Original subtitles

Dear friends, let us begin.

I can see you.

I can see you, Babuji.

The mists are clearing.

Babuji,

that's what you always called me.

Do not weep for me, Babuji.

All is well.

I have to go now, Babuji.

Farewell.

Death is but a door.

There's nothing here but peace,

universal, never-ending.

Peace and joy.

The connection is fading Papa.

Where are you? I can't see you, Babuji.

Oh, bless you, Babuji.

Mr Sneed?

M-Mr Sneed, are you all right?

Blimey.

What's the story?

Harold Terence Sneed,

fifty-four years of age. He's lived here,

twenty-seven Kingsgate Row, Borough,

for about a year.

Previously somewhat itinerant.

Profession.

Psychic medium.

Hmm.

And killed by a single blow to the heart,

done with some force.

Well, can we deduce anything

from the angle?

Hmm. Pretty much straight on.

We'll obviously know more when we get the prints analysed.

Yes, yes. Right, well,

we're holding the others down at the station.

Any obvious suspects?

Book! What, what--

Oh, apologies, Inspector.

Like the dead, murder travels fast.

Well, news of it, anyway.

And I must confess

to a personal interest in this matter.

You see, I rather suspected

that something of this sort might happen

to Harold Terence Sneed.

Oh, you knew the victim?

Get your paper!

Read about Sandra Dare.

Mr Baseheart.

I'll have one of those, thank you.

Here you go.

- Oh! - I know.

Half cloth.

Oh, uh, paper-covered boards,

uh, spine bound in cloth.

Excellent. Duodecimo.

Uh, uh, a book.

Good start.

Uh, seven inches tall.

Seven or eight?

One for Nora?

- Do I get a shilling? - You may.

Bastard title?

Oh, hang on, hang on. I know this.

Come on, come on, come on.

- Uh... - Come on, come on.

The page before the title

page with nothing but the title on.

Correct.

- Yes! - Bugger!

Definitely worth a shilling.

Come on, Jack, Nora's putting you to shame.

She doesn't even work here.

I could. Just say the word.

Impossible.

Your uncle says you're indispensable.

That's only 'cause he doesn't pay me.

Oh, Mr Baseheart.

Hello.

- Good morning. - Good morning.

What can we do for you?

Uh, Mr Book, I,

I was wondering if you could

help me with a little problem?

Come this way?

His name is Harold Sneed.

Sneed.

I've heard that name before.

Gently now, Ayesha.

Sneed...

He's a medium, a psychic.

Ah.

Oh, you remember young Jack.

You may speak freely in front of him.

He's by way of being apprenticed here.

Think of him as Pip to my Joe Gargery.

Eh?

Oh, well, I have great expectations.

Well, anyway, all that

psychic stuff, it's not really something I believe in.

You are wise in your generation.

Though I did go and see one once, a medium.

Yeah, end of a pier, south end.

Old girl, all scarves and bangles.

How did that go?

Well, she got in touch

with a few people, you know,

including my Aunt Irene.

Oh.

There was a lot of moaning, as I recall.

- And how was she? - Who?

Your Auntie Irene.

Oh, very happy in the veil of mists

and looking down on me with pride.

They always are.

So how exactly can I help you, Mr Baseheart?

Ah, well, now, it's, it's not me I've come for.

I know how you helped clear up that nasty business

with Eric Wellbeloved and George Harkup,

and people tell me you're very, um...

discreet.

- How indiscreet of them. - Oh, uh,

I'm actually here about someone else.

Mrs Dredge.

You're close, are you?

Well, you know, uh, we were nodding acquaintances,

and then, well, after Harkup died,

I'd-I just seemed to

keep on bumping into her.

We've become very fond of one another.

And then when she lost her boy, uh...

I heard about that. How sad.

Well, what happened?

Accident. Overdose of his morphine.

He was in so much pain.

Yes, I remember.

Hmm. Anyway, Mr Book,

the thing is, Ada, she's...

