Original subtitles

There he goes.

His name is Harold Sneed.

He's a medium, a psychic.

The question is one of motive, then.

Well, you met the man.

Why would any of these people want to kill him?

First up is the factotum, one Ayesha Jean-Baptiste,

then Miss Geraldine Mercer...

I just got a phone call

confirming I was on the list.

Our old friend, Mr Ada Dredge.

Mr Sneed and I are on very good terms.

Ved Chopra.

A car, struck her.

And the spinster, Mr Plumchute, Clara and Amelia.

Money was of little interest to...

poor Mr Sneed.

I don't charge...

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

- Uh, Trottie. - Reggie Winters, Colonel.

Sneed used his tricks

to get all sorts of shady contacts.

The prints on the dagger belonged to Hopper,

an executed Nazi.

Harold Sneed was murdered by a dead man.

Where are we going?

Uh, isn't that what we all ask

ourselves every day, Inspector?

No, where are we actually going?

- Are you a believer? - In what?

The eldritch, the uncanny, the supernatural.

Uh, no, I wouldn't say so.

I mean, I, I don't walk under ladders.

Highly prudent.

And I say good morning to magpies.

It'd be rude not to.

It's deeper than that, though, isn't it?

Scratch the veneer of civilization,

it's extraordinary what tosh people believe.

Take this case, for example.

Here we have a group

of perfectly rational-seeming human beings,

content to sit around a table holding hands,

or rather, wrists,

trying to get in touch with the departed.

Yeah, well, someone got into very close touch

with the departed, didn't they?

Sent Harold Sneed up to the pearly gates.

Quite.

But a dead man's hand...

did not wield that knife, Inspector.

So how was it done, then, huh?

How did Harrison Hopper's fingerprints

end up on the dagger?

Ah!

- Hang on, I mean this is... - Yes,

the Black Museum,

Scotland Yard's infamous museum of crime.

Oh, and I thought I'd ask along

the city's foremost expert on violent death.

I know how much she'll enjoy it.

This is the best day ever!

The pattern book.

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.

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.

You and I shall adopt the guises of twittery persons

and go about our business.

Madam.

Oh.

Oh, I beg your--

Oh!

Ah!

- Good afternoon. - Hello again.

Is it a terrible cliche to say we must stop meeting like this?

Off taking your constitutional?

Ye-yes, that's right, yes.

Old habits.

Can't bear being cooped up.

I sometimes watch the poor beggars in the zoo,

pacing up and down.

- I, I'd go crackers.

Chap must get out and about.

Where are you...?

Oh, I, I'm just off to the haberdasher's.

Oh, winter drawers on.

Well...

Yes, I must let you get on.

Uh, perhaps--

Yes?

Perhaps you might like to take tea sometime.

Perhaps.

My card.

Thank you.

Like a reliquary for disreputable saints,

nooses,

false footprint makers, death masks.

Oh, I've always wanted to come here.

[chuckles] Mm, well, sir,

the Black Museum's not open to the public, as you know.

The public?

A special dispensation can be made.

Any friend of Mr Churchill.

So why are we here?

You've had a break-in, Mr Kendall, haven't you?

What? No, don't be ridiculous.

A break-in at Scotland Yard?

- Are you sure? - Positive.

Been watching them in here for 20 year, and I've ne--

Broken window pane back there,

now stuffed with a newspaper, a recent newspaper,

seems to be the point of entry.

Residue of crushed glass on the carpet leading here.

No mystery as to why you mightn't have heard anything.

Aye.

Well, if you'd drunk as much whiskey

as I can smell on you today,

you were probably sleeping like a baby when it happened.

- How dare you? I had...

It m-must have been kids, sir.

- Nothing was taken. - Outside, Kendall. Outside!

I'll deal with you in a minute.

So what, what's in here, then?

Nora?

Stuff from the Harrison Hopper case, of course.

I knew you'd know. I knew she'd know.

Lock's been forced recently.

