Original subtitles

THEME SONG PLAYING...

Albert Campion. Born, May the 20th, 1900.

Name, known to be a pseudonym.

Education, privileged.

Embarked on adventurous career, 1929.

Justice neatly executed.

Nothing sordid, deserving cases preferred. Police no object.

Business address, 17 Bottle Street, Piccadilly, London, W1.

Specialist in fairy stories.

I'll have to ask you to move on.

The Inspector's due round any minute.

If you'll, uh, accept this, sir.

You'll have visible means of support.

And I shan't have to take you along.

Thank you, Baker.

This really is extraordinarily kind of you. I...

Shan't forget it.

Oh, that's all right, sir. You once gave me L5.

On boat race night, as I recall.

Oh, really?

The Inspector.

Where the devil can I go?

Ebury Square, off Southampton Row. He never goes there.

d If I had a talking picture of you

d I would run it every time I felt blue

d I would sit there in the gloom

d Of my lonely little room

d And applaud each time you whispered

d I love you d

Excuse me, you dropped something.

Everything sold except sausage and mash.

There was a bit of stew, but I'm having that me self.

Is this Hemp's, 32A Wembley Road, Clerkenwell?

Might be. Who's asking?

I am. Oh, this envelope came into my possession,

it has my name on one side and this address on the other.

I see.

You're claiming to be

- Percival St John Wykes... Guyrth. - Gyrth.

I'm not claiming, I am.

You take the long road.

I don't quite follow you.

- Can you prove it? - Prove what?

Prove it's your proper handle.

Percival St John what's it?

Well, if you're prepared to take my tailor's word for it,

my name is on the tab here.

Not much of a fit.

I've lost weight during the last 18 months.

Pleased to meet you. My name's Lugg.

I've got another letter for you.

Sit down. I'll fetch you some supper.

Any use for sauce?

I say, have you heard of a Mr Albert Campion?

He lives in number 17 Bottle Street.

Sounds familiar.

Can't say as I place him, not accurate.

Do you, uh, recommend the sauce?

Quite handy at blocking out the taste.

You'll be able to take a taxi when you go.

When I go where?

Bottle Street.

He'll be expecting you.

Taxi!

- Where to, guv? - Bottle Street, off Piccadilly.

I said Bottle Street, off Piccadilly.

You're going the wrong way.

And you're driving too fast.

Shut up!

- Mr Gyrth. - Yes.

- Are you... - I hope you didn't have

too much trouble getting here.

Do come through.

This is going to sound frightfully rude but,

who are you?

Albert Campion.

Born May the 20th, 1900.

Justice neatly executed.

Nothing sordid. Deserving cases preferred.

Police, no object.

Business address, here.

Specialist in fairy stories.

Would you like to hear a fairy story?

Mr Campion, I'm living through a fairy story.

I'm given an envelope with my name on it

directing me to Hemp's Eating House in Clerkenwell.

I go there, the proprietor gives me another letter directing me here.

I get in a taxi and a man tries to shanghai me.

That was my mistake, my apologies.

Is the balloon part of the plot?

I'd just come from a gala at the Athenaeum

when Lugg phoned to say you were on your way.

The balloon is a coincidence.

A green herring.

I think before we proceed with the fairy story,

you should step into the blood and gore department.

This way, it's next to soft furnishings.

Do you take the long road, Mr Gyrth?

The man at Hemp's said that, I don't know what it means.

What do you expect me to say?

It's a kind of test. You passed with first class hon ours.

There. I think you'll find yourself cured or your money back.

Thank you, Mr Campion.

I told you about myself, now let me tell you about you.

Full name Percival St John Wykes Gyrth.

Known to your friends as Val.

Only son and heir to Colonel Sir Percival Christian St John Gyrth.

Baronet of the tower in the village of Sanctuary in Suffolk.

Are my spies correct?

- Totally. - At the risk of being highly personal,

I don't suppose Society Illustrated circulates very widely on the embankment.

We consider the sporting life a great luxury.

Aunt Di.

The chalice!

The first time it's ever been photographed, I believe.

- Are you working for my father? - No.

- This is sacrilege. - Now for the fairy story.

Once upon a time, about 50 years ago,

there were six wealthy men.

