Original subtitles

Mummy!

Mummy!

Hello?

Please stand by for an international call from England.

Brighton Exchange.

Uh, yes.

Thank you.

George, is that you?

My sweetheart. Is everything okay?

Did your trip go well?

When you're finished here,

I need you in the dining room, and I need everything perfect.

Yes, sir.

My love...

We have a problem.

A problem?

Tell me everything, sweetheart.

Let's start from the beginning, okay?

What's the place like?

What are the other guests like?

Of course you know the Dalís, sir.

A little bit, yes.

Don't look me in the eye.

Fetch my suitcases and bring them up to my suite

on the double.

Darling, what a silly mistake.

This is not some little foot man.

This is the future of surrealist painting.

After me, of course.

- She even asked after you. - Gala?

- Yes. - Wow.

Where is your darling wife? Georgina was it?

- Georgette. - Yes. Right. That's the one.

I was also wonder how Lord James is in real life.

- Not here. - That's not possible.

My lord and I would like to welcome you all,

the most promising artists of today.

And where is your Lord, by the way?

Delayed in London,

preparing for the exhibition of the century, sir.

This coming Friday here at West Dean,

which will establish you as the world's foremost artists.

Not to mention rich beyond your wildest dreams.

You'll have five days to display your art

in our exhibition space.

And where would that be?

Monkton House, Mr. Ray.

Within walking distance of the manor,

amid the estate's beautiful forests.

Meanwhile, don't forget to live it up like lords and ladies.

Once you all hit the deadline on Friday, of course,

4:00 p.m. sharp.

If I could ask you to raise a glass,

Mr. Dalí, Miss Miller, Mrs. Dalí, Mr. Ray,

Mr. Magritte, Mr. Ernst, Nash, sir, and Miss Legge.

Here's to unlimited success.

All: Unlimited success.

To all of us.

René?

You were talking about a problem?

René? Are you still there?

Butler. What is she doing here?

I'm sorry, sir.

Sheila. I swore I would never see that vile child again.

Mr. Dalí, Miss Legge is Lord James's niece.

She's been staying here in the estate for some time.

I'm afraid you will just have to put up with her.

And why is she at our table? She's not even an artist.

Miss Legge is one of our most esteemed

performance artists, sir.

And she will be performing on Friday.

If you'll excuse me.

Performance art.

The future of surrealist painting...

René Magritte.

How are you?

René?

René?

Don't touch anything. Is she...?

Oh, good God, get up, Mr. Magritte, at once.

- Oh, no. - Come on.

Calm yourself. Come on, sir.

Come on.

What the hell happened?

René?

Let's get you out of here.

Good man.

Don't say anything to anybody, please.

Why not?

Maybe someone remembers something or...

That might be so. We can't create a panic.

Let me call the police first, sir.

I have questions, too, okay?

René?

I don't mean to upset you, sir,

but you just woke up next to a dead woman.

What's the problem you wanted to tell me about?

It's nothing, my love.

Just a bad night, I think.

Breakfast is being served. I have to go.

René?

You're gloomy even by your standards.

My poor little pal didn't survive the trip.

Those damn storms.

Da Vinci is used to being underwater.

Not on top of it.

You care more if you're a damn dead crustacean

than you do me.

- Hey, Magritte. - Hi.

My condolences on the death of your lobster, man.

Oh, this is one lobster who won't be missed.

Da Vinci bit me on the way over twice.

A lobster doesn't bite. It pinches, and it's a sign

of affection.

Bit like you then.

I'm glad you're in lobster heaven, buddy.

Hell of a lot better than being stuck down here.

You're as pale as a corpse, Magritte.

Sheila didn't wear you out too much last night, did she?

- Wear me out? - We saw you two go up together

just after midnight.

Fast work, mon amie.

Um, will you excuse me?

I could get used to this.

I couldn't live here, sir.

The air...

- Is it the plants, the animals? - The people.

Just don't show them that you're impressed by their wealth

or their little games.

Right, sir.

