All language subtitles for Campion (1989-1990) 4 Death of a Ghost 2

THEME SONG PLAYING...

All I can say at present
is that death was due to asphyxia.

I don't know yet what caused it.

Oh, sorry, Doctor.

No one mentioned
a smell of gas, did they?

- No.
- Poison?

Hmm, could be.

I'll be up at the house
if you need me.

Right. Thank you, Doctor.

I don't like anything about it.

There's only one thing
about it that I like.

What?

Linda Lafcadio is out of the
country. You can't pin this one on her.

Yes, all right, all right.

Do you still claim she launched herself
at Tom Dacre and stabbed him to death?

I don't know. I don't even
know why she went to Paris.

Well, she went to Paris to try
and find out who did murder Tom.

Which you seem
to have lost interest in.

And to find out
who began stealing

and buying up all his pictures
as soon as he was dead.

Odd there's a glass

but no bottle.

Yes, I wondered about that.

Perhaps someone came back
and took the bottle away.

And washed the glass.

Mmm.

- He's late.
- Who?

Potter, the husband.

Well, that's another day over.

Thank God for...

Oh, hello.

Excuse me.

Claire, we've got visitors.

Mr Potter.

Not yet.

Oh, dear. She must've...

You'd better sit down,
Mr Potter.

What's that?

Oh!

Yes, I knew
it was going to happen.

I warned Belle only
this morning.

You told her
Mrs Potter was going to die?

What?

No, but...

Some kind of disaster.

I have an overwhelming
premonition, I still have.

Two deaths already.

Don't you find
that sinister, Inspector?

Don't you believe these things
always go in threes?

Thrice mine and thrice thine.

No, dear, the inspector
doesn't believe that.

Won't help him at all if we all go around
talking like something out of Macbeth.

Ah, Lisa.

How is Mr Potter?

The doctor's given him
something, we've put him to bed.

- Oh, good.
- You wanted me?

No, I did. Just a few
questions, if you don't mind.

At the moment, it seems you
were the last one in this household

to see Mrs Potter alive.

Yes. I saw her
at about half past four.

Did she seem worried or upset?

No.

She was working hard as usual.

We chatted a bit.

I didn't stay for tea, because the
telephone rang so I left her to it.

I see.

And that was the last
you saw of her?

Yes.

The next I heard about it was
when Belle rushed in and said,

"Lisa, go down to the cottage, stand by
the door and see that nobody goes in."

Then she went to telephone
the doctor and I went down there.

You came back to the house
to telephone?

I needed my glasses
to look up the number.

I rang the doctor, then Albert.

And while you were outside the door
of the cottage, no one went inside?

No, I stayed there
till you and the doctor came.

I see. Well,
that's all for now, thank you.

Poor, poor Claire.
Of all people.

Such a gentle, harmless soul.

Nothing was ever too much
trouble for her.

There must be some malign
force at work, something really evil.

- Who could want to murder Claire?
- Oh, please.

Oh, thank heavens, here's Max.

Ah, the gentleman who
confessed to murdering Dacre.

Is he going to give us a
repeat performance, I wonder?

Belle, my dear, may I come in?

Terrible news, terrible.

Max, so good of you to come. I
knew you would as soon you heard.

Beatrice.

How did you come to hear
the news, Mr Fustian?

Why, Lisa told me.
On the way upstairs.

It's quite a shock,
as you would imagine.

I'm glad now I obeyed the impulse
to come on here from Sayers.

- You must have had a presentiment.
- Sayers?

That's an art gallery.

Private view of the Duchess
of Swain's pastels.

Delicate things. Genuine
feeling. Selling like hot cakes.

If you still want to see Potter,

his breathing's much better
now that we've got him into bed.

Ah, is he willing to talk?

Oh, yes, he's rather keen
to get it over.

Thinks he'll sleep better.
Probably right.

Thank you, Doctor.

Ah, this is a terrible business.

Indeed.

Dreadful.

The suggestion that I killed
my wife is ridiculous.

What put that idea
into your head, Mr Potter?

Lisa's been telling me the sort
of questions you've been asking.

She had no right to do that.

I'll pop back later.

I've been lying here,

realising that
I'm on my own now.

I'm free to go anywhere I like.

And to do anything I like.

And I wish I was dead.

Ask me what it is
you want to know.