They were all lovers of objets d'art

and because they were very wealthy, they could buy almost anything they wanted

for their various collections.

Almost anything.

There were some things they couldn't buy.

If they wanted such things,

they had to be stolen.

- Stolen? - Now,

if you're a very wealthy man, you don't do your own stealing.

You don't do your own anything.

Otherwise there's very little point in being wealthy.

They hired the best available thief to do it for them.

Let's call him George.

George was paid handsomely for his services.

And if anything went wrong, George took the consequences.

What is this to do with your bringing me here?

I've spent the last two weeks trying to find you

because unless you do something about it,

the Gyrth Chalice will be in the private collection

of a particularly illustrious potentate within a matter of weeks.

You're mad.

Who do you suppose tried to kidnap you in the taxi?

Why do you imagine there are two men at present watching my front door?

Well...

Why don't they just march up the stairs and grab me?

You leave your front door open.

I take the precaution of living next door to a police station.

I've agreed a joint policy with my constabulary neighbours.

We oppose any breaking of the law.

This isn't amusing.

My dear Mr Gyrth, I'm never more serious than when I'm joking.

Do you know that if the chalice is lost,

all our family possessions are forfeit to the Crown?

I know that.

I also know that by warning you, I am placing myself in opposition

to one of the most powerful organisations in the world.

By offering you my assistance, I am endangering my life.

Those chaps out there, they would kill you?

They would kill anyone.

And they're working for George?

Yes.

Except that George isn't actually George.

Do you know who he is?

No.

I thought you knew everything, Mr Campion.

I know the rules by which they operate.

George is appointed as an agent in charge of the operation.

He is generally an expert with special skills or knowledge of the job in hand.

If the said George ends up arrested, imprisoned or deceased

that is regarded as the end of the matter.

A line is drawn across the ledger and the ring leaves well alone.

They look out for someone else's family album.

Does that mean we have to kill George?

We have to dispose of George.

But how do we start, where do we start?

First catch your George. And where?

You have to go home to Suffolk, Mr Gyrth.

Home.

You are estranged from your father.

Yes.

Cut off without even the proverbial shilling.

I've learned one thing this last year,

I'm completely useless on my own.

I couldn't even get a job.

Heir to a great fortune accepting charity on the street.

That's why I asked you whether you took the long road.

- Why? - That's a kind of password among George's friends.

I see.

And if I had given the right answer,

that would've proved I had already been recruited by George to steal the chalice.

With your position in the family, you could easily have been appointed

as George himself.

But your not.

You're on the side of the righteous.

And tomorrow we'll smuggle you out of here, by way of a secret passage,

and we'll take the turnpike to Suffolk.

And we'll seek out George and the wicked weasels from the wild wood,

and we'll whack 'em, and whack 'em, and whack 'em.

Last time I come this way

was in a police van.

I got three months, odd.

Joke was on the beat, though, I was the wrong man.

Clever of you. Fooling the judge like that.

That alibi was worth something, I can tell you.

We may be going to house where they have real servants, you'll have to behave.

I can handle servants.

Up to and including, grievous bodily harm.

I've got discretion, me.

In both fists.

You should get on well with my father's butler.

He had a wild youth, I believe,

though his family have looked after us for years.

What's his moniker?

Does he have a name, this butler?

He's called Branch.

First name Roger?

Little thin bloke, talks with a funny accent, sort of provincial.

That's right. Do you know him?

Prince of Parkhurst, we used to call him.

You are a fantastic pair.

We can take our place in any company without embarrassment.

We can supply testimonials.

We wrote 'em.

Do you anticipate any difficulties with your father?

I don't think so.

I could've come... I could have come back earlier if I'd been sensible.

It all began with...

If it's anything to do with a woman, you can tell him.

He's been disappointed himself.

Several times.

Go and lose yourself, Lugg.

Don't worry, I'll be in the public.

I'll leave you to mess about with your motorist lunch.

Seven a kit, and coffee extra.

It's a liberty.

He was one of the most promising burglars in the business but,

he can't make the weight any more.

Hi ho.

Tell me about the woman in the photograph.

Your aunt.

Aunt Diana, Lady Pethwick.

She's my father's sister.

She lives in the camp house on the estate.

Since my mother died, she's tended to boss the show a bit.