Thank you.

An honor to meet you, my lord.

Detective Chief Inspector Thistletwaite,

Detective Quant at your service.

I must say that your estate deserves to

- be seen among... - Sir.

...the collection of any gentlemen's seats

in the kingdom.

Please, sir, you are mistaken.

I am merely Lloyd James's servant.

I see. Name?

Jukes, sir. Archibald. Sir.

Please, could you show us the body?

Of course. Follow me.

We'll take it from here. Thank you.

Yes, sir.

You do the honors now, Detective Constable.

On the left hand side of the bed.

Female. Deceased. Evening clothes.

Head covered with white scarf tied loosely at the neck.

Bloodstained nose. Um, broken glass.

Another stain on the sheets. Blood or wine.

Right side of the bed, an impression of a body.

Heavier. Larger. Perhaps male.

I'd say so.

Not bad, Detective. Not bad at all.

Black shoes recently shined.

Men's cologne.

Mm. Bitter and sweet.

Opiates.

And if so, it's a large dose.

This might be the poor woman lying in bed, Quant.

Let's meet our victim.

Strangled a couple of hours ago.

Legge, Sheila, English. Single. 25 years old.

Occupation, performance artist.

Occupation, murder victim.

No doubt of that.

Who would be the killer in the mix, Quant?

We need a place to work. Let's find what's his name.

Jukes, I believe, sir.

I found it. Apologies for the wait.

Will this space suit, detectives?

Yes, this will do nicely for a murder room.

What information do we have on the guests, Quant?

It looks like they're a bunch of struggling artists.

One of them's in England for the first time.

Look.

René François Ghislain Magritte, born 1898.

Lessines, Belgium.

Painter.

Ah, Magritte, I've got to, uh...Sir?

I've got to deliver the bad news to the group.

Come along. And try to look surprised, sir.

It is my sad duty to inform you all that, um,

Miss Legge has passed away in the night.

- What? - What?

It was a dreadful accident, of course,

but Scotland Yard have been ordered

to investigate just to be on the safe side.

And they are looking into... every possibility.

You mean murder?

I know that Miss Legge was a beloved friend,

companion, and colleague of you all.

My Lord and I are deeply sorry for your loss.

If there is anything you need at this time,

please don't hesitate to ask.

Oh, my dear God, the poor girl.

- Are you happy now? - Need more coke, pal?

Stop it! We are all in shock. Let's not make it worse.

- You are awfully quiet. - Pardon?

Surely you were the last one to see her

when you took her upstairs.

No... I don't know.

Suddenly you can't speak English any more, mon amie.

Our friend dies, and you've got nothing to say.

Explain yourself, man.

Oh, come on. Nobody wanted this.

Are you sure about that, Sal?

Shut up.

Good morning. DC Quant, Scotland Yard.

We request that you all be available for interview.

Um, oh, and, um,

please accept our condolences for the loss of your friend.

Jukes.

Wait, does this mean we're all suspects?

How long have the guests been here?

They all arrived last night.

When Miss Legge was still alive.

- Yeah. - So this lot

are all famous, apparently, in the art world, I presume,

because I've not heard of a single one of them before now.

Well, that's the point, sir.

Lord James finds the greatest artist of tomorrow

just as they lie on the cusp of fame.

By next week, this lot will be front page news.

How come?

The most important art show of the decade

is due to be held this coming Friday.

All the artists will showcase their work.

It will be astounding. I can assure you.

Surrealism is the next big thing.

On Lord James's say so.

Sound investment. Get the artworks on the cheap.

Create the hype. Grab all the cash.

Smart move.

I take it you're not much of an art lover then, sir?

What time did you go to bed last night, Jukes?

On the stroke of 11:00.

Nervous are you?

We would appreciate it if you told us everything

we needed to know.

I don't know if this is important.

You don't know if it isn't.

This morning, when I was doing my rounds with

the special breakfast requests,

I found one of our guests in bed with Miss Legge.

Uh...

Bending over her.

Who?

