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.

You're found in bed with the poor woman.

It is my sad duty to inform you all that Ms Legge has passed away in the night.

I'm placing the estate in lockdown.

What? No way. - Goddamn little fascists.

So long, my love.

Our secret's safe with me.

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?

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

My wife. But she's in Brussels.

It's a bank book I found in Ms Legge's bedside table.

Starting last summer,

she makes monthly payments to a certain Charlie L.

Oh, you were drugged, just like Ms Legge.

Opium in the wine. - A glass revolver.

It's gone.

'To my wildest mate Charlie L. Pots of love, SL.'

I found it in Nash's room. - We need to find him.

Well, I saw him...

Lord James.

Easy, lads.

That's it. - Keep it steady.

Steady. - Guys, easy now.

This is horrible.

There you go.

Almost. Okay. - Lower it down.

A couple of feet to go.

Keep an eye on each other. Release at the same time.

Mother of God.

Go on. Pull.

Go on.

It's your fault, René! I asked you one thing.

Look what you have done!

Mummy!

Stay back, all of you.

Please, everyone, if you could stand to the side now. Thank you.

Régina!

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 places 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 Lordship.

Until then, you have carte blanche on my estate. Whatever it takes.

And no more deaths, right?

You may go.

Take the guests out to the cocktail bar and drown them in alcohol if needs be.

I've got bigger fish to fry.

Of course, My Lord.

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

Follow me.

Who do you think will be next?

Lee, please, let's stay calm.

I can't stay calm, Manny.

Not bad.

Nothing like a bit of posh misery, 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.

Hey, Lee, please...

What do you mean exactly?

This killer is an artist. He creates images. Visual concepts.

The mise en scène of those murders is... Well...

Beautiful?

Yes, exactly. - 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 plains.

Sure... Of course the lion kills.

He's good at it.

But he never murders...

for fun.

Big difference.

Okay, I'm going to go... - Got any plans you want to share with us?

Operator? - Magritte, Belgium. Jette 9423.

I need you.

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

Why are you even here?

Mummy!

THE NIGHT CARRIAGE

Come on.

Let's keep going.

You'd think you'd get used to the bodies,

the smells.

But no.

Trust me.

You suppose there is 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 would want us to belie...

Bless you. Let's get the expert opinion before we get carried away with ourselves.

Telephone Head Office and ask for Doctor Fine.

Whilst you're there, see if we can get legal access to Ms Legge's will.

Find out who will 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 you.

I cannot, sir.

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

Alright, what have we got, Quant?

Well... To absolutely nobody's surprise,

they found large quantities of cocaine in Nash's bloodstream.

Anything else? - Same amount of opium.

A snowball?

Nash did overdose, but...

considering his daily habit, it might not be the cause of death.

Inconclusive as of yet.

But the coroner is on his way.

What's next on your list?

Well, I thought it would be useful to view the other artists' work?

If Ms Legge's death scene looked like Magritte's Les Amants,

there might be other paintings that resemble the second murder.

Where do they keep their work? - Well...

Jukes said that the exhibition on Friday is going to be in one of the outbuildings,

at Monkton House.

It's all there, ready to be hung up.

Jukes is helping the artists with the hanging

as they're understandably quite upset at present.

So they are human, after all? - Yeah, maybe.

Except for one...

Right.

Come on.

More plaster, please.

Does it dry?

Thank you, sweetie.

Nice work, maestro. - Thank you. 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 or a motherless child, so...

I christened it: The Doors of Perception.

This is for Sheila and Nash? - Yes.

I'm 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 everything with tradition and snobbery.

I got it.

And uhm... thank you.

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.

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

Mr Ernst? Max. Or Maxie. Or nothing at all.

René. Nice to meet you. - Nice to meet you.

This calls 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 business this.

Will you have a spot of lunch? - Work first, pleasure after.

Please do keep me informed. - Of course, My Lord.

Raymond Fine. Are you a sight for sore eyes.

Thistle, my friend.

Follow me down. - It's always down.

You and Nash seemed really close.

How did you meet? - At Picasso's little summer retreat.

