemon.

I'll bring some up for you, Inspector.

It will help keep out the chill.

Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.

Where is Dr. Watson?

Oh in his surgery,

this dreadful weather has produced a queue into the street, I am told.

Well, they're wasting their time.

Watson's only cure for any ailment is a Linus powder and a grated apple.

Mr. Holmes, you know you only say that because you miss the Doctor.

Cigar?

No, no thank you.

It must be something important to bring you out in such a gale.

It is indeed.

Did you see anything of the Yoxley case in the latest edition?

I've seen nothing later than the 15th century today.

We've been studying a 500 years old palimpsest.

Palimpsest?

Enough of the 15th century.

You bring us news of the 20th.

Well, it's only a paragraph and all wrong at that,

so you've not missed anything.

I'm relieved to hear it, Inspector.

It's down in Kent.

7 miles from Chatham, and 3 from the railway line.

I was wired for at 3:15,

up to Chatham at 5:00, conducted my investigation,

was back at Charing Cross by the last train

and straight to you by cab.

Which means you're not quite certain of your case.

It means I can make neither head nor tail of it.

There's no motive, Mr. Holmes.

Motive? Inspector, what motive?

A man is dead, there's no denying that.

But I can see no reason between heaven and earth

why anyone should wish him harm.

Tell us about it.

A few years ago, Yoxley Old Place was taken by an elderly man

by the name of Professor Coram.

He's an invalid, keeping his bed half the time,

and the other half hobbling about the house on a stick,

or being pushed about the grounds by the gardener, in a bath chair.

Quite stupid, aren't you, Mortimer.

Just take it easy, be very careful.

Careful!

Where's my secretary, Mrs. Marker?

The Professor is writing a learned book

and found it necessary, about a year ago, to take on a secretary,

Mr. Willoughby Smith.

A young man straight from the university.

And if one can accept the doctrines of Monophysitism,

then perforce one must also re-evaluate

Christian theology.

To suggest...

Yes.

To suggest...

Or to argue?

Which one of us is writing this book?

You or me?

You are, of course.

To suggest...

From the first, it appears that Smith was a quiet,

well-educated fellow with hardly any weak spot in him at all.

And yet this is a lad who met his death this morning in the Professor's study

under circumstances that can point only to murder.

Murder?

Willoughby Smith was murdered, do you say, Inspector?

Do go on.

Your hot lemon drink, Inspector.

Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.

A man without a single enemy in the world.

Mrs. Hudson, you're under foot again.

When you say hardly any weak spot,

what exactly do you mean?

We all have vices of some kind or another.

Willoughby Smith has nothing against him,

either as a boy at Uppingham,

or later as a young man at Cambridge.

Although I gather he was fond of a drink or two.

Well, nothing wrong in that.

And also had a bit of an eye for the ladies.

Each to his own.

Perhaps he was hiding a terrible secret.

Smith knew no-one in the neighbourhood

and lived very much as his employer did.

Professor was buried in his work and existed for nothing else.

A man after your own heart, Sherlock.

Apart from the three people you have mentioned,

who else can be found in the house?

An elderly housekeeper, Mrs. Marker.

And a young maid, Susan Talton.

So who found the body?

The maid, Mr. Holmes.

She says she was working in an upstairs room when she heard a cry.

She says by the time she got to the study,

Smith was lying on the floor fatally wounded.

She says.

Prof...

The professor...

It was-

she...

The maid is prepared to swear that those were his exact words.

"The professor..."

"It was she."

I've drawn up a rough plan

which should give you a general idea

of the position of the Professor's study.

And also,

the various points of the case which seem to me to be essential.

As you can see, there are two corridors which lead from the study.

One goes directly to a door at the back of the house.

And the other straight to the Professor's ground floor bedroom.

Two corridors at a 90 degree angle,

joined at one end, outside the study.

Now, assuming the assassin entered the house, how did he get in?

Undoubtedly by the garden path and the back door

which gives direct access via the corridor to the study.

Exactly.

And he must have made his escape along the same line,

for of the two other exits from the study,

one was blocked by the maid as she ran downstairs,

and the other goes straight to the Professor's bedroom.

Could not the assassin have made his escape

from the study window?

Locked, sir, from within.

I see...

It was an excellent opportunity to put your theories into practice.

I directed my attention at once

to the garden path

which was saturated with recent rain.

No footmarks were to be found on the path,

but, there could be no question that someone-

had passed along the grass border which lines it.

And that he'd done so in order to avoid leaving a track.

You found footmarks there?

Not exactly.

But the grass was trodden down,

and it could only have been the murderer,

since neither the gardener nor anyone else had been in the area that morning.