Well...

...it was Mr. Magritte, but I know he had absolutely

nothing to do with this. He was very shaken --

Don't ever play games with me, Jukes.

Alright?

No. Never, sir.

Magritte?

Magritte!

Yes?

DCI Thistletwaite.

What's the matter, Detective?

Oh, you're the matter, Magritte.

The final person to be seen with the victim last night.

And first thing this morning, you're found in bed

with the poor woman.

So why don't you do us a favor and confess,

Magritte, and we can all be back in London for supper.

No, no, no.

- Sure? - Mm-hmm.

Alright. Let's concentrate on last night.

Your movements from midnight onwards.

We know you slipped away with Miss Legge.

Correct?

We went upstairs. Yes.

Was there a scarf wound around your neck,

like with Miss Legge?

Yeah. Yeah, I woke up because I was struggling to breathe.

Jukes told me you're all here to exhibit,

perhaps become famous and wealthy

beyond your surrealist dreams.

Not all of you, of course. Must create a few little rivalries.

No?

No.

Are you a jealous man, Magritte?

No. Just a curious man.

Oh. Well, that makes two of us.

Good, because I have something I want to show you.

Unless, of course, your colleague has already found it.

Sir, you have to see this.

What the bloody hell?

I found it in his box in that wardrobe there.

It was nailed shut. I had to break it open.

Sorry.

- This is your painting? - Yes.

I brought it back from Brussels for the big show on Friday.

But this box has never been opened on English soil.

- Well, I just opened it. - I mean, up until now.

It looks just like the murder scene.

Tell me about it.

Les Amants.

The lovers.

You see, my lovers, they kiss,

and at the same time, they don't kiss.

Their lips are sealed with a scarf.

They cannot get fully close.

And that's what I call love.

Right. Well, enough of the art lessons.

- Let me smell your breath. - Excuse me?

No! Come on, open up. Oh, good God.

Yeah, well, I didn't brush my teeth this morning.

Yes, maybe just as well,

because you could have saved yourself a night

in a little horrible cell.

Oh, you were drugged, just like Miss Legge.

Look at that sediment.

And no one else has seen this painting?

You're sure?

My wife.

But she's in Brussels, so no.

Did you notice anything else strange last night?

Well...

Thank you.

Don't worry, darling.

I don't play with little girls.

Aw, should I let you know

when I'm finally old enough to play with you?

Perhaps in half a century.

Wrap it up, you two.

Let's not have the boys drink all the best stuff.

There was a rather extraordinary entertainment.

And five...

Four, three, two, one...

But it was just for fun.

Don't worry.

Is there anything else you'd like to reveal?

- No. I'm good. - Alright. You can go.

For now.

Suspect do you think?

Not when the lab confirms he was drugged.

Oh, don't be charmed by this Magritte, Quant.

I need you to stay focused.

I don't find him charming, sir.

I just pay attention.

There was something else I found at the crime scene earlier.

What do you make of this?

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

Starting last summer,

she makes monthly payments to a certain Charlie L.

This goes on for a year

until suddenly yesterday,

an extra £1,000 is paid to this Charlie L.

Who could that be?

L for Legge, perhaps.

- A relation or... - No.

Hm.

Constables!

I want you to search all the guest rooms.

We're looking for the following items -- a glass revolver,

any narcotics and relevant prescriptions,

any reference to a Charlie L.,

plus anything you gentlemen regard as suspicious.

Go on, hop to it. Double quick.

Jukes!

Ah!

We need a lockable place on the estate.

Preferably indoors, as cold as can be.

Yes, I believe I have somewhere in mind, sir.

This way, please.

Don't ever do that again.

My sincerest apologies.

I would like to help you with your investigation.

I want to catch this killer as much as you do.

Probably even more.

Why?

Mummy!

It's your fault, René.

You do realize you're still a suspect?

I know. If I can find one thing in that murder scene

that you missed, would you perhaps allow me to assist you?

This is a murder investigation, Magritte.

Not a bloody game.

