Original subtitles

This is horrible.

It's your fault, René.

Look at what you have done!

You have three days to sort out this mess.

No ifs or buts.

A problem? Tell me everything, my sweetheart. René?

What are we dealing with?

A killer with an artistic flair?

Or an artist with a flair for killing?

It's easy to see it's one of us, right?

They're nothing, are they?

You're saying that he was shot through the nose.

I am, but that's impossible.

There's no bullet in the brain.

No sign of your glass gun anywhere?

Feel free to search, but...

We know the cause of death, Quant.

Nash and Sheila is what happened.

A marriage made in hell, those two.

I'm sorry, René, I can't talk about it.

Miss Legge died by manual strangulation.

Sheila owned millions.

Isn't that your million dollar question?

The father of Sebastian could be the key.

Someone at West Dean got done for what?

Jay Poots.

With every goodbye, I salute you, Mother.

I've never seen this one.

It's a present.

Can we afford such a present?

We're a golden couple, aren't we?

You deserve a nice watch.

Come.

Let's say goodbye.

Jay Poots.

What?

A kitchen porter who works here.

He assaulted his wife 12 years ago,

confessed, and went to jail for it.

The office in London just found out.

And I thought I had the big scoop.

Yeah? What's yours, sir?

You hear that?

You knew about this?

No, my lord.

I thought you knew everything.

What are they up to?

Come on.

♪ Thou my everlasting portion ♪

♪ More than friend or life to me ♪

♪ All along my pilgrim journey ♪

♪ Savior, let me walk with thee ♪

♪ Close to thee, close to thee ♪

♪ Close to thee, close to thee ♪

♪ All along my pilgrim's journey ♪

♪ Savior, let me walk with thee ♪

I have been talking to Sheila Legge's lawyer.

Apparently, she left almost a million in cash.

- What? - Plus a country pile

a bit like this one, but in Canterbury.

Sheila Legge was Duchess of Canterbury?

The estate is worth no less than £2 million.

That's on top.

So she --

She left £3 million?

To who?

Take your wildest guess.

Nash.

Lord James?

She was her cousin after all.

Sorry to disappoint you, Quant.

♪ May I enter, Lord, with Thee ♪

The answer is...

Mr. Salvador Dalí.

What?

Really?

Why Dalí, in heaven's name?

Why indeed, Quant?

Why would the one man at the bottom of our suspect list

inherit from the victim?

I mean, that's a great motive, no?

What are the connections between Dalí and Miss Legge?

I, um, found something in Dalí's studio.

He bought sketch paper near Sheila Legge's old estate.

Some people think they had a -- a thing once.

Beautiful, my friend.

Thank you, brother.

Could he be the mysterious father?

I'll look into it.

This, er, kitchen porter of yours, Jay Poots.

What did he do exactly?

Assaulted his wife.

Nearly strangled her to death.

Sounds like a lovely fella.

Why are we only getting this information now?

And how did he get a job on this estate?

Remember when I did some background checks back at HQ

regarding the personnel on the estate?

Well, there was...

Happy voyage, my dearest friends.

Our beloved Sheila and Nash.

I love you both so much. You will be missed.

When our time comes, we will meet again in Nirvana.

Amen, dear.

I need a champagne.

I think we all do.

They certainly know how to create an atmosphere,

this gang of lunatics.

And perhaps not one of them is the killer.

Oh, here we go. Right, first things first.

I desperately need to talk to this Jay Poots.

- You figure out Dalí. - Yes, sir.

- No small task. - Yes, sir.

Clock is ticking, detectives.

My lord.

"Sebastian."

"Excelsior."

"Ray."

- Hiya, Magritte. - Hi.

What do you have for me?

Excuse me, sir.

"Sebastian, excelsior. Ray.

In memoriam aeternam."

Ray?

Man Ray is the father of Sheila's son?

That's motive, no?

I mean, at the start we had no suspects,

and now all of a sudden they're everywhere.

Let me have it. All evidence belongs

- in the murder room. - I know.

I understand.

But I was thinking maybe I could have a chat with Man Ray,

confront him with this and see if he denies his paternity.

You're becoming a true detective, Magritte.

Go for it.

I'm late anyway.

Hey, Sal.

You're up early.

Intrusive thoughts?

The only thoughts I know.

What was his name again?

Da Vinci.

Da Vinci.

I like it.

Do you miss him?

Yeah, I know it sounds silly, but we were all talking.

Mm.