Harrison Hopper's confession.

Alongside the noose that hanged him

and a cast of his face.

Yeah, they did a plaster cast 'cause he was so notorious.

It was very common once upon a time.

Burke, with Burke and Hare, they did him.

A cast of his face and--

And his hands.

- Oh, I see. - Nothing's been stolen,

but clear signs of interference here, Inspector,

and residual traces of wax.

Someone's been copying Harrison Hopper's fingerprints.

Clever, clever.

The easiest thing in the world, then,

to make another impression from the wax mold

and transfer the fingerprints to the hilt of the dagger.

But why?

Message for you, Inspector.

Morris has made a discovery.

First time for everything.

Geraldine Mercer isn't Geraldine Mercer.

No?

She used to be Geraldine Hopper.

This is Cinegraph News,

Harrison Hopper is no more.

The treacherous Briton,

who did so much to undermine morale

on behalf of his Nazi paymasters,

has kept one final appointment...

with the gallows.

Seen here taking exercise before his trial,

Hopper threw himself upon the mercy of British justice

and justice found him wanting.

On January 3rd, 1946, at Wandsworth Jail,

he met his final end.

Who will mourn him?

No loyal Briton, that's for sure.

It's not fair!

I've had the best day doing something

I'm actually interested in and then you wanna go--

Life is not fair, young lady.

You better get used to it.

Now, cook.

Cook!

Be gentle with her, Yusuf, it's that age.

That age?

She was always like that,

even when my brother was alive.

Head in the clouds,

thinking things a young lady should not be thinking.

Well, that's a matter of opinion.

Come on, they've brought Geraldine back in.

Mr Book.

The Kormoz.

Oh, is that the special? Well, I look forward--

No, the Kormoz, the spirits.

My niece says you are involved with them.

In a sense.

It is best not to meddle with these things, my friend.

These spirits, these ghosts,

they are devils.

They come back to Earth from the underworld,

Tamag and they do not wish us well.

Be careful, my friend. Be very careful.

They only bring death.

Harrison Hopper was my father, yes.

You'll perhaps understand why I didn't mention the fact,

and why I changed my name,

but what has this got to do with--

What, what was your relationship like with him?

We'd had no contact with him for years.

O- o-once he began to show his true colours,

my mother and I, we had no truck with him.

Then he was all over the papers,

propagandising for the Nazis.

It was horrible.

It, it was easier to regard him as having died.

And then he did,

executed by the state.

Convicted, we now believe,

on evidence provided by Harold Sneed.

I, I, I had no idea.

Nevertheless, miss,

there's a clear link between you and the murdered man.

Now, now, Mr, Mr Book here has been kind enough

to show us how your father's fingerprints

ended up on the murder weapon.

I, I didn't shed a single tear when my father died, believe me.

I- if Harold Sneed had anything to do with his arrest a--

and subsequent execution, then I, I knew nothing of it.

I'd far more likely to have shaken his hand

than to have stabbed him with a dagger.

She broke into the museum,

used a cast of her father's hands to make the prints

and then she used the dagger to murder Sneed.

- Motive? - Revenge, obviously.

On the man whose evidence sent her father to the gallows.

Why would she?

Why would she deliberately create

a direct link back to herself?

It doesn't make any sense.

He has a point, Morris.

Well,

it's the psychology, innit?

That's what you're always banging on about, Book.

She wanted her dad's dabs to be all over that crime,

even if it meant her swinging for it.

We have to charge her.

He's right.

How does Moliere have it?

"Unreasonable haste is the direct road to error."

Yeah, well, Moliere didn't have the chief constable

breathing down his ruddy neck.

The pattern, Book.

Stand someone a pint or, or buy a paper off them.

Get talking to them about the test match

or, or, or the war trials, and suddenly

they're your best pal.

I mean, it's like this

massive network of people behind counters, isn't it?

And, I mean, it's right across London,

with Trottie as the sort of...

