Original subtitles

You mean everything to me.

What the hell was that?

Lovelorn in London, scene 28, take three.

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 lot?

Stewart Howard.

He and Sandra have bound their careers together.

The nation's sweethearts.

Then there's the honorable Jesse MacKendrick.

- You're the director. - And the writer.

What about Billy?

Someone is trying to kill me.

Oh...

Strychnine!

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 Nerina Bean.

- We're still rolling, Sandra. - Yeah.

And... action!

Oh, no, God, I'm so sorry, Jesse.

Um... Can I break 10 minutes?

A ciggie'll sort me out.

Cut there.

Scene 49, take nine.

And...

Action!

It was then I knew we had fallen in love...

Kill the sound, please.

Can we stop the film and take a proper look?

No, it would burn in the projector.

I think the difference is pretty obvious.

You'll see in just a moment.

Here comes the post.

Oh, oh God, I, I see what you mean,

he's lost six inches.

Just while Sandra Dare went off for a gasper.

So, between takes eight and nine,

Nerina Bean gets her screen break.

An hour later... is that right?

Well, it's certainly no more than two.

She's on the cutting room floor.

Well, the bottom of the basement steps.

I know who he is.

The postman.

You do?

He was down the lane yesterday.

I seen him in the yard just now.

Would you be so kind?

Yep.

Of course, she hit that step with tremendous force.

Aaargh!

Too hard for an accident, do you think?

Did she fall?

Or was she pushed?

"I think John Mills has lovely hair.

And his nails always look so neat."

Riveting stuff, this, Mrs. B.

Well, Book thinks there's something here.

A clue. We like those.

Any names coming up a lot? Regular correspondents?

Name and address supplied is a very reliable contributor.

Hm. "I tried to give myself a mole like Margaret Lockwood,

and now Mum says I look like a tart."

Hang on.

I've seen a letter from this one before.

Signed...

Basilisk.

Hm.

If only we could step through the screen and...

Oh. The romance of the pictures

is really getting to you, isn't it?

It's not that.

Beyond the door, behind that set,

there's a flight of stairs where I think Nerina Bean

is already dead.

Do you think this is linked to the poisoned girl?

Special delivery.

Your postman.

Bart Masterson.

Kurt Masterson.

Normally I, I do landlords.

I 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 name.

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, Nerina Bean. I read her column. I always do.

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

Lovelorn.

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, or feathers, or where they drink.

- Or how much. - Alright, thank you.

We'll come and get a statement from you.

- That's it? - That's it.

I was a red herring before, once.

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

But I never done it.

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

Alright, thank you.

Why was she here though, Nerina?

Why go to the trouble of bribing him and putting on his costume?

The extra security.

She couldn't just hang around in the lane, could she?

So, I suppose she needed a disguise.

The title of that article, though, eh?

Maybe she was onto the poisoner.

So, she had to go?

What's that?

Just something I noticed.

Backwards impression on Nerina Bean's hand in ink.

It was something she was holding.

Evidently she was sweating,

though 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 get back to work.

Work?

I'm standing in for Stewart.

It's not a proper trade, you know?

Yeah.

Like being a part-time detective.

What's up with him?

Mm-hm?

It's me.

She's dead. You saw her.

She was at the bottom of the stairs.

Like a broken doll.

Oh God, how awful.

I mean, she was awful.

But still, how awful.

Oh...

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

Half the British film business.

All of it.

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. - Oh?

Yes, you know.

Signing photos, answering questions from fans.

What's your ideal night out?

- What do you like for breakfast? - Hm.

You were just shooting here?

Oh, yes.

Stew, take after take.

Sinful stuff, really.

How many stars have sat here like me?

Watching the creases grow.

The hair thin. The flesh droop.

The chins... oh.

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

that they're just echoes.

Ghosts.

Just a memory of what was once there.

Christ, darling.

But some of those stars don't go quietly.

Oh no, towards the end, later in life, shall we say,

they get bigger.

Bigger, Stew.

They give out more and more light and heat

'til 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? Everyone knows that.

Interesting.

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

Hm?

Yeah.

Or you might have done it yourself.

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

Well, that's just the 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 'til after the chocolates and...

Yeah, but he treated you badly. You were his whipping boy.

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

I've dealt with bigger egos than Stewart 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 Nerina Bean.

Yeah, well, she was a right old...

Mustn't speak ill of the dead.

- She have anything on you? - Like what?

You can account for your movements last night, can you?

- Shot right through. - Right, no coffee breaks?

Yes, of course coffee breaks.

So, theoretically you could have pushed Nerina 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. MacKendrick's rewrite of scene 34.

Just a little one, but in this business,

the details matter, Inspector.

You don't want actors bumping into the furniture.

I'm a details man myself.

Hm.

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

I...I always know who 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?

I don't think so.

You ever 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 tested.

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 Picturegoer 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 Stewart Howard, I will never know.

A mumbling, soppy-eyed fop."

Oh!