Manny...

would you like Da Vinci to be eternal?

Sorry, sir.

The delinquent kitchen porter, Jay Poots,

is currently downstairs churning butter.

Care to come with me while I chat with the butter boy?

I thought I might speak to our new millionaire.

Reckon he'll be pleased.

There's a copy of the will over there.

Good acceleration in the investigation, Quant.

These are the moments we live for.

I wasn't going to mention it, but...

Nash is the 364th murder case of my career.

That's quite a tally.

I totted it up last night, couldn't sleep.

Years ago, New Year's Eve,

I promised myself that when I reached a year of murders,

365 cases, I would quit the Yard.

And now, because of you, that is becoming a possibility.

How do you mean?

My second New Year's resolution was that I would only stop

if I found the right successor.

You remind me of my younger self.

In fact, you're a lot like me.

Work-wise, at least.

Sir?

Well, look on the bright side, Quant.

I will be hiking up Mount Kilimanjaro

whilst you'll be up to your elbows in

mud, blood, and gristle for the next 30 years or so.

Enjoy.

And when amongst ourselves...

...do call me Thistle.

Thank you, sir.

Uh, Thistle.

You looked quite excited when you came in.

Have you discovered something?

Yes.

Man Ray is the father of Sebastian,

Sheila Legge's little son, who died before.

How did you discover that?

I have my sources.

Oh, so one big unhappy family.

Well, good.

Add him to the list.

I'll go and see what Mr. Poots has to say for himself.

One of the richest estates in England,

they can't even fix a bloody doorknob.

Jay Poots.

Turn around.

I am Detective Chief Inspector Thistlethwaite, Scotland Yard,

and you are under arrest.

Down here. Here he is.

Gentlemen,

handcuff the bastard.

Sir.

- Pigs. - Is that right?

We've got our killer, sir.

It looks like it, doesn't it?

I'm one of the roughs, sir.

I admit to it.

I'm a harum-scarum sort of good for naught.

But I'm not your killer.

I catch you in flagrante while you're trying to rob a corpse,

and you've got previous for battering your wife

within an inch of her life.

How do you think it looks?

She had it coming.

My Sinead.

And this poor thing here,

you got it all wrong, guv.

I was only trying to pry out her gold teeth is all.

Have you no shame?

Trying to steal from a --

Take him to the murder room.

Come on.

Steady.

How dare he.

This is the will of Sheila Legge,

sent by her law firm,

Messrs. Watts, Watts, and Cushman.

And I need to see this because...?

You are to inherit £1 million in cash.

You didn't know this.

Plus, Miss Legge's whole estate in Canterbury,

not unlike this one,

currently valued at £1,952,999.

Mr. Dalí,

were you and Miss Legge ever in a romantic relationship?

Me and her?

No.

What an insane thought.

Sheila hated me.

You visited her, though, right?

Back in Canterbury?

Yeah. Of course I did.

We were friends.

Good friends.

But sometimes friends can't take the truth,

so what is left is not... let's say real.

You understand?

Thank you.

Right.

You received a phone call yesterday.

What was said seemed to have shocked you.

Did it have something to do with this?

Look, your inheritance is real.

And now we have to wonder why.

I will never accept that woman's money.

Sweet mother of Jesus!

You're not happy with all that money?

Mr. Dalí?

Sir? Are you alright?

What's so funny?

Sorry, sir, but this is really weird stuff.

It's not pretty either.

Call me a simple-minded idiot

all you want, sir, but I don't get this.

Those artists are oddballs, aren't they?

You want to know something?

About these...oddballs?

Look.

It's not as simple as it seems.

In surrealist art, they constantly want to

play with the question.

Is it a dream or real?

A joke or a tragedy?

Is the object just an object or do we give it meaning?

And if so, which one?

- Too difficult for me, sir. - No, it's not.

Do you know what a pipe is to Magritte?

No?

A dick.

Really? A dick?

- Yeah. - Now I get it.

He's shagging his pipe.

Yeah. All sex maniacs, eh?

Every last one.

Just like you, but worse.

- Yes, sir. - Back to work.

I need you over there.

Okay, gents. Laugh's over.

Let's get this hung up. Come on. You take that side.

One, two, three, go!

- Alright. - I'm busy.

We need to talk, Man.

What? Now?

That's right. I'm a lip model.

Say what you gotta say, pal.

Never mind. I'll be back.

Think I can't take it, mon ami?

Talk, damn it.