Well, not to put too fine a point on it,

she's wallowing in it,

wallowing in her grief.

I mean, I always knew she had an interest in spiritualism

and she kept on mentioning it

more and more,

and that there was this chap, Sneed,

and how he was the only one who could

put her in touch with her boy.

And, well, it seemed altruistic.

I mean, he, he doesn't charge a bean,

and it helped at first.

But now?

Now she can't keep away from him!

I, I, I just think it's making it all worse, Mr Book,

much worse and she's never going to move on.

So I, I just wondered if perhaps

you might think there was something to do to help?

I'm sure she'd listen to you Mr Book.

We shall have to tread carefully.

If she's a true believer,

then Mrs Dredge might not take too kindly

to any intervention.

It's rather like waking a sleepwalker.

Oh.

But, uh...

I'll do what I can.

Yes, yeah, uh, okay. Yeah.

Yes. No, that sounds about right to me.

Well, we should be about 20 minutes.

Righto.

Morris!

Sir?

Stickup job, tobacconists on Mercer Street.

Bring the car around.

Well?

Morris, jump to it.

Yes, sir.

Spiritualism began in America.

Not surprising.

Where all sorts of silly things have started.

Yeah, hot dogs, Coca-Cola...

The Fox sisters, they were called.

Three of them.

Cowboy films,

gangster films, the electric chair!

Such an uncivilized way to kill someone.

The sisters convinced everyone

they could communicate with the dead

by making strange banging noises.

Created a whole industry out of it.

Where are bananas from?

Uh, not America.

I've never had a banana.

Anyway, years later,

one of the sisters revealed they'd done the whole thing

by cracking the knuckles in their toes,

but it was too late.

Even though it was a proven fraud,

people wanted to believe

and they still do.

There you are, Mr Book,

the best we have.

Ah, thank you, Yusuf.

I owe you.

You do, six shillings.

Uh, yes.

Uh, pay the man, would you, Jack?

What's that?

"Life is short. Eat your pudding first."

Present for Mrs Dredge, off the ration.

A sweet tooth is always

a reliable way into someone's confidence.

Come on.

Up, up, up. Not you, young lady.

Dishes.

What?

There is a pile of dishes in there

higher than Hagia Sophia. Ade.

But you should give the girl a rise.

She eats, she has a roof over her head.

What more does she want?

Hmm. Cheerio!

Ooh, Turkish delight!

Oh, it's been years.

My late husband used to get me a box every Christmas.

Of course, he's long gone now,

long gone.

Oh, it's just one thing after another.

First him, then poor George Harkup,

and then,

and then my Alf.

Yes, I had heard. I'm so terribly sorry.

Yes, I still keep his boots

just as they were.

Mm.

And now he's in Our Lady of Dalston,

just down the road, next to his dad.

A veil of tears, this life, Mr Book.

That's what it is, a ruddy veil of tears.

Still, you're, you're, you're managing?

Oh, yes, yes. And George--

Mr Harkup's money won't come through for a while yet,

but I'm all right.

But to the matter in hand, Mrs Dredge.

I noticed some advertisements

when last I visited,

Footfalls on the Boundary of Another World?

Oh, you've noticed those. Yes.

Well, I used to give little talks on it

up at the temperance hall,

the spirit world.

Uh, it's concerning that, that we're here, dear lady.

I understand you're an acquaintance of

Mr Harold Sneed.

Oh.

Oh, you've heard of him?

Yes [chuckles] oh, well,

remarkable man is Mr Sneed.

Mm. I talk to my Alf regular now,

through Mr Sneed, of course.

Great comfort it is.

We're believers, too, Mrs Dredge.

Aren't we, Jack?

Oh, yeah, big fans...

of the dead.

That's not quite the way I'd put it.

Of course, Mr Sneed caters

to a very sophisticated clientele.

Uh, I don't doubt it,

but if there were any way of, um...

Getting you on the list?