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 Stewart Howard."

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

And all signed, "Basilisk".

I see.

Well, they obviously didn't like Stew.

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

Ooh, I don't know. Is it too much of a stretch

to go from disliking a film star to sending them strychnine?

Sometimes the discussions can get very...

heated at the meet-ups.

- Meet-ups? - Well, yeah.

We meet up and have chats and that.

Sometimes the studio will send a star down

to open a fête 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 Dare's?

Same.

Probably.

Who's next?

- Soundproofed? - Naturally.

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

I should think so.

A 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?

Uh, prop store, offices.

It's a warren, this place.

Film vault, down there.

Nice place, if you like asbestos.

The treasures of British cinema.

Not really.

No? What then?

Well, a film opens in Leicester Square,

then it goes out across the country,

then to the second-run houses and the flea pits,

and when it's so scratched that every scene

looks like it's happening in Antarctica, it comes here.

Back home.

And 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? - Oh, the fumes, Mr. Book.

The fumes.

In 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.

Mm. It's valuable.

More valuable than what's on the films themselves.

Seems a lot of effort to go to.

No, it's a simple process.

The chemical solution does the work.

No, I mean making a motion picture, you know.

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.

Stand by.

Mr. Howard, you're required straight away for lighting.

Mr. Howard, over there please.

Bye, darling.

Bye.

- Mr. Howard. - Mr. Book.

- A moment? - Of course.

- A hoary old query. - Who is?

Ah... 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 Nerina Bean?

Was she blackmailing you?

About prison?

I've been very careful.

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

Must dash. T.T.F.N.

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 an eye on the beautiful people.

- They are beautiful. - What can I get for you?

But what else are they?

Come on, Sergeant. Let's go.

Cheers, cock.

Clippings.

- We found your trail, Book. - Oh, excellent work.

Oh, Mrs. Book. Didn't expect to see you here.

Oh, Mr. Howard said we should visit,

and I've brought 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?

Ooh, I'd be delighted.

So, uh, 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, it simply doesn't give us that.

Wallpaper is about covering things up.

So, I thought cakes.

And cakes are the opposite of books, really.

I must have missed that bit in Freud.

Oh, yes. Very good.

Please.

Skirts gathered ready for the pursuit of art?

Er, yes, I suppose so.

Well, before you rush off,

perhaps I could check some details.

Hm. 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? - Mm, naturally.

But also terribly worried for Stew.

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 Nerina Bean amongst the background artists.

Nerina? Was she on the set? In, 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 poisoned chocolates.

Hm. Is that what you think?

It's a working hypothesis.

Wait a minute, um...

You don't think that I...

No. I love Stewart.

We're everything to each other.

Everything to the box office at any rate.

Oh. Then someone's been telling tales.

Well, if that were the case,

I'd have even less motive for killing Stewart, wouldn't I?

We're joined at the hip.

Hm.

When you finished filming,

you went back to your dressing room, I imagine.

Yes. Oh, Billy darling,

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

- Of course, Miss Dare. - A dash of milk.

Me too, Billy. A 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 for the 10 o'clock turnaround,

oh, you've no idea. Stale beer, orange peel, gas.

Thank you, darling. Oh, the 1930s...

Those were the days.

Sugar, Sir?

What?

It tastes horrible. It's so bitter.

Would you like some milk, Sir?

No.

Billy, get me some water.

Oh, my lord... Jesse?

Same symptoms.

Uh...

Ah!

- Sir!? Are you alright? - Just keep breathing.

Eat it!

- Swallow it! Quick as you can! - Aaargh!

What are you doing to him?

Trying to save his life, I think.

But perhaps someone should call an ambulance

in case I've got it wrong?!

Ambulance, quickly!

Water, Mr. MacKendrick, water!

- Stay with us. - Ah... aaaah!

Oh no! Look at me. Look at me!

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

Is he hurt?

It's largely cosmetic.

What's all that stuff 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 Markham's chocolate.

It could have been anything.

Mr. MacKendrick twitched, though.

Strychnine gives you the twitches.

That's right. Great presence of mind, has my wife.

All my thoughts, dear Jesse.

Oh, wait, my, uh, my bag. I need my things.

Oh, allow me.

Ooh, ha-ha. Silly me.

Thank you, Mr. Book.

Oh, it's in the coffee?

Everyone else has drunk it. They seem to be fine.

What are you...?

Not entirely awful.

Oh, so... it's in the cup.

Added afterwards.

You'd think so, wouldn't you?

It's so indiscriminate.

- Hm... -I just heard. Jesse?

Poisoned! -Good God.

Was it meant for me?

I don't know.

The new schedule, Mr. Howard. Miss Dare.

Alright, we're all good at the front.

You can go, Jack.

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

-Right we are. - Okay.

Quite.

Let's call it a day, shall we, Trottie?

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.

- Here's mud in your eye. - Ah-ah.

- Oi! - You're still a child.

Your uncle will have my guts for garters.