- I really think -- - You're starting to

piss me off now. Come on, pal.

What's on your mind? Spit it out.

Okay.

I found this.

You bastard.

What is it?

How'd you find it? Hmm?

Is nothing sacred to you?

She was the mother of your son.

Son? What son?

What?

No.

Anyone but him. He isn't father material.

Lee, I'm -- I'm -- I'm so sorry.

If only you knew how -- how complicated this is.

You?

Are little Seb's father?

N-No. Well, in a way.

What? No.

No.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, please, no.

Oh, this is insane. This isn't happening.

Tell me this isn't happening. This is insane.

This -- This cannot be happening.

- Lee, I'm so sorry. - No, no, no, no.

You're gonna pay for this, you little fake detective!

You think you know it all, don't you?

And you know nothing!

Will you quit the fucking hammering!

I said stop the fucking hammering!

- Stop it! Stop it! - We're finished, sir.

No more hammering. I'm so sorry, sir.

Sit down.

I was just asked to hang up the work, that's all.

It's alright, sir.

]

I'm so, so sorry, Lee.

Really.

When he fucked Sheila,

our relationship was at its height.

Every day, the bastard would

lick the dust of Paris off the soles of my shoes.

You don't believe me?

The guy is nuts.

Complete goner.

And there I was believing him.

Stupid girl.

All the while His Majesty was banging Lady Legge.

Fucking making a child with the Duchess.

I don't believe it.

I'm so sorry, Lee.

You didn't hurt me.

The truth did.

You just happened to find it.

Amor, will you ever leave that bath?

You look like a peanut.

Aren't you getting cold at all?

My tears keep the water hot.

Come on.

By the way...

I almost forgot.

Today I won £3 million.

What?

Our friend Sheila.

Duchess of Canterbury.

I'm in her will.

But why?

You didn't know?

Of course not.

Are you sure?

Liar.

- Pardon? - You heard what I said.

You're a liar.

And you stole my soul, too!

- What? - For what?

Money.

From a whore.

Signed by Gala Dalí!

I spit on the day you took my name.

Okay, yes, I accepted her money.

Why not? She wanted you to have it.

For what, Gala?

For what?

To buy away her guilt.

And she should have kept the guilt.

She should have kept the guilt.

Why do you hate her so much if your heart is so big?

You slept with her?

Don't be ridiculous.

I'm not like you.

It's because of Spain.

Of course it's because of Spain.

I lied to those doctors, Gala.

I lied about the death of an innocent child.

Wake up!

Wake up, Sheila!

I like to protect two drug addicts not able to

even care for the most helpless of beings.

She's been trying to pay me off for a year.

And now the sneaky bitch found a way, and I can't give it back.

The only thing I could do was to say no.

To not accept it.

But thanks to you...

You need some time.

Time.

What is that?

What is money?

It has no real value at all.

Millions in the bank will not bring back my conscience.

Every pound spent...

...will be a reminder

of the lowest point of my life.

I understand, but you are wrong.

Bitch.

Get out.

Get out!

You get your things, Salvador,

and see that I don't find you here when I come back.

I put this couple first, always.

Not you, me.

Well, maybe you should stop that.

Out for a walk, my friend?

Still on a hunt?

Yeah.

I saw an interesting building yesterday night

and I would love to see it in daylight.

I don't believe Man murdered Sheila

just because he's the father of Sebastian.

So I think I'm going to keep investigating.

Normally I'd joke about being careful out there,

but in this case...

Be careful, alright?

Okay.

Whoops-a-daisy.

Suspect slipped, sir.

'Course he did.

Must be all that butter.

Thank you, Constable,

for the preliminary interrogation.

You gonna start talking?

Alright, then.

I will.

You've seen this?

Never.

Don't know. Don't care.

Fancy foreign stuff.

These perverts around here.

Who?

These so-called artists.

That's judgy of others for a wife-beating corpse robber.

What a piece of crap.

Well, don't hold back.

So you've never seen this painting?

I wish you'd kept it that way.

Back in the good old days of our Lord Denver,

all of this cack would not happen here.

And now...we have to do as we're told by his little sister,

and we get nutters staying here.

The inmates are running the asylum,

and you are surprised that the bodies drop.

What were you really doing with that body down there?

I wanted her gold teeth to sell,

to have money, to eat something decent for once.

Hold on, aren't you paid?

That's the big advantage of being in service, isn't it?

That you're well fed and watered.