And the rain had only begun during the night.

Bravo, Inspector.

I knew you'd appreciate my reasoning, Mr. Holmes.

These tracks in the grass.

Were they coming or going?

It was impossible to say. There was never any outline.

Pouring rain and blowing a hurricane ever since.

They'll be harder to read now than the palimpsest.

So, Inspector, what did you do,

after you'd made certain that you'd made certain of nothing?

Well, really Mr. Holmes, I think I made certain of a good deal.

Somebody had entered the house cautiously from without,

and then there are the dying man's own words.

And finally, there was a very important piece of evidence

found clasped in his right hand.

Willoughby Smith had excellent sight.

There can be no question that these were snatched from the face

of the person or the assassin.

The person you seek is a woman.

Mycroft...

That can be inferred from their delicacy,

and also, of course from the last words of the dying man.

They're handsomely mounted

and solid gold.

And an unusual strength.

She must have appalling eyesight.

The lady whose vision-

has been so extremely contracted

for any great length of time would surely bear-

the physical characteristics of such a vision.

Puckered forehead.

Peering expression.

Rounded shoulders.

They've also recently been prepared.

Of course, I'd intended to go the round of the London opticians.

There's a train from Charing Cross to Chatham

at 6 o'clock in the morning, Mr. Holmes.

Then I shall take it.

Have you anything more to tell us about the case, Inspector?

I think you know as much as I do, sir.

Perhaps more.

Perhaps.

Perhaps...

What puzzles me is the utter want of all object in the crime.

A man has been cruelly murdered, Mr. Holmes,

and not a ghost of a motive can anyone suggest.

Who alerted the local police?

Mortimer, the gardener, an innocent.

As soon as it became clear that it was a matter for Scotland Yard,

the Chief Constable sent for me.

Sorry, sir.

You can't go in there.

Just walk this way, please.

It's all right, Constable, these gentlemen are with me.

Apart from this lethal paper knife and the pince-nez,

has anything been re-arranged or removed in this room since yesterday morning?

No, Mr. Holmes, everything is exactly as it was.

And the body?

The body fell here.

The wound was in the right side of the neck,

from behind,

forwards.

Excellent, Inspector.

And this bureau?

The Professor assures me that nothing is missing.

I'm satisfied that no robbery has taken place.

Why did you not tell me about this scratch, Hopkins?

Well I'd noticed it, of course,

but you'll always find scratches around a keyhole.

It looks recent.

Very recent.

There's the varnish too,

like earth on either side of the furrow.

Is it significant?

That's father's magnifying glass.

Yes.

He gave it to you?

How ironic, excuse me.

Who was the last person who entered this room

before Willoughby Smith and his murderer?

I was.

Mrs. Marker.

The housekeeper.

Yes.

Please sit down.

Thank you, I prefer to stand.

You've probably heard of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

No.

It's really not important.

You were in this room before Willoughby Smith was murdered?

About a quarter of an hour before.

Why?

I am the housekeeper, Mr. Holmes.

I try to keep the study as clean and as tidy as possible.

Not that you'd notice the difference.

Were you alone in here?

I was alone.

I never come in here when the Professor's at work.

As far as I know, Mr. Smith was upstairs in his room at the time.

So you didn't see him at all.

Not until after he'd...

he was, been...

I'd finished my housework in here

and I was preparing the Professor's lunch...

when I heard...

By the time I reached the study,

Mr. Smith was dead.

Then you were obviously too late to hear his last words.

I heard nothing except that dreadful cry.

Wake up, Constable!

What did you do then?

I went straight to the Professor's room.

He was horribly agitated.

He'd heard enough to know that something terrible had happened.

Did you dust this bureau this morning?

I did.

Did you observe the scratch by the lock?

I did not.

Of course you didn't, Mrs. Marker.

Your duster would have swept away those scraps of varnish.

And where is the key?

The Professor keeps it on his watch chain.

At all times?

At all times.

Good, good, good, good, good, good...

We're making progress.

Yes, thank you, Mrs. Marker.

Would you be so good as to ask the housemaid to come along to the study?

Certainly, Inspector.

Let us see...

what this-

desk reveals.

Ah, Mycroft, this is interesting.

What is it?

An entry for the day in Willoughby Smith's handwriting.

Abbey,

seven-thirty?

How curious.

I think I can answer that one for you, sir.

Professor Coram is writing a book about early Christian heretics

and there are a number of abbey ruins

within reasonable traveling distance of the house.

But, abbey, seven-thirty.

Why seven-thirty?

Miss Dalton, please come in.