When you went out this morning,

- did your wife seem quite normal?
- Ha.

I suppose so.

But you would have noticed if
she had been worried or upset?

God, what a hell of a
question, are you married?

We all get so wrapped up
in ourselves.

To be honest, I wasn't
paying much attention.

She seemed all right.

One thing that's puzzling is

the doctor's now convinced
that she took something by mouth.

We found a glass
on the draining board.

But somebody seems
to have washed it.

Any idea
who that might have been?

Yes.

Who?

Claire. She did it herself.

- Oh, why should she?
- Cast iron habit.

I suppose she was afraid
of the smell hanging around.

Same as hiding the bottles.

You don't mean she washed
the glass between every drink?

You haven't got the picture
yet, have you?

Now, listen,

mostly she never touched it.

Except when something bad
had happened.

Then she'd wait
until she was on her own.

She wouldn't sit down
and spin it out

and enjoy it, oh, no.

No, she'd down the whole lot
right away.

And she'd wash the glass,
hide the bottles.

In 10 minutes,
she was out like a light.

- Where did she keep the bottles?
- I don't know.

I don't know where
she got them from, either.

I certainly don't know
where she got the money from.

We're impossibly poor.

And what did she do
with the empty bottles?

I used to hunt
for them sometimes,

but I didn't find anything.

- That's really quite hard to believe.
- Yes.

Well, I can't help that.

I can't help anything.

Look, I would like
to be left alone.

You're not giving me
a sniff at this, are ya?

All right. There's things
you don't want found out.

Why, do you think I wielded the jewel
led scissors and poisoned Mrs Potter?

You could be covering
for somebody.

If I was, would you
shop me, Lugg?

You'd be out of a job
if they put me in clink.

Job?

You said there'd be action.
You call this a job?

Look, here, Lugg. 50 to
one, the next caper will involve

a whole hornet's nest of villains
and thugs and you'll be invaluable.

But in this case, you'll just
be a spanner in the works.

Nothing I can do about it.

You can get a move on it
and solve it quick.

I'll go round a twist
just messing about here.

That's the report from forensic.

14.98 milligrams
of alkaloid nicotiana.

Can't you trace that?

Doesn't sound like the sort of stuff
you can go out and buy by the pint.

Anyone can buy a box of cigars.

Ah, nicotine.

Is it really as easy as that?

Only if you know how to do it.

But it seems we're up against
somebody that knows plenty.

Why can't they stick to arsenic? I
could write a book about arsenic.

That stuff paralyses
the respiratory system.

Which is why
the doctor said asphyxia.

They also found alcohol
in the body.

Hmm.

She must have had
more than a glass full.

She got a bottle from
somewhere, that's for sure.

And somebody poisoned it.

And then came back
and took the bottle away.

Have you checked Potter's alibi?

Hmm?

Yes, he'd come
straight from school.

We were there when he arrived.

No, he can't have
disposed of it.

But somebody must have.

- Any luck?
- Nothing so far, sir.

So, that leaves us with Potter,

Donna Beatrice, Lisa...

Or Belle.

Or suicide.

Or Mr Fustian.

Fustian.

He was miles away.

He's got an alibi.

Oh, yes. He was at Sayer's
Art Gallery, rubbing shoulders

with a couple of hundred
witnesses straight out of Who's Who.

And he couldn't wait to rush
around here,

still in his glad rags, and
wave that alibi under our noses.

And you can't wait,
I'm sorry to say this, Albert,

you can't wait to put up any argument to
direct my attention away from this house

and these people,
you're too close to them.

Anyway, I'm not looking for
theories, I'm looking for facts.

Have you traced
that phone call yet?

The one that came through here
at half past four as Lisa was leaving.

I've told HQ to try and trace
it, there's not much hope.

Why, do you think somebody
poured the poison down the phone?

No, but how about this?

We know from Potter if ever
she had an upset or nasty shock,

she went straight
for the whisky.

Now, you can't use the phone
to administer poison.

But you could certainly use
it to administer a nasty shock.

You can't use it
to take a bottle away, though.

Oates, you are getting
obsessed by that bottle!

Oh.

Hello, Lisa.

Belle's asking if the inspector
would like to come up to the house

for tea and biscuits.

Er, no, thank you.

Just a minute.

I want you to think very hard.