...wallpaper paste that holds it all together.

Precisely.

As a method of gathering information,

it's invaluable,

and as a metaphor, that's gorgeous.

Could we all form a circle, please?

Well?

Well...

- Report. - Oh, right.

Yeah, uh, Professor Chopra.

Yeah, he's a deep one.

Doesn't seem to spend much on anything.

Grocers, ironmongers, tailors.

Man of very simple taste, except when it comes to travel.

Exotic travel.

You shouldn't even be here.

Exotic travel?

Strictly domestic.

Chap called Fancy at St. Pancras.

Oh, dear old Fancy.

Now, he said that he noticed the professor

a lot.

He said that he used to get the train up to Scotland

every week for months on months.

Scotland is where the hit-and-run occurred, isn't it?

Yeah.

Lakshmi?

Lakshmi?!

Lakshmi?!

Lakshmi?!

Visiting the scene of the accident, perhaps.

And then suddenly,

he just stopped going up there.

Maybe that's when he started attending the seances.

Hmm.

Could we all hold hands, please?

Do you have a date for the last visit to Scotland?

Top pocket.

And what about the Miss' Plumchute?

Hmm, usual stuff.

They patronise their local butcher, baker, grocer,

the odd bottle of sherry from Fortnum's.

But they have an unexpected account

with a gentleman's outfitter.

Not local.

Very much not. Well away from where they live.

What have they been buying recently?

Two pairs of men's trousers.

Cavalry twill.

Yes, how did you--

Could we all hold wrists, please?

Hold with the right, be held by the left.

An unbroken circle.

But someone broke it, didn't they?

Someone.

Hmm. Who's next?

Uh, Mrs Dredge.

We know most about her, of course.

She seemed low on funds.

Waiting for Mr Harkup's inheritance, as we know.

Miss Mercer, she has a standing order

at a florist in Knightsbridge.

Once a month, Edelweiss.

Edelweiss?

Yeah, special order. Pricey.

Where does it go, this Edelweiss?

Brompton Road Cemetery.

It's her mother's grave.

Beerbohm Tree,

Lily Langtree,

Lily of the Valley.

Ah, and what about Ayesha?

Well, you remember

Sneed told her she worked in a circus.

- Yes. - Turned out to be true.

She was a magician's assistant, it seems, amongst other things.

Got herself injured doing some acrobatics,

and then gave it all up to work for Sneed.

And she's never spoken?

No.

Rossini, the circus owner, swears it.

He rescued her from a fire when she was a child.

Says she's dumb as a wall.

Nothing much else to report on her.

Cook, valet, bottle washer to Sneed.

She did all the grocery shopping.

Oh, but she bought a lot of muslin.

Of course she did.

How else do you think they produce ectoplasm?

Edelweiss symbolises courage

or devotion,

which rather backs up Miss Mercer's story

about the ordeal she and her mother went through.

Or rather, it backs up Miss Hopper's story.

Hopper?

Geraldine is Harrison Hopper's daughter.

Hmm, blimey.

Can I see all those, your findings?

And what did you find out about the victim himself?

Well, starting from the top--

Literally.

His syrup of figs.

Sneed had three wigs, in fact,

each representing different stages of length.

So he could pretend it was growing.

He patronised Wendover's--

- Expensive. - Quite,

and got his wigs regularly attended to there.

Three syrups, all kept spruce.

So Sneed had a bit of money.

And he just got two brand-new suits made.

More money,

and yet he didn't charge, apparently.

Underwear from Jermyn Street.

Silk, monogrammed.

Well, what is it?

All these notes,

all these records,

there's something you've missed.

Oh?

They've been spending less.

There's been a small but significant decrease

in their spending over the past few months,

apart from...

Huh.

Capital work, Nora.

Capital.

Well, that would seem to make sense of it.

Make sense of what?

What this case appears to be about.

And what's that?

Blackmail, of course.

A little case of spirits,

but who has done the deed?