Please sit down.

Mr. Holmes is a detective from London.

Would you tell him everything you saw and heard yesterday morning?

It was between 11:00 and 12:00.

Professor Coram was still in bed.

When the weather is poor, he seldom rises before midday.

Mrs. Marker was busy with some work in the kitchen.

So...

Now, you can look at me.

So where were you?

I was hanging some curtains in one of the bedrooms upstairs.

Mr. Smith had been in his own room.

At that moment, I heard him walk along the passage and descend to the study.

How can you be sure it was Willoughby Smith?

Because he had a familiar tread, sir.

I didn't hear the study door close.

And a minute or so later,

there came a dreadful cry.

It was a wild, raw scream.

So strange and unnatural.

It could have come either from a man or a woman.

I ran down to the study,

found Willoughby lying on the floor,

saw the blood.

I didn't realise...

He must be dead.

And then he spoke.

"It was she..."

"Professor, it was she..."

Yes.

Curious words.

Do you know what they mean?

No, sir.

Are you sure?

No, sir.

Could anyone have left

by the rear exit after the time you'd heard the scream?

Even before I got down the stairs, I'd have seen him in the passage.

And the backdoor never opened for I would have heard it.

Thank you, Miss Dalton.

Mycroft, Inspector?

Perhaps he was the victim of a lover's quarrel.

How very tiresome for the man.

It's nearly midday. Will the Professor still be in his room?

Yes, he hasn't left it since yesterday morning.

Then you must introduce me.

Ah...

What is it, Mr. Holmes?

Both corridors are lined with coconut matting.

Thank you, sir.

What of it?

It seems to me to be suggestive.

Indeed.

Close the door, Hopkins.

The cold air won't help my bronchial condition.

One of you gentlemen must be Sherlock Holmes.

This is my brother, Mycroft.

You a smoker, Mr. Holmes?

I have few other vices.

Ah!

Alexandrian.

Yes. Pray, take a cigarette.

Thank you.

I have them especially prepared by Ionides.

Sends me a thousand at a time.

I grieve to say that I have to arrange a fresh supply every fortnight.

You, sir?

I thank you, no, I prefer this.

Tobacco and my work.

That's all there is left to me.

Tobacco and my work...

Now...

Only tobacco.

Who could have foreseen such a terrible catastrophe?

I assure you, Mr. Holmes, that after what,

just a few months' training he was,

he was an admirable assistant.

What do you think of the matter?

I've not yet made up my mind.

I would indeed be indebted to you if you could throw a light

where all is dark to us.

Such a blow,

quite paralyzing to a poor old bookworm,

invalid, like myself.

Could you not continue with your work, Professor?

Alas, Mr. Holmes, I seem to have lost

the faculty of thought.

My magnum opus.

My analysis of the documents found in the-

Coptic monasteries of Syria

and Egypt.

It is a work that I hoped to have cut deep at the very foundations

of revealed religion.

And this looks impressive.

But with my enfeebled health, I don't know that I shall-

ever be able to complete it

without my assistant.

I don't want to trouble you

with a lengthy examination.

Simply-

to ask you what Willoughby Smith

meant by his last words.

"The Professor, it was she..."

Susan.

A country girl, Mr. Holmes.

You must be aware of the incredible stupidity of that class.

I fancy the poor fellow murmured some incoherent words and

she twisted them into her meaningless message.

You've no explanation yourself for the tragedy?

Possibly.

I breathe this only-

among ourselves.

Possibly suicide.

Suicide.

Young men have their hidden troubles, Mr. Holmes.

An affair of the heart perhaps,

which we have never known.

Is it more probable supposition than murder?

And what of the pince-nez?

A fan.

A glove.

Eye glasses.

Who knows what article may be carried as a token or

treasured,

when a man puts an end to his life?

I must get out of here.

Possibly, I speak as a child.

Seems to me Willoughby Smith met his fate,

by his own hand.

Willoughby Smith was murdered. He did not commit suicide.

Good afternoon, sir.

Yes, I agree.

So, the Professor's theory has no bearing on the case?

Would you be good enough to arrange

carriage and escort for me as far as the railway station?

Of course, sir.

I have to get back to town, so I'll take you there myself.

You're very kind.

I think you might find this more beneficial

than Alexandrian tobacco.

You remember what papa used to tell us when we were young?

Eliminate the impossible and whatever remains,

however improbable, must be the truth.

I forget his exact words.

But those are near enough.

See you in London.

Ionides.

I'm overlooking something that is staring me in the face.

Oh, thank you, my dear.

Bad news, I'm afraid, sir.