Oh, well, I do pride myself that

Mr Sneed and I are on very good terms.

I'll see what I can do.

Well, thank you very much again,

Mrs Dredge,

and if we are fortunate enough to attend,

is there anything we need to do to prepare?

Well,

Mr Sneed does sometimes ask his sitters to bring an object,

uh, closely related to the dear departed,

uh, a keepsake or some such of the one you have lost.

Do you have anything like that?

I'll have a think.

Good day.

Cheerio.

Cheerio.

My plan was gradually and subtly

to unpick his schemes.

Someone's unpicked him unsubtly and for good.

This window,

- is it always open like this? - Yes, why?

You think someone chucked the knife through?

So six persons present, excluding the deceased.

All of them swear their hands were joined

at the moment of the murder.

Well, they would, wouldn't they?

What's this?

Bracelet?

Napkin ring?

Hmm.

Shall we?

Oh.

- Got a print? - Oh, a couple of beauties.

Ah, excellent.

Do we know if they were regulars,

the ones at the seance last night?

Looks like it.

Uh, first up, there's the factotum,

one Ayesha Jean-Baptiste,

then Miss Geraldine Mercer.

Our old friend, Mrs Ada Dredge.

Ehhh, she has no luck, does she?

Lastly, a Professor.

Ved Chopra, and the spinster Mrs Plumchute,

Clara and Amelia.

Looks like the usual collection of lost souls

in search of some meaning

in their pointless, miserable lives.

Dear me, Inspector, we do have the glums today.

How is, um, Mrs Bliss?

Much the same.

Ernie,

forgive me, were you ever...

What?

Happy?

I, I, I - seem to recall an afternoon,

just around the time of the abdication.

It doesn't have to be like this, you know.

There is such a thing as divorce.

I couldn't.

Just wouldn't sit right with me.

So, so you're condemning yourself to a life--

The question is one of motive, then.

Yes.

Well, you met the man.

Why would any of these people want to kill him?

- How long have you got?

Yes.

Uh, would you be so kind as to clear away

the gin and biscuits now, Ayesha?

Poor child is mute and less,

but loyal,

loyal to a fault.

Where did you find her?

- Well... - Charming name.

She who must be obeyed.

Have you read Rider Haggard? It's a caucus--

Shhh!

Sorry.

Again, we're, uh, we're very grateful.

I found Ayesha

on the old Kent Road,

would you believe, in a circus?

Now,

would you be so kind as to lower the lights,

Ayesha?

Brightness,

as we know...

is anathema to those from the Land of Mists.

Now, then...

any mementos?

A special something.

As we know,

this will help

in summoning the loved one from the,

from the beyond.

Now, my friends, old and new,

small in number but stout of heart,

let us join hands in the prescribed manner.

Hold on your right.

Be held

on your left.

Ah, there he goes.

Chaps going under. Witnessed this before.

Malay walla out foreign.

The spirits'll be coming through now.

From Summerland.

Sunderland?

It's Summerland.

It's what they call the spirit world.

Oh.

This isn't your first time?

No, no, no, quite the old hand.

They...

They're here.

Oh! Listen!

- What is it? - Birds.

There are birds on the other side.

It's a proven fact.

They go to heaven, too and dogs.

That's reassuring.

- Mum? - Oh!

Mum, are you there?

Oh, Alf!

Oh, Alf, is that you again?

Yeah. Yeah, Mother, it's me.

Do not weep for me, Mother.

I'm happy.

I'm truly happy.

Oh, Alf, I wish I could see you.

Aw. Oh, but I'm so very weary, now.

But perhaps I can

linger just, just a moment more.

Good Lord!

Oh, oh, oh!

Touch, touch my hand, Mother.

Let me feel your touch, just once more.

Oh! Oh, it's cold.

So cold.

Oh, oh, Alf.

Oh, Alf, did I do right?

Did I do the right thing?

Jack.

Jack!

Yeah?

What's he saying?

Do not grieve, my son.