I'm serious. I'm deadly serious.

This is really important to me.

If you can show me one decent clue,

then I might look the other way whilst you play detective.

Follow me.

Do you know anything about painting?

Not really.

Okay. 'Cause this assassin does.

What makes you so sure?

Are you familiar with a painting technique

called repoussoir.

- No. - Okay. It's when you paint

the foreground in darker tones,

but you brighten up details in the background

so it creates a depth of field

and leads the viewer's eyes to details otherwise overlooked.

I use it all the time.

You detectives, you focus on the logical things --

the body, the bed, the bottle.

An error on our part?

No, but you focus on the foreground.

Thus your view is incomplete.

So let's focus on the background.

A-ha!

What? The killer likes oysters?

Symbolism, sins.

An oyster near a woman means that she is of a loose morals.

- How do you say? - Yeah. I get it. Thank you.

Your killer is an artist.

In a house full of artists.

Yeah.

Stat crux dum volvitur orbis.

La croix demeure tandis que le monde tourne.

The cross stays put while the world turns round.

Yeah, that is fascinating, Magritte. Thank you.

- Let's go. - Hey, listen.

Artists, they have a very specific language.

Use me as an interpreter. I can help.

I'll be fine with English. Thank you.

If we can have your attention, ladies, gentlemen.

Constables are currently searching all of your rooms.

Do not disturb them in the direction of their duties.

Search all you like.

I'm getting the hell out of here.

Nobody's leaving the premises.

We're keeping your passports until we clear this case.

- What? No way. - Goddamn little fascists.

- Is it really necessary? - Mrs. Gala Dalí, is it?

Who wants to know?

The woman who's going to be questioning you.

You must all stay put right here.

We have questions for each and every one of you.

- Examine your conscience well. - Thought we were friends.

I thought we were safe.

Ah! Oh!

So long, my love. Our secret's safe with me.

Mind your step, boys. It's just through here.

I'll have the staff get rid of all this obviously.

Hm. One hell of a mortuary.

♪ My girl, my girl, don't lie to me ♪

♪ Tell me where did you sleep last night? ♪

♪ In the pines, in the pines ♪

♪ Where the sun never shines ♪

♪ I would shiver the whole night through ♪

Lee Miller, the war reporter.

That's me alright.

Listen, I didn't know Sheila all that well.

Not like the others.

But I knew it would end in tears.

It's the rule of three D's --

drugs and depression equals death.

What was your exact relationship

with Sheila Legge, Mr. Ray?

She, uh, inspired me.

As a model?

Muse more so.

I'm bored. Locked up in this golden cage.

Come Monday morning, I'm off to Munich,

interviewing Hitler for The Washington Post.

Any questions?

For you or for Hitler?

Both.

Uh, any theories as to who might have done this?

If I did, I...

I'd have killed him by now.

You think it was a man?

You don't?

What's wrong with your arm?

Uh...

Lee was, uh, playing with her toy gun,

doing her damn William Tell party trick.

And the ricochet got me.

The infamous glass gun.

Yeah, uh, Smith and Wesson Ladysmith.

She's a gun nut.

Uh, where's the gun now?

Uh, lives in her purse.

That silly thing?

You don't think that's a lethal weapon, do you?

Uh, put it right in my bag after the game last night.

I could swear.

It's gone.

Duly noted.

And you have no idea who could have taken it?

I haven't the damn --

Sorry.

The DC has trouble adapting to this environment.

Bless you, Detective. I sure can relate to that.

Tell us about this game last night.

Come on, Lee, shoot.

Sheila had to pose for me as the victim.

- Don't be afraid. - Man loves danger.

- Dalí is scared of loud noises. - Somebody's going to get hurt.

I don't like this game. It's a silly game.

- It's a silly game. - Come on.

- I don't like this. - It's a toy.

Gala loved it, of course.

Told me to aim lower. For a joke, mind you.

Five, four, three, two...

Aim lower, Lee.

One...

Stupid game.

