Original subtitles

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Yeah.

Good night, Arthur.

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Come out.

What are you doing in my house?

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The skull cracked like an egg.

Arthur Leggett, retired music teacher.

Much respected and admired.

And missing from the Cedars' care home.

What was he sneaking around here for in the middle of the night?

What was he after?

Probably the same thing as whoever did this.

Well, looks like they had a hell of a job finding it.

No forced entry.

He must have been followed in.

Or else someone was already in here, sir.

Well, the auctioneers obviously had a key.

They started cataloging it.

And I assume the care home.

What was here that was so important to him?

Music.

Nothing else mattered.

He was respected and admired, Scott,

because he encouraged and inspired so many people.

Including the great Joan Alder.

Joan Alder?

Midsomer Rhapsody?

-Yeah. -Do you know that piece?

My mom was a fan.

She played it when she wanted us out of the house.

Oh.

Drive

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Peggy, I'm sorry.

I'm sorry about this.

Arthur liked us to sing that song, one of his favorites.

This is Charlie.

Ah, of course.

Hello, Charlie.

Congratulations.

I'm sorry I haven't had time to.

Listen, half the folk invited her.

I haven't met yet.

What do you expect from a whirlwind romance?

Swept you off your feet, did he?

Oh, I'm sorry. This is Detective Sergeant Scott.

And we'd like very much, if we may, to talk to you later on.

Well, we're all waiting to be interrogated, sir.

Thank you.

But first, I'd like to look at Arthur's room.

So who's Vera Lynn?

That's Peggy Alder, Scott.

What, Joan Alder's mom?

Yes, indeed.

The one whose house they're trying to turn into some kind of shrine.

The Joan Alder Society prefer to call it a living museum.

And you know the family?

Yes, I do, through Joyce.

I don't get it, sir.

I mean, she wasn't exactly your John Lennon, was she?

She only wrote one song.

Oh, she wrote lots more than that, Scott.

Lovely music, beautiful music.

But you're right, it was the Repsody, Midsomer Repsody she's most famous for.

What one thing could Arthur Liggett have

had that was of so much value, eh, Scott?

A second undiscovered reptile.

Yeah, maybe.

Mrs. Alder.

Thank you.

Bit of all right, ain't she?

Fancied her the first time I said hi to her.

He'd taken to wandering, but this was the

first time he'd done it in the middle of the night.

We were all friends, Tom.

I know you were, Peggy.

Which makes it all the more stupid that we fell out the way we did.

He accused our melody of stealing.

Wouldn't let it alone.

I said I'd never speak to him again.

I never dreamed I wouldn't.

Stealing?

It was all old music sheets.

He was giving them to Charlie.

Did he have any visitors?

Only Laura Crawford.

Who's Laura Crawford?

Joan's agent, writing a book about her.

She came to see me then, Arthur.

Sorry to bother you, but shall we cancel?

What?

The preview.

Melody said. Oh, Alan Thorpe, my-in-law.

So we'll do it later, huh?

Why would I want to go and look at something I lived in 40 years ago?

I'll leave you to it.

Because you said you wanted to.

I made the arrangements.

Well, I can't.

I'll see it at the opening.

I'll just go and have a word with Melody.

You got the cooker then.

Pardon?

Mr. Swinscoe said he'd got an exact replica.

What do you want to go getting a pokey little thing like that for?

People will think we were poverty stricken.

You were.

I don't know what was in the box.

I didn't look.

I thought it must be something of Jones.

So he sent you to his house to bring it back.

When? When was that? About a month ago.

Why you?

Well, I used to take him his groceries.

He trusted me, I suppose.

But what has a box file got to do with his death?

I don't know.

He'll be here, Mr. Springsteen.

I'm opening in two days, he promised me!

Get done, all right?

I'll walk over. Just go for your man, drag him out of the

pub, and get him in here and finish him what I want finished now!

All coming together, I see.

Inspector Barnaby.

Mr. Swinscoe, this is Detective Sergeant Scott.

Well, it all fell into decline with

multi-occupation in the 50s and 60s, when the Alders lived here.

But we're making progress.

You are, indeed.

I assume this is about Mr. Leggott.

Yes, well.

Well, do come in.

Oh, yes, it's very good.

Mr. Swinscope, when did you first know of Mr. Leggett's request?

Couple of months ago by solicitor's letter.

For the sake of argument, let's assume there is

something worth a fortune in Arthur Leggett's collection.

You got any idea what it might be?

None.

A John Alden manuscript, perhaps?

I wish.

Other than yourself, can you think of anyone who might

have an interest in the contents of Arthur Leggett's house?

Well, I suppose Michael Mabry.

He might not want any more of his wife's papers to fall into our hands.

If you ask me, he doesn't want to celebrate Joan's life

because he doesn't want any questions reopened about her death.

An overdose of antidepressants and too much

alcohol caused Joan to fall asleep at the wheel.

Her case was fully investigated at the time.

No charges were brought.

None were ever contemplated.

Oh, it's made him rich, though, hasn't it?

Those posthumous royalties.

Hello?

Mr. Bullard's finished, sir, and the auctioneers are waiting outside the house.

George, it's Tom.

Can you keep him on hold, please, till Scott gets there?

-OK? -Thank you.

I want you to oversee the cataloging of everything in that house.

Before any box file gets taken away, you go through each and every one.

Right, sir.

Ozpeg, are you all right?

He was a gentleman, Tom.

That's why I liked him.

To live such a life, you know?

So many people grateful for his teaching.

And then to go like that.

So will you still go to the auction?

I don't think so.

Not now.

He was going to be the best man.

Moving on, retirement gift inscribed.

Nice little dedication by Joan Alder.