Lord James is listed inThe Sunday Times Rich List

as one of the wealthiest people in the kingdom.

- Surely -- - I might have tried to

rob a corpse, but I am no traitor.

You can beat me all you want. I'll say nothing more.

Except this.

I am not your man.

But you are a convicted criminal without an alibi.

Lord Denver took me in.

Gave me a second chance when nobody else would.

So -- So I was bloody saved.

By this family.

And where are they now?

Your family.

What is it that you're not telling me?

Do you remember jail, Poots?

You being serious, mate?

Yeah.

'Course you do.

You want to go back there?

Maybe this time for the rest of your life.

You can't tell her.

Who?

Her lordship.

Not a word.

Hello?

I clean dishes at the pub every night after my shift here.

Now, I clean the bar.

I've got a new girl there, too.

Sweet thing, she is.

But I am always back by morning for my work.

Her ladyship doesn't know.

- And you do this -- - Gotta eat, now don't I?

So you were washing dishes and sleeping with your girlfriend

on the night that Miss Legge died?

Yeah, every night.

So if I go down to that pub, which I will,

there's witnesses to corroborate?

About two dozen.

Unshackle him.

Let him go.

Good day to you, Mr. Poots.

Stay away from the cold storage room, will you?

Yes, sir.

What exactly am I to you, Manny?

The love of your life?

Your inspiration?

Your one and only?

That's what you said.

Liar.

A liar and a prime suspect.

Okay, you want to hurt me?

I get that. Do your worst.

No, I want this to stop, Manny.

Look at us.

I know, it's all so complicated.

Look, I promise you someday soon I will tell you everything.

Someday soon? Are you joking, Man?

Do you love me?

Because that's all that matters.

Look, I love you more than anything or anyone else.

I don't know why I love you.

What did I ever see in you?

Was I too young?

Perhaps.

Anyway, it's pointless to revisit the past,

especially when you don't know what was true and what false.

Everything was true.

What about your son, then?

Not even recognizing him properly?

A son, Manny, a goddamn child with another woman,

and you hide that from me whilst being with me?

Oh, my baby.

Don't you understand that nothing can repair this?

What kind of a man are you?

I wanted to protect us.

From the most important event in our life?

Seb was more important than me or you. No.

You knew that if this thing came out, we would end.

And these things always come out.

And the fact that you made another woman pregnant

whilst I was asking for a child from you...

I did not.

Among all this mess...

...what hurts the most is that you hid your emotion from me.

Your grief, your pain.

I'm asking myself what kind of a person is capable of that.

And I have no answer.

But I do know that I don't want a person like that in my life.

Detective.

- Miss Quant. - Hmm?

Huh.

A dinner not eaten.

I wonder why.

And all these guns.

But there's one missing.

A Liege 1891.

Is that special?

It's just about one of the best rifles in the world.

It costs a fortune.

It's strange, isn't it?

What is, Detective?

A family of game hunters,

each with their own rifle going back to Napoleonic times.

And yet, only this particular rifle is gone.

The best of the lot.

The killer would have taken it, right?

If so -- If so,

then our killer is not only an artist, but a professional.

Yes, but when is this professional

ever going to make a mistake?

They always do.

As the pressure rises.

No.

Please.

No.

Before the exhibition is my guess.

How would you know?

I don't know.

That's why it's a guess.

You felt that too, right?

Felt what?

That place.

Yeah, as if someone was watching us.

If you must.

You as well.

Love sucks.

Yes?

Bloody hell.

Sir, please open the gate.

It was a very long journey for us.

I have a -- a neighbor waiting in the car.

It's raining, it's -- it's --

- Sorry, sir, we can't. - Please.

Please.

It's sealed off. It's all locked up.

Georgette? Georgette? I think he's here.

What's going on? Who are you?

I am Georgette Berger.

Who?

Mrs. Magritte.

My name is Edouard Léon Théodore Mesens.

But please, call me E.L.T.

I am Magritte's agent.

How do you do?

Why are you here?

I'm very worried about my husband

and have decided that I can't be without him.

Yes. It's true. It's like Dalí and Gala.

You can't imagine them separated, can you?

Mr. Mesens, is that you?

Please call me E.L.T., Your Lordship.

Lord James, an honor. How did you do, madam?

We were supposed to arrive on Friday for the exhibition,

but Georgette was just too anxious to see her husband.

I hope you don't mind we jumped the gun.

Oh, don't be ridiculous. West Dean is always open.