You remember after
Mrs Lafcadio found the body,

she left you here
and you waited outside.

Yes.

All the time?

Yes.

Are you quite sure
that no one came in?

I told you, nobody came in.

Nobody even came near.

Except the boy.

Boy?

What boy?

Now,

if you want to make Detective
Chief Inspector Oates very happy,

and me too,

just tell us about the boy.

Well, he's just a lad
who works for Max Fustian.

He comes around every week with
a sort of a box thing, about this size.

It's work...
It was work for Claire Potter.

When it was done, she'd put it
ready for him just inside the door there.

He didn't come in, he'd just
put his hand in and took it away.

Same as always.

He just took it away.

Same as always.

Right.

See?

We got two like this.

I'd take one round to her, and the
other one would be ready to bring away.

- Who packed them?
- Mr Fustian did. He was funny about that.

They're very valuable.

What size were the blocks?

Well, I would say
one would about fill this up.

Only not so wide.

About like this.

Wouldn't it slide along?

I expect he put something
in it to stop it.

You never watched him pack it?

Oh, no,
he wouldn't let me near it.

But he must have done,
mustn't he?

He must have put something
in each side.

A scrupled up bit of paper
or something like that?

Or something like that.

Thank you, Mr Green.

Oh, by the way,

did you leave one of those
behind you the last time you called?

Oh, no, I just fetched
the last one away.

Mr Fustian said
she'd finished the job.

- So, Fustian was paying her in kind.
- Yeah.

Drink came in with the blocks, and
the empties went out the same way.

Did you manage to trace
the phone call she received?

Oh, yes!

Wasn't much help,
though, because

it was made from a public
phone box in Clifford Street.

- Do you know Clifford Street?
- Yes.

It's just around the corner
from Sayer's Art Gallery.

Bang goes Fustian's alibi.

He was no more than 50 yards
from that phone box.

Wait a minute.

Anything she drank at that time,
she must have had for several days.

Well...

All right. We know
she didn't drink every day.

Fustian was waiting patiently
to hear she'd mysteriously died.

Nothing happened, so he
decided to hurry things up.

He rang her and told her something
that put the fear of God into her.

- And he's got away with it.
- What?

We haven't got enough to pull him
in for questioning. We can only wait.

Good God! What for?

Well, he won't stop at this.
They never do.

The question is,
who's gonna annoy him next?

No.

I won't let you take them
out of the country.

Johnny left specific instructions
about those 12 pictures.

He wanted one unpacked and exhibited
every year and people invited to see it.

I've done it for eight years,
and I shall do it for the other four.

- You'll find that people won't be so eager to exhibit...
- I don't care if nobody comes.

I shall still do what he wanted.

- My dear Belle...
- I am not your dear Belle.

Let me explain again.

I'm offering to do this at
great personal inconvenience

as a last tribute to
Don Lafcadio.

If I take the pictures
abroad now,

I know that I can sell privately
in Tokyo or New York

where they won't even have
heard of the scandal.

Now, there aren't many
painters I'd do it for.

Cos I was the one chiefly responsible for
bringing his work to public attention, I...

Well, I feel it's my duty.

- Do listen to him, Belle.
- I'm not going to plead with you, Belle.

Bring the lawyers into it if you
must. They'll encourage you.

Nothing they like
more than old ladies

in their 70s with a taste
of vexatious litigation.

At your age,
it's a well-known syndrome.

Well, the courts will
recognise it and sympathise,

but they won't
take it seriously.

On the other hand, the gutter
press with have a field day.

Mr Fustian, I shall overlook
what you've said about me.

You've always been a vain
and bumptious little man.

And it must have come
as a shock to find that,

just for once,
you can't have your own way.

But I shall find it much harder to
forgive what you said about Johnny.

You brought his name
before the public. I...

I've never heard such
monstrous nonsense in my life.

You only hold
the position you occupy now

because you had the intelligence to
cling to his coattails when he was alive

and make capital out of him
when he was dead.

This is your last chance,
Mrs Lafcadio.

Will you or will you not allow
me to take the pictures abroad?

- No.
- Nothing will make any difference?

Only my death.

When I'm dead,
you can all do what you like.

Yes?

We've come to see Albert.

Whom shall I say it is, madam?

Oh, Lugg, don't be so silly. You
know perfectly well I rang up yesterday.

Who is that?