We'll start me at 1,000.

Come on, now.

Anywhere?

250.

I'm sorry, sir.

The bid is over here at 1,000.

1,200 anywhere?

12, 14, 15,

16.

1-6 for £1,600.

Sold.

Laura Crawford.

Exceeding all expectations, eh?

Marvelous.

Now then, box files, miscellaneous song sheets, dozens of them.

First one, five pound anywhere.

No.

Two then.

Come on now.

Sold to Mr. Crane.

How many do you want, sir?

I'll take the lot.

Box files to Mr. Crane.

There you go, Scott.

Man's life, sold to the highest bidder.

Market for everything, sir.

So it seems.

And our miscellaneous boxes, a bargain at two pound, please.

Junk in every one of them.

Hey, hey.

That's Laura Crawford, Joan Alders' agent.

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Oh, Arthur, you little beauty.

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Harvey Crane, yeah?

Guess what I've just found.

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Inspector Barnaby.

Come in.

Mr. Mabry.

My assistant, Mrs. Smeeton.

How do you do?

Hello.

Valerie told me about Arthur Leggett.

Saw around the village.

How well did you know Arthur Leggett?

Well, my first wife introduced us.

Lovely old boy.

He came over for dinner now and then.

Joan adored him.

And after your wife's death?

Well, no, what kept us together kept us apart, I suppose.

Too painful.

It seems that Arthur Leggett was attempting to retrieve something.

Is it possible that it was an early manuscript of Joan's?

I suppose so.

A couple of bars on the back of an

exercise book would fetch good money these days.

Well, with a fool like Swinscoe buying up everything he can get his

hands on, everybody in Badger's Drift is emptying out their cupboards.

If such a manuscript did exist, might you

want to retrieve it for your own archives?

I didn't steal it, if that's what you're asking.

Where were you around midnight last night?

Here.

Someone vouch for that?

I can.

I was here all night.

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Yes.

I'm Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby, and this is DS Scott.

May we come in?

Of course.

Thank you.

How can I help?

I understand that your London agency represented Joan

Alder during her lifetime, and now you manage her estate.

-Is that correct? -Yes.

And I understand, too, that you're working on a biography of her.

As her agent, her friend, her lover, I would say that

I'm perfectly placed to be her biographer, wouldn't you?

Official?

By that, I assume you mean do I have the approval of Michael Maybury?

No.

Why not?

Because he knows I never believed in the loving, caring husband.

But he lets you manage her estate.

The bird might sing, Sergeant, if she was set free.

What song might the bird sing, madam?

You're not here about a-year-old crime.

No, we're here about Arthur Liggett.

I visited him at the Cedars.

What did he tell you?

Nothing much that I could use.

His memory of her had been sprinkled with stardust in his dotage.

Did he ever mention being in possession of a

manuscript that was hers or something to do with her?

He didn't, but I gather he was.

Ah.

Harvey Crane.

You just missed him.

An early manuscript of Jones turned up in a box of rubbish at the auction.

I checked every one, sir.

And he offered it for sale, didn't he?

How much?

I offered 50,000 pounds.

Must be on a good commission.

Worldwide royalties from Rhapsody alone bring

in a quarter of a million a year to the estate.

Michael Maybury getting it all being next of kin?

For now.

What do you mean for now?

Are you going to the opening of Jan Alder House tomorrow?

Yes, I will.

Good, I'll see you there.

Should be a most interesting event.

Hello, darling.

And you definitely found the manuscript in one of these boxes?

Yes.

And they all came from the auction?

Yes.

And you knew straight away what it was?

Well, of course.

A dated version of Rhapsody, earlier

than anyone believed it to have been written.

So you took it to Laura Crawford?

Well, just to show somebody.

I had no intention of selling it.

Who gave you the black eye?

No.

I walked into a cupboard.

You walked into a fist?

Who else did you show the manuscript to?

Michael Maybury.

And what did he say?

He had the audacity to suggest I had manufactured it.

Why?

Is it possible that someone could have faked it?

Of course not.

How can you be so sure?

Because I took it to the one person who would definitely

know, the authority on all things Joan Alder, Owen Swinscoe.

He bought it, Inspector.

There's your authentication.

So Owen Swinscoe now has the manuscript?

He paid a deposit.

I gave him a copy.

He'll get the real thing when I have

official authentication and the rest of the money.

How much will that be?

120,000 pounds?

Where would he get that kind of money?

The legate legacy, one supposes.

Ah, but that, that's on hold, Mr. Crane.

What?

Well, you can't stop me making a sale on this, can you?

Yes, I can.

I can postpone it for as long as the item for

sale is evidence in a murder case, Mr. Crane.

Where is it?

Get that to George Bullard, Scott.

Yes, sir.

Gently.

Thank you.

I'm positive I went through every one, sir.

There was nothing. I believe you, Scott.

I believe you. I don't believe that manuscript ever went through the auction.

You think Crane took it from Arthur Leggett's house?

Well, somebody took it.

Somehow it ended up in a box in Harvey Crane's shop.

We used to think it was composed when she was in South America

with John Farrow, but this new manuscript is written in a very

distinctive, careful, neat hand, not the wild scribble of later years.

We do have a sample of her earlier handwriting, and this is exactly like it.

It was always rumoured that it was John Farrow

who collaborated with Joan in the composition.

Well, that's the interesting thing.

These notes here, look, this is not John Farrow's writing, and

there are musical phrases here written in this new hand, and

here she's incorporated those musical phrases, which would mean

that she started to work on the Rhapsody while she was still a schoolgirl.

Now, isn't that incredible?

And while she was taking lessons with Arthur Leggatt.

Yes.