Is she, uh, batty?

Not certifiably.

A keen amateur.

Wears funny clothes and wanders about at night.

Communing with the stars and disturbing the game.

And if George were to approach her...

Oh, she'd scream the place down, she may be batty but

she'd kill anyone who tried to steal the chalice.

Good.

Everything all right, sir?

Memorable, quite memorable.

Thank you, sir.

Now, tell me about the row you had with your father.

I assume Lugg was right, as usual.

Was it a woman?

Yes.

When I was at Cambridge, I fell in love with a girl.

I thought I fell in love with a girl.

I wanted to marry her.

Father didn't approve and threatened to stop my allowance.

I said I was big enough to stand on my own feet.

"Go ahead and stop my allowance," I said.

- And he did. - Yes.

And the girl found another.

More or less.

How did you know?

A blind, totally speculative shot in the dark.

I was too proud to admit that I was wrong.

And since then I've been proving how useless I am at making a living.

How useless I am at living.

Oh, Lord.

The power of prayer, well, I never underestimated it.

I'm not praying, I'm hiding.

- From whom? - A woman.

Generally a sound precaution. I've had my disappointments as Lugg told you.

Who is she?

Mrs Dick Shannon.

She owns a racing stable at Heronhowe Heath.

She's one of those damn women with a personality.

If she spots me, it'll be all over the county by the middle of the afternoon.

Conceal yourself behind my fashionable profile.

Val Gyrth!

So you're back, eh?

Made it up with the old man, have you?

Bring hither the fatted calf and kill it.

- When did this happen? - It hasn't quite happened yet.

I've just come down from the tower.

I'm trying to make your father sell me two yearlings.

What does he want with race horses?

He hasn't got the sense to train properly.

He'll soon be as batty as your aunt.

If you'll excuse us, we really do have to be on our way.

Heard you were down and out.

You're looking well.

In the circumstances.

Loathsome woman.

More of an apparition, really.

Never mind your big words. I was working while you was playing the gentleman.

I've been noticing.

Who do you think I saw in the bar?

Robertson Hare, Stanley Baldwin, Aldo us Huxley?

- George Bernard Shaw. - Natty Johnson

I was warm.

One of the filthiest, dirtiest lads of little race gang

tuffs I've ever taken me hat off to.

The Cleaver gang, I believe.

See, you do know him.

Was anyone with him?

That's what I was noticing. He was talking

to a little arty bloke with a beard.

Like that Bloomsbury lot what came to the flat and sat on the floor.

Sent me out for kippers and chianti.

There isn't an artist quarter in the scrubs. Bohemia passed him by.

I ain't finished yet.

This artistic cove, and more like him,

are staying at the Tower of Sanctuary, friends of Lady Pethwick,

the barman tells me.

Arty cove talking to Natty Johnson.

Confidential.

That's conspiracy.

Speaking as one who knows.

And will this suit you, Mr Campion?

Beautiful, Mrs Bullock.

A room with good views.

Young Thomas is on his way to the tower with a message for your sister.

How is everyone, Bully?

Your father's well.

But looks worried.

Ms Penny, that's lovely.

I can see your mother in her.

And my aunt?

She's had herself photographed

with the thing.

Yes, I know about that, but, uh, otherwise?

Oh, she's right enough.

Except that's filled the whole place with a pile of loonies.

Artists?

No, not artists.

I've had artists stay in here.

Quite tidy little fellows, artists are.

No.

This lot, they're more like Bolsheviks, I shouldn't wonder.

I'll get you some vittles.

I always thought your story was incredible but,

now I'm here, with everything exactly as it always was.

Suddenly your fairy story sounds just that.

A fairy story.

Look here, Campion, this isn't some silly theatrical stunt to get me back

into the bosom of the family, is it?

I give you my word, it isn't.

But you're pleased to be back, aren't you?

Yes, I am.

Where's Lugg?

I expect he's in the bar.

Noticing.

I brought you a drop of home brewed.

The stuff the company sends ain't what it used to be.

- Home brewed? - Anything that's worth anything is home brewed.

Here's the proof of it.

- Penny. - Val.

- Hello, dear. - Hello, sis.

Beth, this is my brother. Val, this is Beth Cairey.