I'm going to bed.

Oh, are you alright?

Long day.

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

I got a bit bored.

They're starving a woman to death in Penge.

Nora, a favor...

Where are those film almanacs?

You mean the magazines that girl brought?

No, no. We have a stack of almanacs.

Early films. From when they still called them 'flickers'.

If memory serves, between William Friese-Green

and How Green Was My Valley.

Righto.

Aah.

There she is.

Christiana Edmonds.

Ad astra per aspera.

What?

Nothing.

And the staircase doesn't go anywhere.

Oh, it's alright. These people never go upstairs.

Just like home.

No ceiling, though.

The rooms in films never have ceilings. Why is that, eh?

It'd stop the light getting in. Continuity, Mr. Book.

Ooh. Sorry.

How's the life of a stand-in?

Static.

Jack, a word in your shell-like...

Jack? Jack, back into your light, please.

Ah, Mr. MacKendrick. 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?

Oh, 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, uh, story so far, Mr. Howard?

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

Madeleine 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.

- And what do you say? - Nothing, of course.

Writers never want to write those bits.

They like a nice, clean reaction shot.

Something swelling on 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.

Uh, ask him.

I might at that.

What a to-do to die today. What a to-do to die...

- Call it, Billy. - A minute or two to two.

What a to-do to die today, what a to-do to die.

Scene 34, take one.

And... action!

Now the telegram is here.

One I think we knew would always come.

Is this the end of the affair?

Oh, don't say that word, Stewart!

You know that it hurts me.

I shall think of our time together...

- She said 'Stewart'. - What?

- You said 'Stewart'. - What?

You said 'Stewart'.

- Cut. Let's go again. - Oh, God...

- First positions, please. - First positions!

- Billy. - Yes, Mr. MacKendrick?

Run this one, would you? Call of nature.

Ready.

Quiet, please!

And... action.

Don't say that word, Tony. You know that it hurts me.

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, um...

Not with Sandra.

With strychnine.

I've read those grave little paragraphs

in the Varsity Sporting Review.

How you took it as a stimulant

to get you through those last agonizing yards of the race.

Rather reckless, really.

Your 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.

A 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 simply 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, damn, damn, damn you, Book.

Ow! What the hell was that?

- It was bloody painful! -And cut.

Oh, well.

Too late now.

Are you alright, Stew?

Yeah, it 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 on 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 charge 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, a masterpiece.

What the hell are you talking about?

He's been obsessed with you for years, Miss Dare.

Used to write letters to Picturegoer,

under a pseudonym, of course.

Basilisk. His family crest.

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.

He 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, Trottie?

Yes, 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.

And 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 obscene. Deranged.

Oh, you poor fool.

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

Playing your own age.

No make-up, a true character part to show your real range.

No make-up? Are you mad?

I'm Sandra Dare!

So it was him?

He killed that poor girl.

- Yes. - And Nerina Bean.

- No, not Nerina Bean. - What?

Not Nerina 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?

Uh... Prop store, offices, the vault.

The vault, yes.

Wherein lie some of the forgotten remnants

of British cinema.

Of 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.

Uh!

Billy, call Bow Street.

- Get Bliss here. - Yes, Mr. Book.

- Ah! - Uh!

Uh! Uh...

Ah! Uh...

You never loved her, Stewart.

Not like I did.

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

Oh!

Sandra?

Sandra, it's all over.

Why don't you come out and explain?

I wasn't 'Sandra Dare' back then.

I was... Deirdre Piddock.

It was so long ago.

The film was lost, and...

then Nerina discovered it.

And then I discovered her.

Mm.

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 have never been so angry.

Not in all my life!

Oh. No!

- You give it to me! - No!

- Diva! - No!

Give it to me!

No!

- Aaargh! - 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 master 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. Book?

I'm a veteran of the silver screen.

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

If you drop that cigarette, Sandra,

it'll go up like a torch.

And Trottie and I won't escape unscathed.

And neither will Stewart.

Stewart?

Darling...

It doesn't have to be like this.

But... she would have told them all my secret.

That I was making films when Lenin was in office.

That 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.

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,

I 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.

Before this business made you what you've become.

Oh no, Mr. Book.

Aah...

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.

I'm gonna kick the bloody door in.

-That way. -Come on!

Boom.

- It's a tragedy, really. - Will they...

Will they hang?

Jesse MacKendrick, undoubtedly.

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.

But what a cost.

Mind you...

Tragic ex-fiancé.

Broken-hearted leading man.

Suddenly single.

What is it?

It was an accident, wasn't it?

Nerina Bean's death?

Well, we shall never know, Inspector.

After all, Sandra Dare is a terribly good actress.

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've guessed it.

Oh.

- Is it that obvious? - Ah.

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

Yeah.

I found the photograph.

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?

Trottie...

Are you my mother?

No, my dear.

Not at all.

I'm so sorry.

But what's all this about?

Jack...

We have rather a lot to tell you.