Which could explain why he had the manuscript.

So, who's the mystery man, or woman?

Well, whoever it is, Scott, puts them in a

position to claim a share of those royalties, doesn't he?

Now, Mr. Swinscoe, I know you'd like us to have pride

of place at the opening tomorrow, but I'm afraid, for

the time being, no one but no one must know of the

existence of this new manuscript, nor of its implications.

But this has cost me, Inspector, my own money.

Who's this John Farrow?

John Farrow?

Well, he was the real thing, as far as Joan was concerned.

What happened?

His father intervened.

Joan wasn't a saint.

Sometimes she made mistakes.

Biggest mistake she made was Michael Maybury.

She'd be here today if it wasn't for him.

You can't just say things like that.

She wrote to me when she was in the mental ward.

Peggy, please, we're going to the opening.

You know she did.

But strangely enough, this letter got burned.

Do you think I'd lie about a thing like that?

I burned it because if he'd got his hands on it,

he would have used it to keep her where he'd put her.

He'd put her in there for her own safety.

Say what you like.

Michael Maybury sent my daughter round the bend.

Can we get a move on, please?

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Ladies and gentlemen, it is with the greatest pleasure

that I am able to introduce to you a certain young

woman who destiny has brought us today, a young woman

who recently took it upon herself to discover her true parentage.

Her trail brought her to me only to discover with

profound sadness that both her parents had passed away.

But with that sadness came an immense

pride in discovering who her birth mother was.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you

Joan Alder's daughter, Sarah.

♪

She didn't even have the decency to tell that poor

girl that her own grandmother was in the audience.

Well, I get the feeling that's Laura

Crawford's style, you know, set up a photo opportunity.

Like the blue touch paper.

And poor Peggy.

I mean, she could have died of just shock.

I thought it was wonderful.

I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

Kept you glued to your seat, didn't it?

Well, that was an accident waiting to happen.

What, Hedge or Joe Smeaton?

Joe.

Drinking was off the rails.

I met his wife up at Michael Mabry's house.

Soon to be ex-wife.

Did Joe Smeaton ever have a fling with Joan Alder?

I know when Joan came back from South

America, he was there for her for a while.

South America?

She took off with John Farrow.

John's father, Noah, made sure he couldn't continue at college.

He did everything he could to stop them from being together.

What he did was drive them away.

So what happened?

What happened, Cully, was that John Farrow died down there.

Got involved in drugs, apparently.

The story was that a car full of thugs and guns

turned up one morning, dragged him from his bed.

He was bundled into the car.

And Joan never saw him again.

Somehow, she managed to get back to this country.

Got a penny in her pocket, just a few manuscripts and a suitcase.

That was sad.

No, no, no. One of those manuscripts was about to make her a fortune.

She was pregnant when she came home, too.

He just came out backwards, into the driveway.

Nobody could have avoided it.

What were you doing outside the hall that night, Joe?

I wanted to shame Swinscoe into paying me the money he owed me.

Need it for matters pending, don't I?

What matters would they be, Joe?

It's my missus.

Not content with kicking me in the crutch with

Maybury, now she wants a divorce so she can marry the bastard.

I built him that bloody conservatory and all.

I'll take a sledgehammer to it first.

Oh, that'll fix it.

Where were you last Wednesday night, round about midnight?

What?

Night of Arthur's murder.

About 50 yards from the Badgers.

I fell in a ditch.

Couldn't get up.

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Very cozy.

Why do they call him Hedge?

That's what he does for a living.

Laying hedges, copper sling, willow weaving, anything

that'll get him a meal.

Do we know his real name?

No.

Let's find out, shall we?

I mean, he wasn't just passing by when Joe Smeaton knocked him down.

He was out the window watching.

Just saying.

You're not allowed.

It's my home.

How long have you lived around here?

10, 15 year.

What's your real name, Hedge?

I never bother anyone.

I don't cause trouble.

Your past is sitting in a bed and breakfast in Badger's Road.

Sarah, you never knew, did you?

Is that what sent you reeling into the road?

So you didn't die in South America.

I was selling short and selling on what I managed to keep back.

They found out.

I used my father to bargain for my life.

I wrote and wrote.

After months, I got a letter, go to hell.

One day I saw my chance and I took it.

I ran for days.

I came home to a grave in a churchyard 15 years too late.

No, I didn't know she was pregnant.

Why did you assume a new identity?

I'd been on the outside of my life too long to claim it back.

And you never contacted anyone you once knew?

No.

What about Arthur Leggett?

Yeah. One day, I caught him watching me.

I was by her grave.

It was her birthday.

It was dusk.

I thought no one was about.

Do you think he realized who you were?

I think maybe he did, yes.

And that was it?

No other contact?

All right.

He told me he had a manuscript he wanted me to have.

Do you think she'd want to see me?

Even falling in love didn't stop her.

He set my music on fire, she'd say.

I never saw anyone as much in love as she was.

I catch her looking at him sometimes as

if her soul was swimming in the wake of him.

And then Noah Farrow found out.

The next time I saw her, I didn't recognize her.

Skin and bone, and pregnant with you.

You were a miracle, my love, because she'd nothing left.

And I couldn't cope with the both of you.

What I'm saying is

it wasn't your mother that had you taken away, Sarah.

It was me.

Blame me.

She never gave up looking for you, you know.

Hello, Tom.

Peggy.

Charlie.

My granddaughter.

Hello, sir.

Hello.

What can I do for you, Tom?

Well, there's more, Peggy, what I can do for you.

Or rather, both of you.

Mate, you are in demand, aren't you?

Yeah.

Dad was supposed to be on this one.

When are they letting him out?

He's out.

Ah.