I am happy.

Truly happy.

Thank you so much for coming.

The spirits work--

You heard what he said?

How did he know... about my dad?

Fascinating, fascinating.

I, I'd love to hear more, Mr Sneed.

Perhaps you could pop over and see me, uh, tomorrow?

My card.

- Books, books. How charming.

No, no, no, keep it, please.

Oh, well, you're very kind. I'm all right now.

Ladies.

Shall we say, 11:00-ish?

Ish.

Of course, um,

I always, um, like to spread the word.

Good night, then.

Well, thank you again,

Mrs Dredge. Most enlightening.

Will I see you here again?

Oh, I should think so. And you?

Oh, of course!

Well, [sniffs] night then.

- Good night. - Good night.

Night, night.

Ta-Da.

Did you locate the autopsy report on her boy?

Accidental overdose.

Hmm.

There was something else very interesting in it, though.

Oh?

The boy's fingers splashed with ink.

He'd been writing.

Nothing at the bedside, no pen, no paper.

"Did I do right?" she said.

"Did I do the right thing?"

Well, what could that mean?

21's coming.

I think we should treat ourselves to a cab,

don't you?

Poor Jack.

And he got out that photo.

Yes, that was, as they used to say,

a bit of a facer.

We need to look out for him, Trottie,

make sure he feels involved.

He's obviously desperate for answers.

Like me.

Where's he got to?

Gone for a smoke.

And how's that all going,

finding out about what happened to Felix?

You can say his name, you know.

I know, it's just--

We progress.

Time for bed, I think.

You sure you'll be all right down here?

Oh, yes, perfectly all right,

at least until my ceiling's fixed.

Whole place is crumbling, Trottie,

like the empire.

Don't shut me out, Book.

Shut you out?

I know how delicate all this is.

I know how much it must all hurt.

It's fine. I'm fine.

I just want to help.

You are helping.

It takes time, that's all, getting us into Germany.

Strings must be pulled.

You'll know everything just as soon as I do, I promise.

Be careful, my love.

It's not always a good idea, disturbing the dead.

Good night, Mr Book.

Good night, Mrs Book.

Felix?

I never had his name,

just that...

Just that one picture.

Your father was a German.

German?

I last saw your father,

Felix von Bode,

in a Berlin railway station in 1935.

According to the information I received,

he was sent to a sanatorium

shortly afterwards and died there.

I was sent the death certificate.

And?

Some sort of tumour on the brain.

I wrote to his family,

expressed my condolences,

but I never had any reply.

And then one day, only last year,

just after VE Day, in fact--

You heard from him?

Not exactly.

A photograph

came into my possession.

That's him.

That's my dad.

Yes.

Dated December the 5th, 1936.

So?

The day I was told Felix died.

In the sanatorium.

Amontillado.

Only a glass,

not a cask?

Ah, Poe.

Poe.

So early in the morning,

one does feel a little naughty.

Uh, you prefer something milder?

Tea, coffee?

We have only chicory, alas, the ration.

No, no.

We could all do with a little cheering up,

don't you think?

The war does cast a very long shadow.

Quite.

Bugger Attlee!

Mm, do I find myself in a socialist household?

I try not to be too tribal about these things.

The prime minister's doing a very good job

in difficult times, is all I think.

Bring back Winston, I say.

He does have his uses.

Speaking of the war, Mr Sneed, last night--

...Yes?

That photograph the young man gave you.

Oh, oh, yes.

How did you know all that?

The ways of the beyond

are a mystery, even to Harold Sneed.

I am a mere vessel, Mr Book.

Come now, Mr Sneed,

we are not children.

I knew I'd heard your name before, so I asked around.

You've been a professional medium since the '20s,

but during the war--

Yes?

...your powers were utilized by the authorities.

Oh, how did you know that?

Because I was pressed into service, too.

I thought you were a mere bookseller.

I read.

Books.

And people, like you do.

Very useful method of acquiring information.