Sheila, are you okay?

But you see, it was just a little game.

No one got hurt except for Miss Legge's coke bottle.

Perfume, I should say.

And a scratch on man's arm.

Nothing serious.

Alright. Thanks for now, Miss Miller.

Thank you.

Sheila should never have died.

Just like my birth.

She was way too good for this world.

She's an angel now.

Watching over me.

Oh, my sweet guardian angel.

I can't stand this. I'll kill myself.

I...

Sorry.

Who did you last see with the victim?

Don't call it like that.

Um, the Belgian lad.

He seems so nice.

He's a bit shy.

Just like me.

I saw them going upstairs together.

My brave Sheila looked... free again.

How was Miss Legge's mood last night?

Oh, um...up and down.

Ugh.

Mostly down.

Ever since the death of her son.

When did this happen?

Last summer.

He died. Um...an accident.

Inquest stated so.

Who's the father?

Nobody knows.

Could be anyone, sir.

- Thank you. You can go. - Oh.

- Thank you so much. Okay. - For now.

Thank you.

Charlie L.

Where are you?

Seth?

Why don't you arrest the Belgian?

He's done it, I'm sure.

Perhaps a sleazy sex game gone wrong.

He gives me the creeps, that fellow.

Excuse me, Mrs. Dalí.

We'd wanted to speak to your husband.

Mr. and Mrs. Dalí.

Call me Gala or nothing at all.

It is my cosmic name.

I think we might need an interpreter.

Last night we believe you had a fight with Miss Legge.

Fight?

Just two women having a good time.

We all loved her.

Who do you think did it, Mr. Dalí?

You think it's us, don't you?

Well, we've got an alibi. Ironclad.

But in your own mind, Mr. Dalí,

who do you think may have killed Miss Legge?

Do you think birds have a conscience, Detective?

I'm sorry. Do you think birds have a conscience?

Is that what you said?

They look like they do, don't they?

We only want to know if you think anyone has motive, sir.

Sheila owned millions.

Who would inherit it?

Isn't that your million-dollar question?

We will look into it.

Anything else of note from last night?

Man Ray was very drunk.

He looked like one of my early paintings.

He had a scuffle with our boy Nash at about 2:00 or 4:00 a.m.

And I know it because it happened to be watching

the clock at that time.

So we took Nash upstairs to avoid cold-blooded murder.

And the three of us slept together in the same bed

like babies till this morning.

Alibi, as my wife said.

I hardly remember anything else.

Thank you.

Right.

Well, we'll be in touch when we have more questions.

- Thank you. - Quite.

They want to ask us more questions.

That's okay.

Perfectly normal bunch of people,

these Surrealists, don't you think, Quant?

- Detective Quant. - Sir.

What did Magritte say to you

earlier in the upstairs corridor?

Um, he -- he wanted to see the crime scene.

And you let him?

Well, I thought that it might be useful

to hear what he had to say.

Any particular insights on his part?

No, sir.

Please don't keep such things from me again.

Sir.

Nish?

Nish?

Hello, Nish.

It's Nash, with an "A." Like Magritte. Nash.

- Please remember my name. - I'm sorry.

Don't worry about it. Good that you're here.

As I may be able to help you.

Pardon?

I know who might have killed Sheila.

Who?

There was two of them.

Possibly. I'm just figuring it out.

Um...I don't think you did, dear.

Why -- Why not me?

Because you care.

You don't know about the darkness.

Who was blackmailing Sheila?

Look at Hercule Poirot over here.

Are you two related?

You need to get a better mustache.

Stop with the jokes, Nash. Sheila is dead.

After Sebastian died, mm...

...Sheila was never the same.

She was broken.

Did you hear something back there?

- No. - Are you sure?

- What about the father? - I don't know about the father.

- But someone does. - Yeah, well, I don't know.

Someone I don't know named Charlie Earl.

- I don't know who that is. - Yes, I think you do.

Stop it. Okay? I don't know who that is.

- Nash. - Yes.

How are you doing?