Oh, that's the famous Lugg,
sort of butler-cum-henchman,

and he thinks
he's Albert's Dr Watson.

Come and sit down.

Miss Linda Lafcadio
and Mr Matt D'Urfey.

- Yes, thank you, Lugg.
- Only doing me job.

Well, now... I didn't
expect you back so soon.

Well, as soon as I heard about
Claire, I dropped everything.

You're looking well.
Paris has done you good.

We're beginning to get somewhere.
That's what's doing me good.

It was shock enough
when Tommy got murdered,

and 10 times worse when
everyone seemed to think I'd done it.

And then when the pictures started
vanishing, I wondered if I really was mad.

Do you know what is the most
beautiful feeling in the whole world?

Waking up in the morning
and thinking,

"I am not going off my head. I
never was going off my head."

Uh, Linda.
Are you gonna show him this?

Yes, Matt.

Matt is a great lad for
getting down to essentials.

She found this in Paris.

There's a man called Lepanon.

Keeps a filthy little cafe
at Montparnasse.

I knew Tommy used to take rooms
there sometimes when he was hard up.

He left this behind once
in lieu of rent.

- Well?
- It looks familiar.

Doesn't it just? It's a
detail from my grandfather's picture.

The soldier standing
just behind Saint Joan.

Ah, yes. That's it.

You mean Dacre copied it?
When? Why?

- Matt's got a theory.
- Come and look.

Lugg, wasn't there something
you had to do in the kitchen?

I can take a hint.

It's all I'm fit for nowadays,
making tea.

I'm sorry. You were saying?

- All right, you see that watermark?
- Mm-hmm.

Well, this paper is
What man, fashion surface.

And it wasn't manufactured
till about seven years ago.

Lafcadio was dead by then,
so he can't have drawn it.

- You mean Dacre copied it?
- No, no, he can't have.

You see, Saint Joan
is supposed to be

one of the 12 Lafcadio pictures
packed up and sealed before his death.

When Dacre was in Paris,
it hadn't been unveiled.

That isn't a copy of a painting.

It's a study for a painting.

Are you trying to suggest that Tom
Dacre painted the picture of Saint Joan?

We're not suggesting.
We're telling you. It's a fake.

It fooled the experts.

Experts are only human,
Mr Campion.

Was Dacre really a good enough
painter to deceive everybody?

Yes, he was.

Not many people realise it.

That's why Max has been so busy getting
hold of his paintings and destroying them.

So no one ever will realise it.

You think it was Max?

Don't you?

I think when he took over
Seagrave's gallery,

he couldn't keep his hands off
Lafcadio's pictures.

- Well, that was the time he got so rich.
- So suddenly.

I believe he opened them up
and sold off

three or four to private
buyers on the quiet.

He never thought
Belle would live so long.

If she died, he could have covered
his tracks and told any tale he liked.

As it was, he knew he'd have to
produce something to replace them,

so he hired Tom to forge them.

But why kill him?

Well, it must have been hard for Tom to
hear his picture praised as a masterpiece

and not be able to take a bow.

Well, perhaps he threatened
to blow the gaff.

Or paint some more Lafcadios
on his own account.

Albert.

Max had got to be stopped.

Where is Williams?

Tell Easton I want the report
on the Teller case.

Well, find him!

You were saying?

You asked for evidence.
That drawing is evidence.

It proves nothing.

It could have been
an old sketch by Lafcadio...

- Lafcadio.
- ...copied from old paper onto new paper.

Too circumstantial.

And about time.

Oates, will you or will you not give
me three minutes' undivided attention?

Sorry. Yes.

I'm telling you Max Fustian
killed two people.

Look, we're watching him. The
very next time he puts a foot wrong...

Or the next time somebody dies?

Look, Albert, I can't
and I won't do anything

until I've got
a case that will stick.

Suppose you're right about
Dacre, what about Claire Potter?

- Well, we know how he did that.
- Where's the motive?

If Dacre was forging
Lafcadio pictures,

he'd have had to go to her for Lafcadio
red and a couple of other pigments.

She knew too much.

Now, the 4:30 phone call,

he could have told her the
police were onto the fraud,

that she'd be charged
as an accessory.

That would have
driven her to the bottle.

- Now, will you arrest him?
- No.

Unless we've got hard evidence,

Fustian can hire first-class
lawyers and make us look like fools.