- How do you do? - Hello.

We moved into Tide Hall soon after you left.

The Caireys' are our neighbours.

Except Beth and I are the only ones who behave like neighbours.

Lady Pethwick doesn't like strangers.

Especially if they're Scottish.

And Father doesn't speak to anyone very much at the moment.

Perhaps he will, now you're home.

I'm sorry, I should've introduced you.

I always stand to one side in the presence of a touching reunion.

Albert Campion, my sister, Penny.

And Beth Cairey.

- Hello. - How do you do?

And what do you do, Mr Campion?

I execute justice.

Really?

Is this a part time or a full time occupation?

Yes. Both of those.

Why don't we talk about it while we walk up to the tower?

Are you serious?

I think the sooner you tell your father you're home,

the better.

I suppose so.

And it would help me considerably in my execution of justice

if I could case the joint.

Strictly from a distance.

I didn't understand a word of that.

People are always saying that to me.

Now do you understand?

Yes. Now I understand.

Thank you, Mr Campion. I've been so worried about the chalice.

- Why? - Because of Aunt Di.

According to tradition, she's guardian of the chalice.

Mistress of the cup.

It's all shrouded in mystery and sounds a bit dotty but,

I'm just saying, having her photograph taken with it

and letting all those weird people do drawings of it.

These are the arty types I've heard about.

There's one man who's done a whole series of drawings.

That's apart from the chanting and sandals

and long white nightgowns.

This is near enough.

Not very much but they call it home.

Yes, we do.

I know.

I'll do my best to keep it nice.

Thank you, Mr Campion.

I must get back to the village. I left Dr Watson, investigating.

What an extraordinary man.

Where did you find him?

In Bottle Street. Next door to the police station.

Are you home to stay?

If you'll have me.

Got rid of the nobs, have you?

You are a social handicap. Do you realise that?

Me?

I don't have to go touting for knighthoods.

What have you discovered from your small corner?

We should never have come here. That's what I've discovered.

It's all hanky-panky, this place.

Have you experienced any hanky-panky?

I saw this bald woman.

Not just going, but gone.

Almost hairless.

I asked about her and they told me she's the local witch.

It's her family business, witching.

Haunting and cursing.

Goes back for generations.

We are not here on a witch hunt.

There's plenty more hanky-panky where that come from.

There's an haunted wood.

And a set of gippos live in it and all. Oh, let's go home.

What have you discovered about the tower and the Gyrth family?

That's the real reason I wanna go home.

They've got a secret room in the east tower

containing a nameless horror.

There's a window but no door.

When the son of the heirs is 25, his father shows him in.

Shows him the nameless horror

and he's never the same again.

What sort of nameless horror?

If they knew that, it wouldn't be nameless, would it?

It's bound to be some sort of monster.

Something you have to feed with a pump.

You've certainly been having fun in your quiet way.

I don't call it fun.

Would you like to hear the truth?

You know me. Truth, I'll either take it or leave it.

There is, in the east tower, a room with no visible entrance.

There is a semi-religious initiation ceremony

when the son of the house is 25.

But get this into your head.

It's nothing to do with us.

Well, I don't want anything to do with any of it, I just wanna go home.

I can't stand the countryside, its full of smells and noises.

When's his birthday?

- Who? - His nibs.

Percival St John... Fauntleroy, what's it!

Quite soon, I believe.

A good detective should get that checked up sharp.

I'll check it up, sharp.

Can you hear that?

I can't hear a thing.

What is it?

People.

Being haunted.

Wake up, Mr Campion.

What time is it?

Never mind what time it is, there's been a murder.

But did you see the look on her face?

She saw something dreadful, Val.

She died of fright.

She had a bad heart.

She was wandering around in the middle of the night and she died, that's all.

Come on.

I've spoken to Dr Cobden.

There'll be no need for an inquest.

Everyone knew about her heart condition.

Something frightened her.

Old rabbit.

We all warned her about wandering at night.

Val, perhaps you could get rid of your aunt's peculiar friends.

I think a quiet funeral, don't you?

Wednesday, perhaps?

Are you trying to hush everything up?

I'm trying to observe a little decorum.

We have to think about Val's birthday, too.

I shall be in the library.

What is he worried about?