According to my sources, you were very helpful

in laying hands on all kinds of undesirables,

miscreants, black marketeers,

fifth columnists, fascists

like Sir Gideon Fay and Harrison Hopper.

I did what I could to serve my country,

and the spirits were kind.

You used the same crooked methods

you do in your so-called profession,

but for once on the side of the angels.

Did you invite me here just to insult me?

No, that's just a bonus.

Crooked methods, well, explain it then.

Explain what happened last night.

"Trauert nicht, mein Sohn.

Ich bin glücklich,

wirklich glücklich."

It was rather touching, I thought.

A fatuous platitude,

but then you people always deal in generalizations, don't you?

Oh, we people do, do we?

You'd heard Jack's name already when we arrived.

You asked him for a memento.

Obviously, it would be something linked to a meaningful loss.

A quick glance at the photograph told you

it was of some age, so probably not a brother.

"My son" could merely be a term of affection,

or more specifically, a father talking to his child.

Worth you taking a punt.

But the German, now, the German,

how did you manage that? Ah, yes.

There's a number on the back of the photo

with a crossed seven in the continental manner.

Could have been French.

And presumably you would've tried that, too,

if Jack hadn't reacted the way he did.

All I offer

is a little comfort,

a little hope.

Uh, my clients--

Your customers.

Well, hardly. I don't charge.

They see me as a confidant,

a father confessor, if you will.

Balderdash.

Don't bring heaven into this.

We must make the best of what we have,

and if there is a God,

he is a cruel and abhorrent thing, is he not?

No, Mr Sneed, no gods, no ghosts.

Consider this a warning.

Warning.

I'm not about to let you get your claws into Jack Blunt,

nor into Mrs Ada Dredge.

You, sir, are a grief

leech.

I beg your pardon?

Psychics, mediums,

whatever you choose to call yourselves,

grief leeches,

peddling a few tatty ancient parlour tricks

and passing them off as supernatural powers,

feasting off the bereaved

and fleecing them so they can never move on.

Filthy, crooked, mendacious, disgusting pigs.

Can I help you?

Good morning.

I'm here for the book.

Thank you, Mrs Fung.

- Cheerio. - Thank you.

The sight of that picture

did provoke quite a reaction in you, too, Mr Book.

Perhaps you were expecting

a message from the beyond that was

less platitudinous

and more, uh, intimate.

What exactly are you suggesting?

We all have our secrets, Mr Book.

Perhaps you'd be so good

as to keep your nose out of mine.

Thank you for the Amontillado.

Sorry.

What for?

It wasn't what you hoped for

and it wasn't Felix who came to you last night.

That's okay, Mr Book.

We need to concentrate on what's real,

don't we?

Yes, Jack.

Yes, we do.

Hello, 3-8-6-5.

Oh, oh, Mr Sneed!

Oh, oh, oh,

how lovely to hear from you.

Oh!

Oh.

Oh.

- Good evening. - Good evening.

Who knows what tonight might hold?

Yes, indeed.

Oh.

Dear friends,

let us begin.

Could you tell us about what happened to your daughter?

There is little to say.

Lakshmi was the light of my life.

After my wife passed over,

my daughter was all I had.

You're a professor, Sir.

Chemistry, University of London.

I came here before the war.

Which was a distinguished one, by all accounts.

I did my bit.

May I ask you, miss, the nature of your loss?

My mother.

She had rather an unhappy end.

I, I suppose I've been going to the seances looking for

some kind of answer.

What happened to Lakshmi?

A car, it struck her.

Hit-and-run.

We were taking a little holiday in Scotland.

One moment, everything was fine,

and the next,

my whole world changed.

Very sorry.

The police, they said they could do nothing.

The driver...

there were no witnesses,

it was impossible to trace her.

Well, the seance had been proceeding as usual.

Mr Sneed was sitting next to me.

All our hands were linked.

Uh, well, technically, I suppose our wrists.