What I will do, though,

I'll put a man
onto Fustian full time.

All right?

I wouldn't have said
"all right" was the mot juste.

What you're really asking for
is one more corpse.

- Albert.
- What?

Mind how you go.

Oates.

Lugg!

Lugg.
I'm going to need your help.

- That's nothing new.
- Tom Dacre's widow.

- What's she like?
- You're about to find out.

- She's coming to lunch tomorrow.
- Here?

You can, um, get the food up
from the restaurant downstairs.

But I want to be sure of
privacy and I want bags of style.

Lugg, she's a girl who takes
umbrage if she's not treated right.

I want you to pick her up in the
car tomorrow at about half past 12.

At her home, would that be?

That's right. At her home.

I'm looking for a lady called...

I am Rosa.

Where is the car?

- More coffee?
- No.

But I'll have some more of that.

- So, go on. What happened next?
- Wait till he's gone.

Why you got a man like him?
He's not a proper servant.

That right?

I try to give satisfaction,
madam.

How do you recognise
a proper servant?

Easy. You don't know he's there.

You think, "Ah, it is
two hands holding a tray."

With him, you don't think
that's a pair of hands.

You think there is
another man in this room.

Quite true,

but don't I think I could live with genuine
18-carat civility, it's too corrupting.

Che?

- Not talking over her head.
- Lugg, go away.

Your cover is blown. You've
been unmasked as a human being.

Perhaps you ought to
be flattered.

You were saying that
Dacre went to a cottage.

- Was that with you?
- No. No.

Long time ago, he went there
to paint a man called Hector.

You know about him?

- Hector who?
- Old Greek soldier.

Oh, that Hector.
A classical picture.

Si, those kinds
with lots of people in.

He did four big ones,
all different.

Ah, now I make you excited, eh?

You look nice like that.

I think maybe
you got a too-quiet life.

Hmm. Uh, you don't happen to
remember where the cottage was?

Remember? Remember?

When Tommy was dead,
they all told me,

"Odd luck, missus. You got nothing
coming. He never had nothing."

I said, "Balls!
He had a cottage."

- He owned it?
- Eh?

He must have. He was
there for weeks all on his own.

He never paid rent.

So I went to the railway.

I said, "Where is a place
called... Eeronowee?"

- Haronhowe.
- Si, that's at Essex, right?

I said, "Give me a ticket,"
and I went, and nothing there.

- No pictures?
- No cottage.

Cows, fields, little titchy
bunch of house and one pub.

I asked people, "Where is the cottage
called Penny stone belonging to a painter?"

And guess what? They all
swear he never been there.

Why do they lie?

Now then, somebody
made his pictures vanish.

So, all right, clever trick.

But somebody making
the whole damn cottage vanish?

That's somebody
in league with the devil.

- It's around here somewhere.
- So you keep saying.

There are only two Haronhowes.

Rosa drew a blank
in the Essex one.

It's got to be the Sussex one.

Try the next on the left.

- What are you expecting to find here?
- I don't know.

That's handy.

Nobody's been near
this place in donkey's years.

Oh, I don't know.

Wouldn't you say
this has been trodden on?

Anything could have done that.

- Such as?
- I don't know.

A place like this, I daresay it's running
alive with things as soon as it gets dark.

Foxes, ferrets.

Rats and things.

Badgers.

Oh, I do like that. Straight
out of Kenneth Grahame.

Ratty and Mole and Badger,
and wonderful Mr Toad.

This place is rubbish.
It's falling down.

This window's
not fastened properly.

Maybe I can get in.

Don't strain yourself.

Door open around there.

Thank you, Lugg.

Stinks, don't it?

Damp, that is.

And mildew.

Greatest crash
in Wall Street's history.

- That's going back a bit.
- Six years.

This stuff wasn't burned
six years ago.

It would've settled into dust.

Lugg, come here.

Is it my imagination,
or is this warm?

That's warmer back there.
You feel it.

No, no,
I'll take your word for it.

Eureka.

- What is it?
- It's a little piece of an oil painting.

And unless I'm very much mistaken,
the colour is the true Lafcadio red.

Does that mean...

My dear fellow!

But this is delightful!

How very good of you to drop in!

Sorry the place is so obscenely dirty
and I'm afraid I can't offer you a drink,

but at least there's a chair.