I am so sorry for your loss.

We all are.

But you two were so close.

My deepest condolences.

And you are again?

Magritte. Enchanté.

We met last night.

Right. The man from Brussels.

Yes.

I seen your work.

- Oh, Mr. Ernst. - Can't remember any of it.

Nash, love. You need to find some peace.

Go for a walk in the forest.

I'm sorry, Magritte.

There's actually a really interesting

poppy field on the estate.

Dete--

Detective Chief Inspe--

Yes, Superintendent Coney, sir.

Yes, yes.

Will do. And than--

Well, it seems that Lord James has a lot of clout.

That was the big chief, Quant.

Worried like hell that we're going to drop the ball.

Take note.

The elite are keeping tabs on us.

Tread carefully.

Right.

Summarize the case for me,

DC Quant, if you please.

Okay.

So crime scene. very theatrical.

Opium in the wine.

Magritte and the victim dressed up as the lovers.

A painting that nobody has seen except for Magritte,

who we don't think has done it.

Also a group of touchy, oddball artists

intent on becoming famous.

That and mysterious payments.

Potential for blackmail.

A Charlie L. Who is he or she?

And...

Nash's room?

Thank you.

And finally, a vast quantity of cocaine.

Worth a fortune.

A fortune that only an heiress could afford.

Go and get Nash, will you?

Sir.

We've all seen pictures of Nash.

Keep searching. He has to be outside.

Sorry. Sir. Charlie L. is Nash.

Charlie for cocaine.

L. is short for his surname, Lesley.

- Nash is the blackmailer. - Okay.

That's cute, but we need proof.

"To my wildest mate, Charlie L.

Lots of love, SL."

I found it in Nash's room.

- We need to find him. - Well, I saw him --

Seb?

Oh, my.

What do you mean Nash can't be found?

Look bloody well harder!

We have, sir. It's just a very large estate.

It's 10 square miles.

He's not in the house,

nor the vicinity, nor the outhouses.

Nobody has seen him on the estate and nobody saw him leave.

Lock down the estate.

Every exit --

main, tradesman's, hunting paths, patrol the perimeter.

We need this man in our custody now.

At the double, gentlemen, no stone unturned!

Right. Time for a motivational speech.

Um...shall I line up the guests?

- Everyone! - Sir.

You lot show up on this estate last night

and all hell breaks loose.

Is that a coincidence? I think not.

This is what we call cause and effect.

I'm far from satisfied with the answers

you've all given regarding the death of Miss Legge.

So from this moment, I'm placing the estate in lockdown.

Lockdown?

Anyone who steps outside its perimeters will be in trouble.

Keep the dogs on the leash.

Who do they think we are?

A bunch of powerless artists, Sal.

Who do you think we were?

As soon as this is solved, you can all go back to...

doing whatever it is that you do.

Detective, you seriously think that one of us

was capable of killing Sheila?

We don't think so, sir.

We know.

- Whoa. - I came here to create.

Really? One of us?

This is ridiculous.

Lord James.

Finally.

Welcome to West Dean, my dearest guests.

Max, how are you?

All the better for seeing you, my lordship.

Lord James, if you.

Who are you to stand on my stairs

and call the shots, old man?

Scotland Yard, your lordship.

Detective Chief Inspector John Thistletwaite.

Down, pup.

You decided to lock up my estate.

Treat my guests like dogs. How dare you?

We're investigating a murder.

The only thing getting murdered in my estate

is poor taste, Detective.

The murder of your cousin Miss Sheila Legge,

your lordship.

I wanted to tell you, my lord,

but I couldn't reach you. I am so sorry.

Where is she?

Where is my cousin?

My condolences, Lord James.

We're interviewing everyone at present.

- If we may continue... - You may not.

The greatest artists of the 20th century are gathered here.

Lovers, they are, Fighters, yes.

But murderers?

Are you serious?

Oh, my God. It's Nash!

Everybody stay outside.

Stay outside!

The cross stays put

whilst the world turns around.