There isn't another train for Charing Cross until late this evening.

You should have double-checked the railway timetable

before dragging me to this wretched place.

I'm most certainly sorry, sir.

Just a minute, inspector.

London can wait.

I think we should postpone our trip for a little while

to attend a political meeting.

We hear of reform after reform...

You shouldn't encourage these women, Mr. Holmes.

They're troublemakers, no better than criminals.

Organiser, Miss Abigail Crosby

Meeting, held in church hall, half past seven o'clock.

Think back, inspector.

Willoughby Smith's diaries.

"Abby, seven-thirty."

Do you mind?

Thank you gentlemen for your sensitivity.

We hear of reform after reform,

and yet still nothing is done to improve the position of women in society.

The fate of our country is still being decided by men alone and yet women,

who are subjected daily and equally to the laws of the land,

are not permitted to vote.

That must be Miss Abigail Crosby.

Formidable.

Votes for women indeed.

Whatever next?

Women police?

Women politicians?

I'm not gonna tell you again.

The struggle for female enfranchisement has so far been a peaceful one.

God forbid.

But the time has come when we must ask ourselves,

how much longer this state of affairs can continue,

How much longer we should allow ourselves

to be treated like second-class citizens.

You tell them, Abigail.

Poppycock.

I'd like to read to you a letter

which I received two days ago from Mrs. Garrett Fawcett,

urging us to continue the fight until we achieve our aims.

That should interest you, inspector.

Well, well, well.

Mycroft.

On every side,

those in a position to help, are stricken by deafness.

We are told that the country has more important things

to worry about than votes for women.

But tell me,

what can be more important than the rights of half of the population?

Was the late queen not also a woman?

I have had quite enough of the criminal classes for one day, Inspector.

Where's that carriage you promised me?

I don't know nothing about nothing, sir. Honest.

Then why are you crying, Miss Dalton?

Tonight I wanna be in no trouble.

I lose my situation if I do.

I'll ask you one more time.

Was Willoughby Smith acquainted with the school teacher, Miss Abigail Crosby?

I don't know.

You do know Miss Dalton. It's useless to lie.

Yes, he was.

Oh, they knew each other all right.

And they had a blazing row.

Abby, will you listen to me, please.

The day before yesterday.

You're wasting your time on these suffragettes.

Can't you see that?

Thank you, Willoughby. Your support is as overwhelming as ever.

He said he loved me,

take care of me.

And I believed him.

Don't you touch me.

Abby, Abby.

Don't touch me!

All right, all right.

I'm just trying to make you see reason.

You're spending your time with these people you barely know

when you should be building a life with me.

Take your hands off.

God knows, half of them are the lowest of the low.

These are not the sort of people that you should be mixing with.

This is my life. What I choose to do with it-

and who I choose to do it with, is my business.

No one is going to stand in my way. Do I make myself clear?

If that's what you want.

I know exactly what I want, and at the moment it doesn't include you.

And that's what emancipation does for a woman, is it?

Ah, you've been drinking.

I've told you not to come near me when you've been drinking.

Makes you turn down a good offer of marriage.

A chance to be really happy...

Instead of-

a miserable bluestocking.

You'd better leave.

It's empty.

I think you might find this more beneficial

than Alexandrian tobacco.

Nothing wrong with her sight.

Miss Abigail Crosby.

Miss Crosby.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

The Inspector has no doubt explained the state of things to you.

But you know the seriousness of your position.

Do you have anything to say in your defence?

Only that I am innocent of the crime of which I am accused.

But you did know the deceased.

Is that also a crime?

We were close friends,

until...

Until...

I meant more to him than he did to me.

I realise that now.

But for all the world, I would not have wished him any harm.

The Inspector informed me that you had a violent quarrel

with Willoughby Smith the day before he died.

There were harsh words spoken on both sides,

but with good reason.

You probably know that I am an active member-

of the women's suffrage movement.

Willoughby believed, selfishly, I think,

that my future way of life and my liberty were at great risk.

I reassured him that our campaign here

was as peaceful as may be.

I have no wish to break the law in order to change it.

Unless...

Regarding your bureau in the study,

does it contain anything which someone might wish to steal?

Nothing of value that I know of.

Family papers and letters from my poor wife,

diplomas from universities that have done me honour...

Have the key, you can look for yourself.

Snuff...

Your lunch, Professor.

Not hungry, Mr. Holmes?

Those cigarettes don't help the appetite.

For the same reason, no doubt that the Professor-

returns to the kitchen more often than he eats.

Am I to assume there have been further developments, Inspector?

So I'm told, Professor.