I've heard the wildest stories about that time.

Believe me, the stories are all true and then some.

One hell of a party it was.

Insane.

But in a good way, you know?

Well...

Until tragedy struck.

What? What happened?

Nash and Sheila is what happened.

A marriage made in hell, those two. - They were a couple?

My dear René, you're such a sweet innocent.

Yes, they were something, for sure.

Sheila...

was strung out on coke when Nash and her became an item.

She turned Nash onto the Charlie big time.

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

Hasn't stopped since.

Well... Now he has stopped.

I'm sorry, René.

I can't talk about it.

Or rather...

I won't let myself.

I'm sorry, Magritte.

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

Too much death will kill you, you know?

I know.

My apologies, doctor. The cook sent me.

I call it The Gift, or Le Cadeau.

What do you think?

Lee?

What... What are you doing? - Don't. Don't!

If you don't see how problematic these pictures are, baby,

the detectives will.

But 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.

Kind of getting old before their time, Salva.

Just like you, Max. Just like you.

Are those your fabled metaphysical Jesus series?

Yes, some test cases and try-outs and some shit.

Don't look at it too much, René. - Strong material, nevertheless.

Thank you. You're very kind.

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

You need to chew the concepts over.

Detective, not everybody understands, but...

world-shattering art doesn't happen overnight.

For your interest, detective. Everyone is welcome to view our studio.

So anyone could have seen these works.

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 at dawn!

Did you hear me?

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

First Magritte.

Then Dalí.

Who will the killer pay tribute to next?

That was crazy. - Yeah, which part?

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

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

Yeah, in the circus maybe.

No, the clue lies in the paper he uses for sketching.

It comes from Cowling & Oysters, Canterbury.

You smelled that? - No, I can see it by the watermark.

Sure, interesting.

It's just that, we artists are freaks about that stuff.

We can get crazy about paper, painting, texture, lighting... Anyway.

Canterbury. Doesn't that mean anything to you?

Sheila Legge?

Duchess of Canterbury. She lived there all her life...

Until she fell into a depression and moved in with her cousin Lord James.

Do you think Dalí visited her? - He had to. They were friends for years.

A friendly visit, or more?

Who knows? But a connection nevertheless, right?

Yeah, you're not bad at this, Magritte.

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?

A killer with an artistic flair?

Or an artist with a flair for killing?

Do you go every summer to Picasso's house? - Not every summer. Sometimes.

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.

Nothing mysterious about it.

So what do you remember? - Nothing. Okay?

You saw the child, right?

To see a child...

suffering like that.

Barely breathing.

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

That summer, a part of us died alongside little Seb.

Do you know who the father is? - Telephone for Mr Dalí, sir.

Excuse me.

So, congratulations...

and you are kindly invited to the office

at your earliest convenience to sort out the paperwork.

Hello?

Mr Dalí?

Sal?

Salva?

Are you okay?

Yes.

I'm good.

Salva... - Actually...

I'm not.

Man! Man!

I can't accept it... - Man?

I can't.

He's not good.

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

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

No shortage of fools then.

I'd rather avoid Freud at dinner, he never shuts up.

What about the two that really matter?

Nancy Cunard and Peggy Guggenheim, My Lord?

I am 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...

Oh, 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 percent on all sales.

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

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

Happiness?

Class.

Of course, My Lord.

Don't worry, it's just a sex thing. - Okay.

Later.

Salva received a phone call before his attack.

Do you know anything about it?

I don't have the slightest idea.

Could I have prevented this, Magritte?

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

Hey, Gala... 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 as great as your...

talent. - Okay. Yeah, okay.

Lie down.

It's okay.

The Dalís drug themselves to sleep. - Right.

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

Yeah, that's true. But read the label.

Laudanum.

Opium derivative. The same drug that was in the wine.

I'm going to take this for evidence. Thank you, Magritte. Keep searching.

Sure... boss.

Constable?

Go and fetch DCI Thistlethwaite. - Yes, doctor.

The Dalís drug themselves to sleep with laudanum?

Looks like it.