Yes, we did the same at the one I attended.

It had been a very successful session.

Mr Sneed had made contact

with Professor Chopra's daughter,

Mrs Dredge's son, a, a high priestess

from Atlantis and uh,

Mr Bonar Law, the late prime minister.

Busy night.

I know what you must be thinking.

He's a rational man, a, a scientist.

What's he doing messing about with table tappers?

Well, I can't answer that.

I only know I needed

solace in whatever form I could find.

I tried my faith and found it wanting.

When one loses a child,

one descends into a particular kind of hell.

And that's when you came across Harold Sneed?

In hell.

Uh, was there anything

unusual about this particular seance,

this particular group of people?

Well, I, I don't think I'd met any of them before.

I just got a phone call confirming

I was on the list.

Uh, there was

nothing unusual other than that.

There was a, a rota, a schedule?

Yes. I went every other Thursday,

although my, uh,

invitations had increased somewhat recently.

And the phone invitation, a voice you knew?

Yes.

Yes, it was Mr Sneed himself.

And that was unusual?

Well, it's usually a letter.

It's never happened before.

I go quite regularly.

I was simply informed that it was my turn again.

By letter?

No, by telephone.

Sneed called you?

Yes, that was unusual.

Right, who's next?

- Well, uh... - No point.

No point?

Well, we got statements from the others,

but it's got to be Miss Mercer or the professor, isn't it?

Has it?

They were the ones sat either side of the victim.

Stands to reason, doesn't it?

One of them must have stabbed him.

It's just a question of proximity.

Well...

Uh, I think he's right.

Sneed was stabbed front on, so yeah, it,

it must have been one of them.

You don't think so?

We're in the land of mists, Inspector.

We're dabbling with the dead...

perhaps not all...

is what it seems.

Very good.

Hello there!

Oh, you don't remember? How wounding.

No, um...

Yes, yes, from the, um...

Yes, the seance.

Good Lord, did you hear?

Oh, yes. It was dreadful.

Poor old Sneed.

Sorry, I didn't mean to distress you, Miss--

Uh, Trottie.

Book. Trottie Book, Mrs.

And you don't need to worry about me.

I'm made of fairly strong stuff.

Reggie Winters, Colonel. Delighted.

Wish we could have met under more pleasant

- circumstances.

Not at a bus stop, you mean?

About the, um, seance, how did you--

Oh, somebody got me on the list, friend of a friend,

and I thought I'd give it a whirl.

And how did you find it?

Very entertaining, actually.

Well, more than that.

I suppose it, it gave me...

something.

Forgive me, what was the nature of your bereavement?

Well, I, I lost a lot of pals during the war,

obviously, but more particularly,

the memsahib.

It's my wife. She--

Oh, I'm so, I'm so sorry. I, I didn't mean to--

No, it's quite all right.

We're also made of stern stuff

in the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders.

Perhaps we'll run into one another again.

Yes, perhaps we will.

This is my bus.

Cheerio.

How long

have you been in Mr Sneed's employ?

Five years come Christmas.

You met at the circus, I gather?

I had an accident,

on the trapeze.

And then Mr Sneed offered you a job with him.

Happy in your work?

Happy as a sandboy.

And you were in charge of the appointments you arranged

who was to come to each seance?

Mr Sneed selected the patrons.

I just contacted them.

By letter, clearly.

Ayesha, I may call you Ayesha, mayn't I?

How did you feel about your employer's profession,

the flummery,

the mummery, the tricks of the trade?

Like that?

Is that how Sneed made all the lights go out?

- It's a living.

Well, thank you very much.

Oh, finally, Miss Jean-Baptiste,

how do you feel about the death of your employer?

Out of a job,

aren't I?

Well how would you refer to it?

A calling, perhaps.

A vocation, rather.

Yes, perhaps the better word.

You see, after Emelia and I lost Teddy--

In the war.

- The previous war. - The Great War.

The war to end all wars.

Oh, the horrible irony of that.