Although it's mostly very closed at the moment.

Mrs. Magritte, I am thrilled.

You are most welcome to my humble abode.

You're so cute.

Open the gates, boys.

But, my lord, I thought we agreed --

No buts. Listen once and for all.

I agreed that nobody can leave my property

until you get your man, but do not believe for one second

that you can tell me who is and who is not welcome in my estate.

Got that?

Now get out of my way and stay out of my way.

Quick, my dear, before you catch pneumonia.

Thank you.

What's going on back there?

Well, we've got a bit of a situation.

But we've got the best detectives working on it.

I'm so sorry you had to arrive at such a time.

I'll tell you all in the van. After you.

Thank you.

May as well get in the back with us. Come on.

I hope you have a wonderful stay,

despite the unpleasantness of it all.

I'll see you at breakfast.

Weather should be glorious,

and sunshine is sorely needed for the soul.

- Thank you, my lord. - Don't mention it.

Look after her.

My pleasure.

Well, um, I need to see René immediately.

He's such a delicate flower, so -- so sensitive.

Where is he now?

- Follow me. - Hold on a moment, Jukes.

Mrs. Magritte, I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news,

but I feel it's my duty to tell you that

your husband is one of the chief suspects,

especially in the first case, the strangulation of

the beautiful young heiress Miss Sheila Legge.

Did you know her?

Oh, no.

Well, it's impossible.

It's madness.

Well, your husband wakes up next to a corpse

after spending all night in bed with her.

What would you call it?

Please, Mrs. Magritte, nothing has been proven, nothing at all.

Everything will turn out fine as it always does at West Dean.

Allow me to escort you to your husband.

Thank you, Mr. Jukes.

Just Jukes will be fine, madam.

Well, that was rather harsh.

What, you just wanted to see her reaction?

Not as much as I want to see his

when she catches up with him.

I thought we agreed that Magritte was innocent.

Well, you surely did.

Yes, you're right.

I want to stir things up.

You put pressure on these people, and the one

with something to hide will surely make a mistake.

If you say so.

We're here to catch a killer, Quant.

Not to make friends.

Sir.

The bit that drives you mad.

The best bit.

For you.

No, after you.

- No, after you. - No, after you.

At one, for the good times.

At two, for the pain.

At three, to ease the worries.

And at four...

to disappear.

Yeah.

- Manny. - Yeah?

I'm taking the right side of the bed.

Sure.

It's not my fault, is it?

What isn't?

The murders?

I certainly hope so.

But what bed did you choose to sleep in?

I was drugged.

I can imagine that was the exciting part.

To sleep with a woman ten years younger than you.

Pretty, intelligent, adventurous...

And dead.

Can you believe it's the first time I left you alone

in all those years?

And look what happens.

Forgive me.

Even though I did nothing wrong, I'm asking you to forgive me.

Ah... Hi, lovebirds.

René?

- What's going on? - What's going on?

Dalí and Gala have split up.

And so have Man Ray and Lee Miller.

So much for eternal love.

Go figure. We'll pass.

Don't get any ideas, you two.

So Dalí took the last available guest room.

He's shagging Manny Ray as we speak. These artists...

Anything I can get you

in terms of refreshments, sir?

Yes, Jukes, sorry.

Can we get this man a room?

Because I need some time with my wife.

Well, of course, Magritte, I understand.

I'll find a solution.

No, no, no, no, no, no. It's not necessary.

It's just for one night.

It's too late.

We Belgians, we stick together.

No, but I need some time alone with my wife.

Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no. You don't.

My love?

Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Jukes.

Thank you. Have a nice evening.

- If I might suggest -- - Thank you. Bye-bye.

What's this? Where did you get this picture?

No, no, no. That's not for you,

but for the snobs who are going to make you rich on Friday.

Do not ruin perfection with your dirty painter hands.

The dirty hands that made the paintings

you are trying to sell?

Exactly. You've understood. You paint, I sell. We both get paid.

My life is ruined and you're talking about money.

Okay. I'm sorry. Forget the catalogues, I was just curious.

Yes, really curious. That's what I heard.

My love, please?

Come on, friends. Let us breathe.

Let us rest.

We need to be at our best at West Dean.

Everything seems scary at night.

But at sunrise, you'll talk about it again.

- Agreed? - No.

I have nothing to say to this man.

George...

I'm putting on my pyjamas and going to bed.

Operator.

Brighton 2948.

Hello?