Alright. I'll talk to them.

Good work.

The glass gun still bothers me. - Still not found?

Where have we not searched?

Downstairs?

Servants quarters? - I'll give it a go. You never know.

Excuse me? The coroner wants you downstairs, sir and ma'am.

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

Ms Legge died by manual strangulation

between the hours of 03:00 and 05:00 on the night.

Powerful hands and 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 her blood.

Consistent with being unconscious during the hours of her strangulation.

Ms Legge 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 was probably recreational. - Maybe he couldn't sleep?

Here we have it. - Oh, Raymond, a warning?

Look...

Follow the...

Follow the deep hole all the way through to the back of the brain.

Looks like a small bullet hole. - That's correct.

But, uh... impossible.

How so? - There is no bullet in the brain.

No exit wound in the skull.

Even the smallest bullet shot through the nose would need

an exit at the back of 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.

Sir?

We could try an experiment?

A salt bullet.

What sort of experiment?

Pretty slick, huh? It's a .22. I make them myself.

I chisel the bullets out of salt blocks.

Pink sea salt from the Camargue works best.

Really? - It's a toy.

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

Like Sheila Legge? - That's right.

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

I can't help you any further than that.

Do you own a lot of guns?

Have you ever seen war, DC 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?

The salt would dissolve in the heat of the brain tissue.

Hence, 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 & 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 it's so strange that nobody knows who the father is.

Somebody knows. They're just not telling us...

yet.

Oh... Okay.

You're doing alright, Magritte.

Bloody drugs everywhere.

Nash's?

Why are you even here, Magritte? - Sir?

Magritte found this place.

Well... Did he now?

Light it up.

Light it up! - Yes, ma'am.

There's a fire.

That's the end of their supply.

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

I wonder how they found it.

You ask for the best detectives, you get them.

I hope our guests will find other ways to stay inspired.

Are 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 she do that?

But what, my love? 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 you 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.

Their little rules. - Oh, come on, Raymond.

Well...

Yes.

Shot in the head and no bullet to prove it.

They'll do some testing, of course, but...

Never seen it before. Quite original. - Oh my.

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

The proper old port. - Ah!

Bottled when Lord Nelson beat the shit out of Old Bony 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.

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

What's done...

is done.

It is, isn't it?

Isn't that sad?

He would want us to drink to life.

You know that's true.

Oh, excuse me. I think I'm needed downstairs.

Good shot.

This is 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 the whole bottle?

Brain splattered on the wall. Unlike Nash.

Just like Nash's brain.

Probably didn't go through.

Over here, detectives.

The water has 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 one is for the Black Museum back at Headquarters.

Congrats to the killer.

Ingenious little bastard. - An artist, would you say?

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 Ms Legge?

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.

Let's see. Who was there last summer?

Picasso with his photographer lady, Dora Maar.

A lot of first love last year. Me and Salva, of course.

My Gradiva. Who could ever forget?

Plus, some hangers-on. Entourage.

Picasso's pussy posse.

Please, Man. God, you're such a relic.

So only Sheila and Nash were there when tragedy hit?

Nobody else responsible? - Please, can...

Can we change the subject, please? Thank you.

Forgive my man. He was the one who found the little boy.

But, so wasn't there an inquest?

Why? - Accidental death.

Due to neglect.

But what I don't get in all of this, is who never gets mentioned.

The obvious, I guess?

Sebastian's father? - Nobody knows.

Bullshit. Quite a few do. - Do they now?

Do you know? - Me?

No. Why would I know? - Listen...

I know you all think, or at least are entertained, by the idea that I did it.

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... 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... - Alright.

See you all at the funeral.

Oh...

Nice little group of friends you all are...

Hey. - Hey.

Are you alright? - Yeah, I'm good.

What's on your mind?

Nothing.

I try to see 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 Ms Legge and Nash.

Because of the accident with little Seb? - Blame fuels hate.

Food for thought.

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 the story of their own lives.

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 Dean got done for what?

Attempted murder?

And you're finding this out now?

Give me the name.

Jay...

Poots.