For blackmail is the key

to the death of Harold Sneed.

Miss Mercer was Miss Hopper.

Now she sits and bides her time,

as the professor told a whopper...

...about the motor

and the crime.

The dear ladies in their velveteen,

doing good deeds for the poor.

But there's something else lurking

behind their saintly mission door.

Ayesha speaks no evil,

nor can she speak at all.

Of the unlamented Harold Sneed

and the mystery

of his fall.

And what of Mr Ada Dredge,

living well beyond her means?

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.

He makes me lie down in green pastures, he restoreth my soul.

Jesus, because you only know well,

God, pray for us in this matter.

Sans son,

sans cash,

sans husband...

Hail, Mary, full of grace

the Lord is with thee.

And living on her dreams.

Sorry, dog.

Helps me think.

We had no idea, Mr Book, that you...

you have the gift yourself.

Oh, well, I make no great claims, ladies,

but my mother always said

she could see around corners, as it were.

- Tea leaves? - Oh, you could never stop her.

Always emptying out the Darjeeling

and predicting the future,

sometimes before we'd finished drinking it.

So perhaps it's no surprise that I've, uh,

inherited some of her gifts.

Why are we all here, though, and what is this in aid of?

Well, we're hoping that my husband

might be able to make contact with Mr Sneed himself.

Oh, God help us.

Well, it's a little unorthodox,

but I have every faith in Mr Book here.

You just wait, young man.

I have seen such wonders,

manifestations,

even heard the heavenly choir itself once.

A host of angels singing in perfect,

blissful harmony, pure, sublime, impossibly beautiful.

Oh, yeah? Where was that?

Cockfosters.

Sergeant Morris, if you'd be so good as to, uh,

lower the lights.

Now,

let us all join hands in the prescribed manner.

Hold with the right,

be held by the left.

Spirits,

spirits, are you there?

Are you there?

If so, give us a sign.

Spirits...

- Surprise, surprise. - Morris!

Are you there?

Are you there?

The veil is lifting.

Yes, they are coming through,

coming through now.

Oh, hello.

Evening, friends. Charming night for it.

Who's this?

I'll take the high road, and you'll take the low road,

and I'll be in Scotland before evening.

Oh, it's Harry Lauder!

It's Sir Harry Lauder.

Blimey.

I didn't think he was dead.

Hey, well, I have to be going now.

Listen.

Oh, they're the dear, dear things.

Strotford?

Strotford, is that you?

Um, yes.

I'm so proud of you, darling.

Doing very well, aren't you?

I still see you now

with your little blue pinafore dress,

always rushing around.

You always had time for my suet and custard, didn't you?

Ah! That's my Auntie Winnie.

I know it.

That was her favourite recipe. She always--

So...

we are all gathered again.

Oh, it's him.

It's Mr Sneed. Oh, poor soul.

I hope you are at peace now.

All is well, dear lady.

I bear no ill will to anyone.

Death was a release--

- A release? - from the guilt.

What do you mean?

My crimes,

what I was doing to you all.

Ah!

Oh, great heavens! A man-, a manifestation.

Take my hand, dear lady.

Let me feel an earthly touch

one last time.

What the hell?

Sorry for the charade.

I thought it the best way to explain to you

how you've been deceived,

how you've all been deceived.

It was a parlour trick, as I've said all along.

Like that, Nora.

Clever little thing, old trick of Houdini's.

This is how it's usually done.

I just use my knee.

Presto, no mystery.

The lights are lowered,

we all join hands,

I do a bit of judicious heavy breathing

and give the impression of being in a trance,

throw in a bit of celebrity...

Apologies, I thought Sir Harry Lauder was dead

and off we go.

Sorry so shamelessly to use

your aunt's suet pudding, Trottie,

but it served as an easy example.

The medium simply gathers as much intelligence as possible

about the people around the table

and the rest is guesswork.

But we all had our hands joined.