- If any of us had known... - How could we have known?

...that a few wretched years later--

It would all happen again.

And poor Teddy's sacrifice--

- All for nothing - ...nothing.

So we do what little we can

to alleviate the sufferings of this world.

And here you find us.

Oh, but to get back to the seance.

Do you want bread with that, dear?

Yes please. Over there.

Thank you.

Well...

You see, we've been in touch with Teddy ever since--

Ever since he passed over.

We know all about his last moments

- on the Western Front. - Western Front.

Terribly distressing, of course.

But then, how much more wonderful to know

that he is happy...

- ...on the other side. - The other side.

And Harold Sneed, you've been

attending his seances...

Oh, my, forever.

Since 1928.

In fact, oh, very impressive was Mr Sneed.

There has been ectoplasm.

Mm.

Really?

And an angel's feather. Feather.

And he didn't charge you for this?

No, nothing.

Nothing at all.

- Only a-- - Voluntary contribution.

Money was of little interest to

poor Mr Sneed.

And I have to ask, can you think of any reason

why anyone would want to kill him?

None.

Well, thank you, ladies. You've been most kind.

Fascinating.

Handiwork as distinctive as the brushwork

of an old master...

Ey?

Profitable day, dear?

Exhausted.

Jack and I have tramped miles, haven't we, Jack?

Miles.

[sighs] Inspector Bliss is focused on Professor Chopra

and Miss Geraldine Mercer,

the police mindset.

But it does leave us a pretty clear field

to investigate the other suspects.

So perhaps,

maybe it's time--

Oh, the pattern book.

Oh, good, it's been ages.

- The what? - The pattern book.

- What's the pattern book? - Well,

no man is a hero to his valet, Jack.

Isn't that what they say?

The same thing is true of commerce.

Right.

It, it's really quite simple.

We all of us develop habits.

We tend to go to the same grocers,

cobblers, bakers.

We wear a groove into our own lives,

a groove that can be analysed.

And after numerous years in this business,

Trottie's become rather good at it, haven't you, dear?

I'm not bad.

Uh, gossip, you mean?

Uh, intelligence, Jack.

We need to find out everything we can

about all the people who attended the fatal seance

and there's really no better way

than by scrutinizing their spending habits.

We call this the pattern book.

You and I shall adopt

the guises of twittery persons

and go about our business.

- You and me? - Of course.

You're one of the family now, aren't you?

Anything else to go on at the moment?

Oh, no, it's far too soon to speculate.

Nonsense, I know you. Three things?

No, heaps of things.

This is a rum old case and no mistake.

I would offer these up, Mrs Book:

an unbroken circle,

a hit-and-run accident

and a pioneering plastic surgeon.

Sorry.

Uh, inspector on the blower.

He wants to see you in the morning.

Hmm.

Well, we got prints off the murder weapon.

Professor Chopra's or Miss Mercer's?

Neither.

Wh-wh-what?

Neither.

A totally different set of prints.

Whose?

The fingerprints I took off the dagger

were very distinctive,

an odd double-loop whorl pattern.

They seemed familiar, rang a bell, so I went looking.

Harrison Hopper, remember him?

Of course. Blackshirt,

interned during the war, escaped to Germany,

then arrested in '44.

They hanged him, didn't they?

Earlier this year.

On evidence provided by Harold Sneed.

What?

Yes, I did some digging, too.

Sneed was co-opted by British Intelligence.

The war was a murky time,

made strange bedfellows of us all.

No one around to clean the sheets.

Sneed used his tricks to get all sorts

of shady contacts.

As a result, he knew where lots of Nazi

sympathizers were hiding.

Doctor, wh-where's all this--

Harrison Hopper had very unusual fingerprints,

double loop.

No two sets of fingerprints

are alike, Inspector.

The prints on the dagger belonged to Hopper,

an executed Nazi.

What?

You heard what she said, Inspector.

Harold Sneed was murdered...

by a dead man.