Been to Badger's, then?

How's Hedge?

He'll survive.

Look, he didn't mean to hurt anybody, all right?

He's just got a lot on his mind at the moment.

Him and mum are getting a divorce.

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Hm.

Well?

Mr. Farrow, Mr. Noah Farrow, I'm Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby.

This is Detective Sergeant Scott.

May we have a word, please?

About?

Arthur Leggett.

A violent end to an immoral life.

Immoral?

He delivered my son into the arms of a common slut who ruined his life.

Leggett's death is a judgment.

Is that what your religion tells you?

Is there anything else?

Yes, what does your religion tell you about turning your

back on your own flesh and blood in the hour of need, then?

My dogs need exercise.

I should get walking.

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Oh, that's a very bitter, foolish fondle, man.

Why don't you tell him his son was still alive?

I will, once he's worth talking to.

But if he's still got that amount of hate in him, imagine

what it must have been like 30 odd years ago when he was...

when he was capable, eh?

Yeah, you can drop me anywhere around here.

I'm not allowed to see where you live.

Oh, this will do fine.

Can I, um...

Can I see you again?

Would you like to?

Of course.

Tomorrow?

Yes, let me take you for dinner.

And let me take you.

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Joan Alder wasn't the sole composer.

There's absolutely no doubt about it.

This whole section is written in another hand.

And then it's used in the completed version in Joan's hand.

Some of the notes and scribbles, again, the other hand.

Look, would this work?

Then Joan's own notes.

Yes, thank you for this.

Now, it's not John Farrow, because I've checked the writing

with some of his work, essays, music, and one of the box files.

But why would Arthur Leggett want John Farrow to

have this if it shows that someone else helped write it?

Ah, you may like the romantic notion of another hand being

involved, but I just think it brings into question everything Joan wrote.

Could bring a massive interest.

Barnaby was absolutely right to suggest we keep this

whole undiscovered manuscript business to ourselves.

John Farrow.

May we talk?

Well, come in.

Come in, please.

Well, we've tried to get everything right.

It's like a 1965.

Is this closed?

Oh, our secretary, Mr. Alan Thorpe.

Alan, this is John Farrow.

Alan Thorpe, you married Joan's older sister, Melody.

I did.

I came to your engagement party.

We gave you a set of placemats.

John.

Well, it's a shock, John, I'll say that.

All right.

I have a letter.

I'm Joe.

I was wondering if you'd like to buy it, if you're interested.

Well, you could be, don't you think?

And this holds no sentimental value?

Yes.

Why sell it, then?

That's my business.

How much?

200?

Cash?

If you'll just give us a moment.

By all means.

May I have a look around?

Oh, please do.

I could sell this tomorrow for 10 times that.

I'm not so sure.

Oh, come on.

This is fantastic stuff.

She was crazy for him.

We haven't got the cash.

Write me a check.

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You've done a good job.

Thank you.

And from John Farrow himself, that is a great compliment.

Thanks.

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He wouldn't let me see where he lives.

It's a mucky old caravan, that's why.

Oh, well, I don't care.

Oh, but he thinks you might.

But I want us to get to know one another.

He's taking me for dinner.

Oh, that's nice.

Who's paying?

He is.

What with?

What do you think?

Wedding suit?

Oh, fine.

She'll never know the difference.

Mind you, she's not exactly 20-20 vision.

Blinded by love, see?

I'm a lucky man.

Excuse me.

Is it Peggy Alder?

The same.

Oh.

Please, give her my best wishes.

I will.

And the name?

Hedge.

Hospital Hedge?

Yes, of course you are.

Hey, you're coming back with me.

Oh, no, no, no, I can't.

She wants to see you.

Well, she will, but I just need a bit of time to sort things out.

Well, she'll kill me if I say I've seen you and not brought you back.

Another day.

Hm?

What about next Saturday?

The wedding.

How you fixed?

-Well, I... -You'll come in.

You'll be very welcome, old lad.

Charlie Spate, you're almost part of the family.

Ever since you walked under that truck,

I've heard nothing else but John Farrow.

Listen, I hear you're a bit of a musician.

So who is it?

I wish I could tell you.

If there was going to be someone else helped her with this.

Excuse me a moment, would you?

Laura Crawford.

It's not convenient right now.

Well, this isn't just any letter.

It's Joan Alder to John Farrow.

And it's dynamite.

Listen, I'll call you back.

Some of these new writers think their agent is their mother.

Now, where were we?

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Mr. Swinscoe!

Switch the switch off

Harvey?

I think the manuscript is a fake.

Most certainly it's not a fake.

You were as sure as I was.

Look, I've got a letter, a genuine letter from Joan Alder to John Farrow.

A letter?

I don't see how.

But the police have already got the manuscript.

And if they see this letter.

No need to involve the police.

We can sort this out without.

I need to see you, Harvey, today.

No, no.

I can't come today.

I've arranged to see you tomorrow.

Firstly, I'll come right back.

♪

Sorry, Mr. Swinscoe, but, um, I'm away.

I've got a couple of little jobs still to

do, but I'll be in tomorrow and sort them.

Yes, all right.

Thanks.

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Uh, it's me.

Listen.

Sorry, lads.

Come on.

Come on.

No,

-let me. -No, I have it.

Please.

I feel like I'm on the outside looking in.

I just wish I had something of her.

Nothing much.

Something she'd written, perhaps.

Just something precious to her, you know?

I've changed my mind, all right!

Tell the world, why don't you?

Listen, the manuscript...

Oh, so you're selling that now instead?

No, of course not.

-How can I? -The police have got it.

What do you know?

Nothing I can tell you.

Well, you're not playing cat and mouse with this one.