How did you--

Another trick of Houdini's:

pliable metal.

I simply clamp it to the wrist

of the person next to me.

When I let go,

it feels as if the wrist is still being held.

Oh my!

And then, in the darkness,

the medium's hand is free to do whatever they like,

including shoving a luminous rubber glove

onto the end of their foot...

Voila!

The cold, dead hand of the spirit.

- And then, down there,

a useful way

of turning off the lights.

This is all very well,

but, but it doesn't tell us who killed Harold Sneed.

Oh, but it does, Inspector, it does.

That was the moment it happened,

that the unbroken circle was briefly interrupted,

leaving someone free to stick the dagger

into Harold Sneed's chest.

But who?

Everyone present at that seance

had been very carefully chosen.

Because they were being blackmailed?

Yes.

Something Sneed said to me.

All I offer,

is a little comfort, a little hope.

My clients--

Your customers.

Well, hardly. I don't charge.

They see me as a,

a confidant.

A, a father confessor, if you will.

All those little secrets

Sneed's sitters let slip, harvested.

Perfect fodder for the seances, of course

but also for blackmailing them.

Blackmailing people like...

Professor Chopra.

Lakshmi!

Lakshmi!

Lakshmi!

Remember what he said at the interview?

The police said they could do nothing.

The driver,

there were no witnesses, so,

it was impossible to trace her.

Her. He said her.

There were no witnesses.

How did the professor know the driver was a woman?

All those trips you made to Scotland, Professor,

to visit the scene of the crime or to track down the driver?

The driver whom only you had seen.

Nora?

Newspaper cutting from six months

after your daughter's accident.

"Death of the Honourable Jane Clement.

Someone sabotaged the brakes of her sports car."

I did a little digging.

She lived near to your holiday home

at the time in question.

Do you think that...

Do you think the professor tracked her down

and took the law into his own hands?

You have no proof.

No,

I have no proof.

Next, Emelia and Clara Plumchute.

Charming ladies--

But with a secret?

You're getting the idea.

You see, after we lost Teddy--

In the war.

- The previous war. - The Great War.

- The war to end all wars. - Oh, yeah.

Oh, the horrible irony of that.

If any of us had known--

How could we had known...

that a few wretched years later--

It would all happen again.

- And poor Teddy sacrificed-- - All for nothing.

Jack, remember what I said to you

outside the homeless mission?

No.

Oh.

But I did write it down.

You're learning.

"Handiwork as distinctive

as the brushwork of an old master."

Whose handiwork?

Harold Gillies.

The plastic surgeon?

The plastic surgeon.

Pioneered reconstructive surgery

for hundreds of men coming home from the Western Front.

But your brother didn't come home, did he?

He was killed. Oh...

That's what we needed everyone

to believe.

Poor Teddy.

He deserted, you see.

We had no choice. We took him in or...

- ...he'd have been shot. - Executed.

For cowardice.

You've been sheltering him all these years?

And giving the poor old soldier

a measure of dignity via his cavalry twill.

And Sneed knew this?

Evidently.

What about Mrs Dredge?

It wasn't an accidental overdose.

She, she did him in?

No, it was suicide.

"Did I do the right thing?"

Mrs Dredge's own words at the seance.

Alf, deliberately drank too much of the morphine

and all I did was--

Was to remove the suicide note.

Alf had been writing that night,

hence his inky fingers.

You see, Alf Dredge was a fervent Roman Catholic

and suicide is a...

A mortal sin.

It didn't take too much effort to discover

that the Dredges' local priest

was something of a tartar, a real stickler.

Mrs Dredge was attempting to cover up

her son's suicide as an accident

because otherwise, poor Alf would never lie

in consecrated ground next to her late husband.

More than that,

that, that bugger, Father Jessup,

he would have dug Alf up if he'd known.

And I'd always taken great succour from my spiritualism,

and I thought through Mr Sneed

that I got in touch with Alf's spirit.