Until yesterday, it was you.

Mr Albert Campion for Mr Val Gyrth and Ms Penny Gyrth.

Do come in, Mr Campion.

Be that who I think?

Well, who do you think it be?

Aye, it be you!

C749.

A631.

I decided to let myself in.

There's an old lags reunion going on in the hall.

Forgive the levity. I was sorry to hear about your aunt.

What happened?

Two of the locals found her in a clearing, by the woods.

Would it be tasteless of me to ask if I might see the clearing?

The scene of the discovery.

Not at all. I can show you now.

Oh, I'm sorry, I was forgetting.

I have to turf out Aunt Diana's Bohemian friends.

I'll show you the clearing.

Thank you.

You'll ask the Bohemians to go when?

Tomorrow?

Probably.

Mr Campion, last night I made Val tell me everything.

About you, about the danger to the chalice.

He told my father, too.

- You can count on our total support. - Thank you.

That includes mine.

Now my aunt is dead, I'm legally responsible for the chalice.

Mistress of the cup?

Oh, please don't imagine that I'm a weak and feeble woman.

I'll try very hard not to imagine that.

Pharisees Clearing.

It's really just a strip of grass separating our wood from the Tide Hall property.

Where your friend Beth lives with her father.

Yes.

"Or in the night, imagining some fear,

"How easy is a bush supposed a bear!"

I'm sorry?

My friend Shakespeare and I had the same thought at the same moment.

Is this place haunted?

The locals believe it is.

By a ghost?

By something much worse.

Do you believe it?

No, of course not.

And where exactly was Lady Pethwick found?

Over there.

As far as I can gather from Will Tiffin, the man who found her.

I'm told, on good authority, there's a witch operating in the high street.

Mrs Munsey?

She didn't leave her card.

Only a wax effigy and a pack of pins.

In the lady chapel of the church,

there's a list of witches put to death in 1624.

Every other name on the sheet is Munsey.

Does Mrs Munsey live in the village?

About half a mile outside, in a sort of hen house, with her son.

They're both simple, poor things.

I might pay a call.

I've been having trouble getting a hold of bat's wool and newt's eye.

I've tried Harrods, Fortnum...

Mr Campion,

my aunt died last night.

I'm sorry.

They found her here, under this tree.

I see.

You'll obviously think me a fool for mentioning this. But...

Mrs Munsey put a curse on my Aunt Di at the last full moon.

Why?

I don't know.

My aunt could be rather overbearing and officious.

She probably annoyed Mrs Munsey in some way.

Does she curse many people?

And how successful has she been in the past?

Last night was also a full moon.

When they brought in the body this morning, I saw her face.

I swear she died of fright.

- And, there's something else. - Yes?

Will Tiffin told me.

When he found the body here, she wasn't lying where she'd fallen.

She was lying stiff and straight.

Her hands folded, her eyes closed.

Will said she'd been laid out as a corpse.

Did you sleep well?

Very well, indeed.

Absolutely nothing went bump in the night.

I suggest you and your manservant should stay here

until this business is resolved. Do you agree?

Thank you, Colonel. I agree.

If you'll excuse me.

I nicked this lot out the Boehmians' traps.

I should explain, my manservant

does tend to steal small items from visitors' luggage.

Only when his nibs tells me.

Did you cop a look at the geezer?

- Seedy little bloke with the ginger beard and barney. - Yes.

- Did you know him? - Yes, he once worked for me.

He worked for you?

That's why I kept my distance.

His trade name used to be Arthur Earl.

This lot all come out of his suitcase.

I only employed him on an occasional basis.

He's a journalist copyist. He's in great demand.

He's made a note of the measurements.

Well, he's a good craftsman.

In medieval times, he would have spent his life

ornamenting our great cathedrals.

And you think he was going to make a substitute chalice?

I'm sure that was the plan.

Work the switch and bank on nobody noticing the difference

until the genuine chalice was out of the country.

That's what he been fixing with Natty Johnson at the boozer.

They're all minnows, Natty Johnson, Arthur Earl.

There's no sign of the trout.

A trout called George?

Exactly.

Maybe that's him.

Who?

Funny old trout having a dekko.

I know who that is.

You're asking me, that is your trout called George.

That's Beth's father.