Goodbye, Swinscoe.

Better luck elsewhere.

Ah, here she comes.

It's Joan Alders' girl.

Possibly, or possibly not, by John Farrell.

Dad, shut up.

But does she know Michael Maybury, the man her mother married?

Has she met him yet?

Would she want to know if she knew what he'd done to her mother?

Come on, Dad, that'll do. Oh, well, everybody knows.

But he might get away with murder, but he won't get away with stealing my wife.

That's right.

Mr. Swinscoe, I have a word.

Haven't you done enough?

Sorry?

What do you want?

I changed my mind.

I want to buy the letter back.

Oh, and where are you going to get 2,000 pounds from?

Slow your shack.

Ah, the prodigal returns.

Right.

That'll do for petrol.

I'll have the rest in my hand in the morning, or else.

Or else.

It won't be. In which case, you'll just have to wait

like everybody else has to until the job is finally done.

And when, you tell me, might that be?

Well, you're a clever little bastard for a jumped up librarian, aren't you?

Ah, ah, ah, ah.

-Just leave it. -Come on. -Come on.

Come on.

Come on.

Bloody bookworm.

It's Sully's soul for a piece of dead woman's underwear.

He can't even pay his own debts.

Cheers!

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Oh!

Got it!

-Lordy! -Lordy!

-Hammer! -Oh, my God!

Hammer!

♪

Charlie's going to make Peggy very happy.

She deserves it.

She's been on her own for a long time.

What happened to her first husband?

He walked out.

Joan must have been about 11.

He was head gardener at the hall.

On Noah Farrow's place?

Went off with Noah Farrow's wife.

Oh.

I don't know.

What is it with your generation?

It's not my generation, thank you.

Anyway, if I don't take Peggy to collect this outfit, there won't be a wedding.

Mm-hmm.

Bonneville.

Right, button missing, coat ripped.

Even if he had been drinking, this man didn't fall in

by mistake or deliberately throw himself in the river.

Do you think he was pushed?

Quite possible, but only after quite a struggle.

Both wrists, hands grazed, and fragments of limestone or similar in the nails.

As from a stone bridge.

It could be.

Badger's drift.

Quite possibly, yes.

If it was badger's drift, could the body have made it this far downstream?

After the weather we've been having, yes.

Thank you, George.

OK.

What turns a man so against his own son?

I think I found out this morning, Scott.

Joan Alder's father apparently took off with Noah Farrell's wife.

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He was in the Badgers with Laura Crawford, sir.

All of these, either in the bar or the dining room.

Now, Bullard was right.

This is where someone heaved him over.

What do you think?

It's lovely.

Beautiful.

Do you think Joan would have liked it if she'd been here?

I'm here, Mother, and I like it.

Yes, thank you.

He rang to offer me a love letter from Joan.

Did he really?

Not a love letter to me, Inspector, to John Farrow.

By the time he got to the restaurant, Swinscoe had changed his mind.

Why?

Something had scared him.

Kept shifting the conversation to the manuscript.

Did he show you that letter?

No.

What if he'd found out by comparing Joan's writing in the

letter to that in the manuscript, that the whole thing was a fake?

There's no way.

That handwriting was Joan's.

Someone who forged it would say that, wouldn't they?

Arthur Leggett wanted John Farrow to have a manuscript,

probably the original John Farrow, Joan Alder collaboration.

What if somebody stole that manuscript from Arthur Leggett to copy it?

-But why? -Why go to all that trouble?

To take some credit and stake a claim at Joan Alder's estate.

Well, it makes sense that Swinscoe

thought he had a fake on his hands, I suppose.

His own money up a creek.

If this is a forgery, all I can say is it's one hell of a good one.

And I didn't meet up with Swinscoe to get him drunk and

push him in the river, because he'd found me out, either.

Be a good reason to kill him, though, wouldn't it?

A very good reason, if this is a forgery.

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If the letter wasn't in Swizzco's pocket, it must be here.

♪

Coming in early, do you think?

I'll call on half a crane later.

Get that letter found.

Yes, sir.

♪

I got hold of him, yes.

And what happened then?

I got thrown out.

Why?

And then?

Then I walked home.

Across the bridge?

Better than getting your feet wet.

Did you lie in wait for Owen Swinscoe to tackle him on the bridge?

-No. -And then throw him into the river?

What, him for a swim, had he?

No, Mr. Smeaton.

He is dead.

What?

Drowned.

Dead?

I didn't see him after the set two we had in the pub.

Oh, bugger it.

I'm not going to get me money now, am I?

Well, he'd had a few before he left, whiskeys.

I'd come in a couple of times, and he was- Did you see him with a letter?

No.

What letter?

You sure?

Yeah, of course I'm sure.

So, what was he doing?

Drinking.

Oh, he made a phone call, private mine, because he shut the door on me.

You didn't hear what he said?

No, I was in the back room.

When I did come in, he was, um,

framing photos.

Photos?

Look, that one.

Hey, bingo.

Mr. Burnaby, a spring clean.

You were in the Badgers last night.

You had a meal, which you paid in cash.

I sold a letter to Owen Swinscoe.

Love letter from Joan.

Yes.

Is that what the conversation in the

restaurant with Mr. Swinscoe was all about?

I wanted to buy it back.

I didn't know how I was going to pay for it, but.

You didn't catch up with Owen Swinscoe again, did you?

No.

-Why? -What's he said?

How much did he get for your letter?

-Please. -It was 200 pounds.

Didn't bother you to sell it?

Of course it did.

Until I met Sarah, it was the one and only precious thing of Jones I had.

Morning, Sarah.

Morning.

And you didn't get the letter back?

No, you're welcome to look.