And then the notes started to arrive,

blackmail notes?

Yes.

It was obvious whoever sent them knew what had happened.

And then Sneed rang, confirming the next seance.

He made it very clear

that I would meet my blackmailer there

and that there would be revelations.

It was a very different atmosphere that time.

Everyone was guarded, tense.

And after Sneed's death, before the police arrived,

there was some kind of chat.

This is just my supposition, of course,

but I wonder if there wasn't a meeting of minds,

a realisation you were all in it together.

A realisation that Sneed was blackmailing you all.

I'm going to take a risk,

for I think perhaps that all of us here tonight

have something in common.

Is that not so?

You mean we're all clients?

Clients of Mr Sneed?

Oh, poor Mr Sneed!

Rather more than that, I think.

The usual form was invitation by post.

This time, I received a telephone call.

I see I was not alone.

Everyone had had a letter,

a blackmail letter.

All except...

You.

You hadn't?

I hadn't.

I said we should all keep quiet,

not breathe a word to the police.

After all, if we were all being blackmailed-

Things could get rather

sticky with the peelers.

Sound advice,

though it has complicated matters somewhat.

Hey, you don't, you,

you don't think they all did it, do you?

I'm afraid that kind of thing only happens in novels,

Inspector.

No, the killer's aim was to obfuscate,

to cloud the crime with as many motives as possible

and then point the finger very specifically...

at Geraldine Hopper.

Fingerprints...

of a dead man.

Impossible, of course.

The killer knew that we'd very soon find

our way back to Geraldine,

daughter of a notorious executed Nazi.

She was to be put in the frame

and in good time,

for her to be hanged for it.

But who by?

Who was sitting directly opposite Harold Sneed?

Who had the requisite skills?

Who knew precisely who to invite to the seance

on that fatal night,

using the telephone for once?

I'm out of a job,

aren't I?

Ayesha Jean-Baptiste learned a great deal

from that magician she assisted in the circus:

acrobatics,

high-wire walking,

and...

knife throwing.

Universal, never-ending peace and joy.

Oh, the connection is fading.

Oh, very fading.

Oh, less...

[smirks] Oh, well.

You can talk.

Of course I can bloody well talk.

But w-w-why pretend you can't?

She wasn't pretending.

Aphasia voluntaria.

Uh-huh.

It's a psychological term.

People who have suffered some trauma,

such as nearly perishing in a big top blaze,

use not speaking as a way of controlling their environment,

of having a measure of control.

Came in pretty useful, too, for the job, I imagine.

No one would suspect complicity.

I could stand silently in the shadows.

Overhearing everyone's secrets

in their private moments,

making sure Harold got to know them,

and how to use them.

What a clever old bugger he was.

You were more than just an employee, though, weren't you?

A tender touch,

brusquely befriended.

Could have been evidence of a lovers' tiff,

but rather more, I thought. Rather more.

Once upon a time, I loved him.

He took me in...

...after my accident,

gave me a living,

encouraged me.

He even got me talking.

The first words I decided to utter were,

"I love you."

You did the voices of the dead?

The ones he couldn't get away with, yeah.

And the bird whistles.

Look, I know how all the tricks are done, Mr Book.

I'm better at it than he was

and I know where all the bodies are buried,

literally.

He was so sure of himself,

of his control of me,

it blinded him.

He didn't even notice that the list of patrons

to the last seance was rather a special one,

till he came out from behind that curtain.

All the people he was blackmailing?

Oh, no,

not all, sir.

Just the juiciest ones, only the prize pigeons.

I called them all up

in my best...

Harold Sneed voice.

Prize pigeons like Geraldine?

Everyone but

Geraldine.

Isn't that right, Ayesha?

What a story she had!

She told Sneed about it, you see,

when they were getting cozy.

Hmm, I wondered.

The new clothes, the new wigs.

Sneed's eye had wandered elsewhere.

His eye,

his hands,

his everything...

he'd set his cap at Miss Hopper there.