I fail to see, Mr. Holmes,

how I can be of any further assistance to you.

I have forged and tested-

every link of my chain, Professor Coram.

And I am sure that it is sound.

What on earth is he talking about?

Two days ago,

a woman entered your study.

She came with express intention

of taking certain papers which were held in your bureau.

She had a key of her own.

Your own key does not have that slight-

discoloration,

which the scratch made upon the varnish would produce.

She came, as far as my evidence can tell me,

without your knowledge.

To rob you.

But surely,

having traced this lady so far,

you can also say what has since become of her.

I shall endeavour to do so.

In the first place, she was seized by your secretary.

She stabbed him in order to escape.

It was an unhappy accident,

for I am convinced that the lady had no intention

of inflicting so grievous an injury.

Horrified by what she had done,

she rushed wildly away from the scene of the tragedy.

Unfortunately for her,

she lost her pince-nez in the scuffle.

She ran down the corridor

which she imagined to be that by which she had come.

Both were lined with coconut matting.

Only when it was too late

did she understand that she had taken the wrong passage,

and that her retreat was cut off.

What was she to do?

She could not go back.

She could not remain where she was.

She must go on.

She went on.

All very fine, Mr. Holmes.

You mean to say that I could lie in that bed,

and not be aware that a strange woman had entered my room?

Of course you were aware of her, Professor.

You recognised her through this-

haze of your existence. You spoke with her.

You're mad.

You helped her to elude the police.

I helped her to elude the police?

Huh!

Where?

Where is she now?

Here!

Where she has been all along.

You were right.

Well, I'll be damned.

I am here.

I could hear everything.

And I know that you have learned the truth.

But you were right, to say it was an accident.

I did not know it was a knife in my hand.

For in my despair,

I snatched at anything,

and struck at him to make him let me go.

I have only a little time here

and I would have that you know the whole truth,

that l-

am this man's

wife.

He is not an Englishman.

He's a Russian.

Why should you cling so hard to that wretched life of yours, Sergei?

It has done harm to so many,

and good to none.

Not even yourself.

You were fifty,

and I, a young girl,

when we married in St. Petersburg.

I loved you so much.

More than that,

I idolised you.

I would have done anything for you.

And I did.

Because then, you were everything to me.

But we were reformers,

nihilists.

And soon there came a time of great trouble.

Sergei.

No, Sergei. No more deaths.

No more.

Sergei!

Where is Sergei?

Forget your husband.

He has betrayed us all.

No!

Yes, Anna.

We are betrayed.

We were all arrested upon your confession.

Some of us went to the gallows,

and some of us to Siberia.

After 20 years, I was released.

You-

came to England with your blood money

and lived in quiet ever since,

knowing well-

that if the brotherhood every found out where you were,

not a week could pass before justice would be done.

I'm in your hands, Anna.

You were always good to me.

My brother, Alexey,

was noble, unselfish.

He hated violence,

and wrote many letters trying to dissuade us from such a course.

His letters would have proved his innocence.

But you-

stole them from me and hid them.

So, Alexey was sent to Siberia,

where he is even now.

As soon as my time of imprisonment is over,

I determined to get a letter that would procure my brother's release.

I knew that my husband had come to England,

and after many months of searching,

I determined where he was.

So at last,

I determined to get the letters for myself.

I had just removed them from the bureau

when the young man-

seized me.

The same young man I had met earlier that morning.

I'd asked him where Professor Coram lived,

not knowing that he worked for him.

And he must have told the Professor about you.

"The Professor, it was she..."

When he had fallen,

I ran blindly to the wrong door,

and found myself in this room.

You,

you talked of giving me up

I showed you-

that if you did so,

your life was in my hands.

If you gave me to the law,

I could give you to the Brotherhood.

That as our lives had once been bound together in marriage,

so our destinies would forever be entwined.

It is finished.

It never began.

You had your meals served in here, so you could share your food.

It was agreed that when the police left,

that you should slip away into the night and never be seen again.

These are the letters that will save my brother's life.

Take them to the Russian Embassy.

Poison.

A letter by hand, Mr. Holmes.

Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.

Sleep well.

It was clear to me from the strength of the spectacles

that the wearer must have been almost blind without them.

And I therefore considered the hypothesis

that she'd remained within the house.

You might say it was elementary.

Oh, by the way, don't mention the snuff to Watson.

Tell him you dropped cigarette ash or something. Leave me out of it.

But why on earth did the wretched woman

feel compelled to take her own life?

She'd achieved her purpose.

Past hope and in despair.

And the death of love.

Of course.

Ah, Professor...

Be sure your sin will find you out.