Well, you've been hiding it for the last 30 years, haven't you?

Oh, what's all this about?

It's serendipitous about that.

There we are.

Could you open it, please?

I'd forgotten that.

No.

El Paso, Texas.

It's a marriage certificate.

So with a marriage certificate, he would have an equal

claim along with Michael Mabry that Joan orders his estate?

Yes, yes, he would.

Could that marriage certificate have been in Arthur Leggett's house?

No.

That's been living 30 years in a tobacco tin.

What I think did go missing from Arthur

Leggett's house was a genuine manuscript.

And somebody meticulously copied that manuscript to

show the emboldenment of a hand other than John Farrow's.

Owen Swinscoe bought it.

But then Owen got hold of a genuine letter from Joan Alder.

And there was something, something that letter's got

that made him suspect that the manuscript was a fake.

So the forger had to get hold of that letter.

And if he couldn't, well, he'd have to kill Owen

Swinscoe, just as he had to kill Arthur Leggett, yeah?

George, the love letter's genuine, Tom.

Yes, it is.

Joan's handwriting changed over the years, but not

until after the trauma of losing John Farrow in the adoption.

And I've checked it against this.

Valentine card, where'd you get that?

Alan Thorpe volunteered it.

Alan Thorpe?

Apparently Joan's sister remembers her writing it.

I think it's what's known as a tease.

Now, what we have here is a very good attempt at copying her earlier writing.

But there are some letters formed that are from the

writing of a Joan Alder after she came back from South America.

So as this purports to have been written

three years earlier, we have ourselves a forgery.

And did the forger use genuine paper?

I mean, late 60s, early 70s manuscript paper?

Yep. It could have been found at Arthur Leggett's house, yeah?

Well, thank you, George.

You're welcome. I'll leave them with you.

It's worth the wait.

So the forger goes to Arthur Leggett's house to

get the original manuscript in order to copy it?

Well, having made the forgery, go around

to Planted, and Leggett found the matter.

And the original's still out there?

Somewhere. As we find the forger, we find the killer.

Thank you.

That call Owen Swinscoe made, sir?

Harvey Crane?

That's right.

My mother was saying Michael Mabry had something to do with it.

Well, they never got on, did they, him and Owen Swinscoe?

Oh, that's ridiculous.

Well, if she can put Joan's death at his door

because of some letter that Joan wrote when she

was so far gone she couldn't tell what day it was.

Well, that's something none of us will ever know.

What?

Well, was she mad when she wrote it, or was she genuinely in danger?

Well, we know you never liked him.

I don't like the fact that he's lived off your sister all these years.

He's rich.

He's a successful author in his own right.

You never liked him because it was him that won Joan and not you.

Well, I wanted it the way all us lads did.

When I was full enough to confess a teenage passion to the woman I married.

You don't tell the woman you married how much you used to fancy her sister.

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Scott!

Are you all right?

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Dearest mother, it's a photocopy of a letter from a supposed mad woman.

Michael Maybury was driving her to suicide.

According to this letter, that's what Joan believed.

Crane was on his way to find a buyer.

You think he got this from Lee Smeaton?

Well, he's had access to Peggy's house for weeks, hasn't he?

Maybe he was the one who found it.

Is this going to turn out to be another forgery, sir?

I say that's a strong possibility, wouldn't you?

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Oi, you going out somewhere?

Yeah.

My dad.

Mates just phoned to say they nearly knocked him over out on the Parva Road.

We've just come from the Parva Road.

We didn't see your dad there.

Well, look, he's had a few, all right?

What a surprise.

Yeah, well.

What were you doing at Harvey Crane's house, Lee?

Give me a tenner for some magazines I found.

Oh, and he was trying to fix a new lock on his

back door, which he made a right pig's ear off.

So I did that for him, too, which took me the best part of an hour.

So the tenner did pretty well out of that, didn't I?

Where did you find the magazines?

I found them in the attic at Joan Alderhouse.

Why? You leave Harvey Crane's house, and

straight afterwards, he goes off on his motorbike.

Any connection?

No.

-You sure? -Of course I'm sure.

Don't know where he went, all right?

He went up the Parva Road.

So what are you asking me for, then?

Go and find your dad, Lee.

-Hurry! -Hey!

-Joe! -Joe! -No! -No!

Joe!

Barnaby!

Mr. Mabry,

can I have a word, please?

Yes, yes, of course.

Come in.

Hello, Mrs. Smeaton.

Not Smeaton anymore, Inspector.

Mr. Mabry, I wonder if you'd mind looking at something for me.

Oh, my glasses are going down.

If that is the letter received by Peggy Alder all those years ago.

Well, then I can see why she feels the way she does about me.

But if it's not genuine, then someone may have used

letters actually written by Joan to make a realistic forgery.

Why does that?

To frame you, Mr. Maybury.

I see.

I know what my late wife went through, Barnaby.

How many men she had trawling bars night

after night for five minutes and forgetting.

And I know what I went through trying to save her from herself.

So I don't give a damn what you or anybody else believes.

When did you last see Harvey Crane?

Last week, when he came around with the manuscript.

Oh, yes.

You gave him a black eye, didn't you?

Toad on the make.

Is he where this came from?

You're certain you haven't seen him since then?

I'm surprised I haven't.

I'd have thought this would be worth a try at blackmail.

And you haven't heard from him today?

There was a phone call, but the caller hung up twice.

Well, did you try 1471?

I'm sorry.

I thought it was Joe again.

Hello, Harvey Crane is unable to take a call at the moment.

Please leave a message.

Ah, so he was about to offer it to me.

Have you been in the house all evening?

Since we came back from court this afternoon, yes.

Why?

What's happened now?