I was to be thrown aside

like a dish rag.

He told me

in no uncertain terms that it was over.

Miss Mercer,

Miss Hopper, was to be his.

I would have to go.

Now, he didn't blackmail her,

but I knew her secret.

I know all about her father.

No, I knew nothing of this.

Nothing, you must believe me.

My God, you would have let me hang.

Aw,

read about the Relic's here at the museum, too.

What could be more fitting than for my dearest Harold

to be murdered by her father's ghost?

Very neat.

Two birds killed with one stone.

Ayesha Jean-Baptiste,

I'm arresting you on suspicion of murder.

Oh, hell's bells!

You can do a lot of damage with this peashooter.

Remember,

it was a lady's gun that did for Lincoln.

It's not loaded.

Will it be loaded?

Ah!

Morris!

It's this way, sir.

Hurry up.

Well, I think Mr Kendall might have redeemed himself,

Inspector.

Don't you think?

Well, I've decided.

Once me money comes in, I'm going into trade.

Mr Basehart here has done me the honour of...

Oh!

...asking me to run a newsagent's with him.

Oh, how nice.

I've always had a hankering to run a little shop.

So we're going to pool our resources.

Just hope it's the right thing to do at my time of life.

Oh, you'll be marvellous, Ada.

Won't she be marvellous?

I have no doubt.

So we'll be neighbours, Mr Book.

Oh, yes?

Mm. Thanks again, for everything.

- Yes. - Not at all.

Thank you, and sorry for...

...well, you know, all the fuss.

Don't give it a second thought.

I just,

well, I, I just hope

my Alf can rest in peace now.

Yes, indeed.

Cheerio.

Cheerio.

Nora.

Very good work with that accounts clue.

Oh, ta.

Looks like I am useful after all, then.

Occasionally.

I should really give you some sort of bonus.

A Chelsea bun, packet of sherbet.

Mrs Dredge and Mr Baseheart

are opening a newsagent.

Oh,

I was hoping for a fruit and veg shop.

Did I mention I've never even had a b--

Don't make yourself sick

and go easy on your Uncle Yusuf, too.

Just give him time, all right?

Good grief, what a tale!

You had rather a lucky escape,

I think, Colonel.

- Reggie, please. - Reggie.

What do you mean?

Well, I hope there aren't any skeletons

lurking in your cupboard.

Let's talk about something nicer.

Yes, let's.

You.

Me?

Tell me about you.

Oh, what's to tell?

Um, my Christian name is awful.

It's a funny name.

So everybody calls me Trottie.

I have a shop in Archangel Lane.

- Archangel what? - Off Charing Cross,

Strotford Selections.

Selections of what?

Wallpaper.

Oh!

Strotford!

Is that the awful name?

It is.

Well, perhaps I should call you Awful.

Are you awful?

Occasionally.

I was rather hoping you'd say that.

How long have you been married?

Hmm, ten years.

It was during the Spanish Civil War, in fact.

You intrigue me.

You have secrets?

We all have secrets.

You can rely on my discretion.

Can I?

You'll forgive me, but, uh, I scarcely know you.

Well, that's the point of taking tea together, isn't it?

The most British way there is of getting to know someone.

I suppose so.

So the question is, Mrs Book...

Yes?

One lump or two?

Oh.

Surprised?

No, no.

I know how you people like to rotate personnel, like crops.

In fact, your whole department

has a whiff of the 18th century.

Wasn't that known as the Age of Enlightenment?

Speaking of which, can you do it?

Can you get us in?

Us?

Me and the boy.

Oh, yes. Yes, of course, the prodigal grandson.

Well?

You know, these things are terribly difficult.

I've inherited a very full diary.

Can you get us into Germany?

After all,

you lot started all this, didn't you?

Well,

we still have to dot the I's and cross the T's,

but yes, there's a way.

Thank you.

Of course, there's no such thing as a free lunch.

Shall we?