Professor Gardner Cairey.

He isn't a thief.

He's an archaeologist and a historian.

That don't rule him out.

I've known some deadly professors in my time.

Mr Lugg, don't you have room in your heart for a little tolerance?

I leave all that to him.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I promised the butler I'd give him a helping hand.

With the family silver.

- What do you think? - About what?

About Professor Cairey?

I think he has a very charming daughter.

Good!

We've now consulted half the population of the village

on the cause of death.

What did the public bar have to say?

Murdered, by gypsies.

The saloon shared that view.

They all spy the devil. A most horrible beast.

How about drink, and or drugs, and or bad temper?

You'd have none of those.

Did anyone agree with the doctor, natural causes?

Not in the public.

Nor in the saloon.

They reckon that doctor's on the pay of the family.

What is your considered view?

Pick any prize in the store.

No question. The horrible beast.

Gotta be the odds-on favourite.

Visitors.

Tourists on horseback.

Day after the funeral?

Not quite the article. Do you reckon they're the best of sorts?

Not quite the article.

Albert, can you come to the rescue?

Someone drowning?

Lugg, pop upstairs and launch the lifeboat. There's a good chap.

Doesn't make me laugh. Does it make you laugh?

There's a dreadful woman called Mrs Dick Shannon outside.

- She's insisting on seeing the chalice! - Good.

I'd quite like to look at it, myself.

Oh, Mrs Shannon, this is a young friend of Val's, Mr Campion.

Mr Albert Campion.

Major King.

And Mr Horace Putnam.

Now, Penny Gyrth,

the guidebook says the chapel's open to visitors on Thursdays.

It's Thursday today.

And Mr Putnam leaves the area tomorrow.

The chalice is veiled.

It always is, for 10 days.

For 10 days after a death.

Then unveil it.

It might be quicker in the long run.

Fetch the keys, Val.

Immediately after a death occurs in the family

the chalice is veiled.

Is there another key to unlock the grill?

Of course.

You really are a damn nuisance.

I'm missing a day's racing for this.

Very impressive.

Do you play this joke on all your visitors?

I must apologise.

Especially to Mr Putnam.

I'd quite forgotten, the chalice is away being cleaned.

It seemed an opportune moment.

Perhaps the next time you're in the area.

Where are the keys kept?

In my desk.

And who knows that?

Just the immediate family.

And me, sir.

Thought I'd better say it,

since you're bound to be thinking it.

Well, I wouldn't dream of accusing you!

Can't you send for the Chief Constable? Isn't he a friend of yours?

I'm not calling in the police. Or the Chief Constable.

We've got to solve this ourselves.

Fancy a stroll before bed?

I'm not strolling nowhere.

You may be right.

Can you give me a lift? It's rather urgent.

Certainly.

Where can we drop you?

Where are you going?

We're having a girls day out in London.

Perfect. I'll join you.

Forgive me being personal and direct,

but are you planning to ride with us all the way to London?

Either that, or take me to the nearest police station.

What are you talking about?

This suitcase. May I open it?

I seem to have mislaid my liberty bodice,

and it's been in the family for centuries.

Don't touch it. Please!

Leave it alone.

This is a gun.

And as soon as I've read the instruction leaflet, I won't hesitate to use it.

You might have guessed what's in the case.

No.

No, this definitely isn't my liberty bodice.

There's a little pub just outside of Coggeshall.

I'm meeting my associate there.

Are you his associate?

Afraid so, sorry.

It wasn't very difficult, was it?

It was obvious the chapel hadn't been burgled.

Ergo, it was opened with a key.

Ergo, it must have been you two. Or three.

I couldn't see your father or Branch pulling a stunt like that.

All right, if you know everything,

tell us where we were taking the chalice.

At a wild guess, the Chancery Lane safe deposit.

So, you're going to point your gun at us

and make us take it home again.

I think we should split up.

Penny, you and I will take the precious suitcase in your car...

- And we'll ride shotgun. - You'll what?

Are you prepared to ride shotgun with me?

Well, I have no idea what it means.

So yes, I expect so.

What do you expect to happen?

Probably an armed attack in broad daylight. Just routine, sir.

You've been conspiring with Albert behind my back...

Where else could he possibly conspire?