Harvey Crane was murdered this evening.

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Banned from the driving cab.

Banned from the badgers.

Joe.

Stay away from the rectorate.

The only person you're gonna damage is yourself.

Dad?

Johnson.

See you, Joe.

Take a bath.

Oi!

The harbour road was closed off.

What's all that about?

You told me that's where Harvey Cream went.

What's happened?

There was a road accident.

Lee Smeaton was there for an hour, which gives Harvey Crane plenty

of time to find the letter in the magazines and make a few phone calls.

Tried Maybury first, bit of blackmail.

But whoever planted that urn knew he'd do that, and

they were waiting for him on the road to the old rectory.

But why kill him?

Because he knew of the forgery of the manuscript from Owen Swinscoe.

Rang him up to ask for his money back.

So our killer thinks he can frame Michael Maybury twice over.

Firstly, for murdering Joan Alder 20 years ago, and then for

killing Harvey Crane, who's supposedly got evidence that Joan was murdered.

Leave the way clear once the dust has settled for them to claim

co-authorship of the Midsomer Rhapsody and a share in all those royalties.

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Miss Crawford, can I have a word, please?

It's rather late.

May we come in?

Do you have to?

No, you can come out if you like.

We'll go for a ride.

Come in, Inspector.

Sarah.

Inspector Barnaby.

May I ask as a point of interest, are you now with the Laura Crawford agency?

Course she isn't.

That may change, however.

Depending on how much she's worth, right?

Oh, please.

Depending whether or not I lay claim to what I am apparently entitled.

I don't want to cause any trouble.

No trouble to me, my dear.

-But? -Michael Mabry.

Who else?

You still say he was responsible for his wife's death?

Yes, I do.

In black and white, actually.

Since we last talked, a letter has surfaced which puts the matter beyond doubt.

You've seen that letter?

Or was it just read to you over the phone?

Have you had any contact with Harvey Crane today?

No.

Well, he called me around seven.

And?

OK, he did read me a letter.

You've been out this evening?

No, I've been in all day.

You vouch for that, Sarah?

Yeah.

I've been here since about six.

Was this the letter that was made to you?

Looks like it.

Look, what's this about?

You claim you were Joan Alder's lover.

Are you also hoping you're going to claim

part ownership of the Rhapsody royalties?

Me?

You think I did all this?

Miss Crawford, I'm investigating three murders.

And I'm asking you.

Leave the village.

And a word of advice to you, Sarah, about Michael Mabry.

You make your own mind up.

How dare you?

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Have they not RSVP'd?

No, Mother.

Well, what are we supposed to assume then?

They're not coming?

I suppose so.

Well, you can't assume that.

You'll have to get in touch.

Don't you think I've got enough to do?

Can I make a suggestion?

I'm sure Joyce would be more than pleased to help out.

It's Melody's job.

Well, one less job to worry about, wouldn't it?

It will be done.

Uh, Peggy, I'm sorry, but, um...

You read it.

Is that the letter Joan wrote to you from hospital?

Yes.

But you said you burnt it.

Well, I can't have, can I, if it's here?

Could be a fake.

Fake?

What on earth for?

Well, it seems to prove that what you've been saying for years

is true and, uh, could cause a lot of trouble for Michael Maybury.

Well, if it is a fake, there's plenty

that's heard the contents as many times as I have.

All I know is I remember screwing it up and throwing it in the flames.

Screwing it up?

Yes.

I know you've a job to do, but she's been a bit highly strung of late.

I don't want her to make herself ill over it all before the wedding.

Well, I'm being as delicate as I can be in the circumstances, Charlie.

What she told you about Michael Mabry?

Oh, quite enough.

He had the cheek to get somebody to

phone here to ask for a wedding present list.

Oh, that sounds like a really bad man, doesn't it, eh, Charlie?

Peggy needed someone to blame.

Michael Mabry was the obvious target.

And once she started, she couldn't back off.

I think she needs your help here, Charlie.

Help her face up to this one.

Michael, um, someone to see you?

Sarah Douglas, Joan's daughter.

Sarah...

Because it's wonderful.

Thank you, I...

You do have her eyes.

You really do.

I'm so glad that you wanted to come and see me.

Oh, well, I've heard a lot about you.

I wanted to see for myself.

So, Harvey Crane gets hold of a letter which

implicates Michael Mabry in his wife Joan's death.

Now, our forger knows that Harvey's going to try and blackmail Mabry with it.

So he gets himself near to Mabry's place, waits till he hears

Harvey's motorbike, and then does a Steve McQueen across the road with a wire.

And hopes we're going to think it's Mabry, which we don't.

No, we don't.

Found a bit.

Oh, thank you

We are summoned.

So who told you that I didn't help my son?

Peggy Alder?

Did her daughter tell her when she came back?

How did she know?

Did the people who were holding him, did they

tell her after they killed him that I didn't help?

What else could it be?

And does it matter?

Well, does everyone know?

No, everyone else does not know, Mr. Farrow.

What you did is safe with me.

So who?

And one other.

He didn't die, Mr. Farrow.

John?

In fact, he's been living within five miles of you for the last 15 years.

It's alive.

My son's alive.

He won't see you?

No, of course not.

Have you?

Any idea?

Of the love you tried to deny him

But you didn't deny them everything.

Mr. Farrow, you have a granddaughter, too.

No one would recognize Hedge.

I hope not.

How do I look?

You look wonderful.

Thank you

John, I, I beg of you, a moment of your time.

We have to be somewhere.

Yes, of course.

I thought you were dead by my hand.

I don't know how a father could do such a thing.

An evil, bitter man.

It's the weight, John, I wouldn't ask you to lift.

So what do you want?

You know who this is?

Yes.

You don't get to cripple this generation, too.

-Please. -He's not here to hurt anyone.

I just wanted to see you.

My wife had to give away our daughter.

-Wife? -I loved her.

Yes.

And I know now how much she loved you.

You might like to have that.

We have to go

A wedding.

Yes, of course.

I think it would be lovely if we arrived in your car.

Have I got time to mow the lawn?

Do you like it?

Oh, it's stunning.

Worth every penny.

When your turn comes, Colleen...

Dad?

I suppose there's any chance of a low key?

-No. -No? -There isn't.

Did you manage to get hold of everyone?

Yeah.

I'm afraid I'm going to have to go out for a while.

Dad?

-Tom? -I'll see you at the church.

Dad, you can't.

Tom!

♪

George, where do we go?

Take a look at this.

Look at the paper.

It's exactly the same.

But you said this is 35 years old.

It is.

The real thing.

Lifted from Arthur Liggett's to do the deed.

So who wrote the wedding list?

Melody Thorpe wrote that.

She wouldn't make that mistake.

No, she's not a forger.

She used what she thought was just another piece of paper.

BEEP BEEP

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He's already the winner, sir.

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Turn it off.

Hello?

Yes.

What?

-Right. -Thank you.

We're being burgled.

What?

No, you can't.

Scott!

This is it.

This is the center of operations.

The original manuscript of Midsomer Rhapsody by

Joan Alder with additional material by John Farrow.

I pronounce that they be man and wife together in the

name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.

Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.

Father, you may kiss the bride.

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What the hell's going on?

Alan Thorpe, I'm arresting you for the murders

of Arthur Leggett, Owen Swinscoe, and Harvey Crane.

I think we are both going to be very happy with the family we've got.

Oh, it's not mine.

Mine are all scoundrels, still serving their majesties.

Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, not really, not really.

None of them left.

Yesterday, I was on my own.

And today, I have a wonderful wife, and a

stepdaughter, and now a granddaughter, too.

What more could a man want?

Well, just for you to all have a lovely day.

Enjoy yourselves, I will.

You took this original manuscript from a box file

your wife had brought home to give to Arthur Leggett.

And you went to Arthur Leggett's house, and you took

some old, unused manuscript paper, and you set to

work rewriting the Joan Alder story to your own advantage.

You even created a complete set of notes to accompany the manuscript,

written in what you thought was Joan's old hand, using this, uh,

Ballantyne card she'd once sent you as a, as a joke to copy the handwriting.

You don't know what you're talking about.

What you didn't know was that Arthur Leggett

knew who Hedge was long before any of us did.

And you didn't know that it was Arthur's

wish to give that manuscript to John Farrow.

Why would I go back to his house?

To place it where you knew it would be taken for auction.

And you certainly didn't expect him to

turn up at his home in the middle of the night.

Having killed Arthur Liggett, you couldn't

leave the forgery on the premises, could you?

In case we were to remove it before the auction.

So you took it with you, didn't you?

After you'd ransacked the place to make it look

like they worked with an opportunistic burglar.

So you waited at the auction to see who was going to buy up the box files.

Saw your chance, and you slipped in the manuscript.

So there it was, waiting for Harvey Crane to take the bait.

Which he did.

You sold it to your colleague, Owen Swinscoe.

Ladies and gentlemen.

It is with the greatest pleasure that I.

What you didn't foresee was that Laura Crawford

would unveil Joan Alter's daughter, Sarah, and

that that would lead to John Farrow revealing his identity.

And you couldn't have foreseen, could you, that

John Farrow would sell a love letter from Joan so

he could afford to take his daughter out to dinner.

But if Owen Swinscoe were ever to compare that letter

with the manuscript, you knew he'd realise it was a fake.

And he did.

Do you think they're married, Bernard?

Or don't you care?

This Valentine card you so helpfully provided to

assist in the authentication of the manuscript

didn't contain all the letters of the alphabet, did it?

Some of them were missing, like the letter F and the letter G.

And you guessed how they were formed, and you guessed wrong, and you knew that.

The minute you saw the love letter, and you knew something had to be done.

So you waited for Owen Swinscoe outside the badges.

He watched him leave, walk across the road, walk towards the badge.

Oh!

Oh, bloody fool.

Give her the letter.

I haven't got it!

You have a lot in common with popular music, Inspector.

Crude and repetitive.

I should be somewhere listening to a masterpiece.

You killed Arthur Leggett.

And then you killed Owen Swinscoe.

And then you realized Harvey Crane knew too much.

And you saw your chance to lure him to Maybury's house by

creating another letter, one which cast suspicion onto Maybury.

You knew Harvey Crane couldn't resist a bit of blackmail.

And you knew the first place he'd go was the Elk Rectory.

You're only a few feet away from me at that moment, are you?

You hated Michael Mabry, didn't you?

Not because she thought he was responsible for

Joan's death, but because she chose him over you.

You were infatuated by her, weren't you?

I don't, uh, expect you to understand, Inspector,

but I was the love of Joan's life, even at school.

You can quibble about your F's and your G's, but it

was I who inspired her, collaborated with her on Rhapsody.

I was the music student who didn't get into college.

I wasn't quite, uh, bohemian enough for them.

But by the time John Farrow took her off to South

America and got her into drugs, our best work was done.

Well, this proves it.

When she came back with child, she was already sick.

And men like Mayberry preyed on her vulnerability.

The best days of Joan Alder's life were with me.

Well, you and I agree on one thing, Mr. Thorpe.

I, too, would much prefer to be listening to Jones' music.

Fine in a store, it's fine.

And when he can make a sensible statement, charge him.

Yes, sir.

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