Come along, I'm sure they're expecting us.

- Shouldn't you slow down? - Why?

I want to give the chap a run for his money.

Which chap?

That one.

Hang on tight!

Where is it?

I'm sorry, I don't wish to subscribe. I'm not a music lover.

There's nothing in the front.

This case weighs a tonne.

Er, don't take that! It's got our sandwiches in it.

Come on, we should copy it.

Right. Scarper.

Well, I think that went rather well, don't you?

Oh, my Lord.

There, there.

Having a spot of bother, governor?

Seems to be clearing up nicely, ta.

Is this the missus?

Yeah, this is the old lady.

Have you got the doings?

I should say so.

Lemon time's over.

Time for the second half.

How many of the gangsters did you identify?

Well, Natty Johnson put a gun to my head. But we knew about him.

The one who took the suitcase was Fingers Hawkins,

a known associate of a man called Sanderson, also known as Horace Putnam.

The chap who was so keen to see the chalice yesterday.

So, we know a lot of the names.

And here are yet more names to confuse you.

When we get to London, we're going to visit Mr Melchizadek of Old gate.

Are we?

We could visit Mr Old gate at Melchizadek, but London's nearer.

Tell me, Val, how far back does the chalice date?

Oh, impossible to say. It's certainly pre-conquest.

It's over 1,000 years old.

So it's worth going to a bit of trouble.

He may call me Christopher Twelve trees.

But since Campion's a pseudonym, anyway, try not to let it confuse you.

If you'll come in to my office, Mr Twelve trees,

we'll not be overheard or interrupted.

Well now, you wish me to make a copy, perhaps.

Perhaps of a very famous chalice.

Taking the long road, perhaps.

No.

I have too many clients to follow any road but my own.

Thank Heaven for that.

This is going to be a delightful experience for me, Mr Gyrth.

In the last 200 years, we've been privileged to handle many treasures.

But, even so this...

This...

...is a memorable occasion.

Pre-conquest. Over 1,000 years old.

Mmm-hmm.

A-ha.

It's exquisite.

The workmanship's magnificent.

But it's not medieval.

- Not medieval? - Hang on a bit.

But I don't understand!

I wonder, if you would allow me to ask for a second opinion.

Quite by chance, I happen to have in the next room

one of the most famous experts on this subject in the world.

What do you think?

You may rely on his discretion as you would upon mine.

Good.

Campion, is this another fairy story?

Probably.

But they usually have happy endings.

But how can you guarantee that...

Professor Gardner Cairey.

Mr Gyrth, Mr Christopher Twelve trees.

The design is Renaissance.

The workmanship much later.

I'd say about 150 years old.

If you'll permit me, I think I can prove that to you.

Mmm-hmm.

I-M.

Israel Melchizadek.

1772.

1772?

This was made by my great, great grandfather.

He invariably signed every piece that he made, although, at times,

it was necessary for him to do so

where it would not be seen by the casual observer.

But this is what we have always believed to be the Gyrth Chalice!

Therefore, it is what the world believes to be the Gyrth Chalice.

And we must hang on to it like a pair of bull pups.

The truth is, Val, I had my doubts about the chalice,

from the moment I saw that photograph.

Therefore, I consulted my old friend, Professor Cairey.

Your old friend?

I rarely tell lies, but...

I'm sometimes a bit picky with the truth.

I told Albert my theory.

What you have there, is what might be called a mock chalice.

Historically speaking, there's never been a shortage of marauders

in the land to the south of Hadrian's Wall.

The real Chalice has always been kept

in the background, hidden away,

while the show-piece took its place

to appease nosy Parkers and the thieves, and Thursday sightseers.

Well, if this is a mock chalice,

why don't we just let the thieves have it,

get your man to make a replica and forget the whole business?

Because, the thieves will discover it isn't the real thing.

Just as we have.

They can afford the best professional advice.

Or, at least, the second best professional advice.

They will want the real thing.

But where is the real Chalice?

As an outsider, I would suggest

that the point will be made quite clear to you on your 25th birthday.

Oh, the room in the East tower.

I would further suggest, that the real Chalice,

which is made of English red gold,

and is probably little bigger than a man's cupped hand,

has a very terrible and effective guardian.

Oh, my God!

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