Won't you sit down?

Is this place yours?

Such as it is, yes.
A poor thing, but mine own.

Actually, I believe that's a misquotation,
but I've always been too lazy to look it up.

Well, well, well,
this is a surprise.

Just happened to
be passing, did you?

Or perhaps you're on the
lookout for a country cottage?

You could put it like that.

Well, I doubt whether
this would suit you, dear boy.

It's very remote and quite
devastatingly unsanitary.

So I bought it some years ago
to lend out to artists, you know.

Just put a painter in here, he'd get
so bored, he'd work like a beaver.

A studio in the back thrown
in. Converted wash house.

There's a studio, is there?

You'd like to look it over! By all
means, peer into every nook and cranny.

But you won't find anything.

I've been having
a grand clear-out.

- Any particular reason?
- Why, yes.

I'm leaving the country soon.
I may be gone some time.

One prefers not to leave
loose ends lying around.

I noticed you'd been
destroying something.

Oh, everything, dear boy.

All my sins.

Can I give you a lift?

Most kind, but no, my
car's back there around the corner.

Well, it's been nice
knowing you, Campion.

This looks like
the parting of the ways.

Give my regards to Belle.

Say I'll send her a postcard
from New York.

- Goodbye.
- Bon voyage.

Oh, and about
the Dacre picture...

Yes?

You said you'd keep an eye open
for me to find me one to replace it.

No need now. I managed to
get hold of a Dacre oil painting.

Ah!

Good. Good.

- I didn't know you'd got hold of a...
- Campion!

It's just occurred to me.

I'm not leaving right away. We could get
together for a drink sometime next week.

- What do you say?
- Nothing I'd like better.

Splendid.

I'll give you a ring.

Ah ha!

My dear fellow.

- Fustian.
- Allow me.

You're just in time to join us
in a little celebration.

Adrian Fielding, my publisher.

Albert Campion.

The Albert Campion.

- How do you do?
- Mr Fielding.

Now, Albert, you must
join us in a little toast.

Brandy and soda.
So deliciously Edwardian.

It's really a double
celebration. - Of what?

Well, number one, 10
years ago, I took this place over.

Best decision you
ever made. - I think so.

To the Seagrave Gallery.

The Seagrave Gallery.

You know, Campion, this
is one of the few callings

where success goes to the
man who was in it for love,

for the sheer privilege of spending
his life among truly beautiful objects.

I mean, this for instance.

Isn't it perfect?

Look at that detail!

Or this...

Ah, I shall hate
parting with this one.

And this, I take it, is your
second cause for celebration.

Ah, yes.

I hope you're satisfied.

The wranglings we've had with
this man over the cover design.

Lafcadio, the man.

Very nice. Oh, that reminds me,

I came across an old
photograph only last week.

It was the only one taken
of both of us together.

That's me. That's Johnny.

A wonderful, wonderful artist.

Johnny Lafcadio.

- Johnny Lafcadio.
- Johnny Lafcadio.

And are you a collector,
Mr Campion?

Mr Campion has just acquired
a new Tom Dacre.

Really? Does one collect
Tom Dacres? I hadn't realised.

Adrian takes
rather a dim view.

I tend to agree,
the man was a second-rater,

but I'll be fascinated to know
how you got hold of it.

You must tell me
all about it over dinner.

Where will that be?

Oh, Saverini's.

That's where everyone goes
this season. Salute!

Won't you follow
me, gentlemen? Your table is ready.

I took the caution of leaving the
choice of food up to our good maitre d'.

Elizabeth! Hello.
What have you done with Margo?

- John.
- Fustian.

Thank you.

Tonight, taste the Cantonetti.

To appreciate it one must have
the right things with it.

What's the Cantonetti?

My dear Campion, greatest
gastronomic discovery of the age.

The one wine our generation
has given to the civilised world.

Of course, they've known about it in Romania
for generations, but it simply didn't travel.

The aeroplane has
changed all that. Joseph.

Has the Cantonetti arrived?

Quite safely, Mr Fustian, by
Mr Saverini's private plane.

Has it been kept at 65?

Sixty-five degrees exactly.

- Bring it now.
- Very good, sir.

You know, Campion, some people
treat good food as a consolation prize

when life is
treating them badly.

That is sacrilege.

Should add the final touch
of perfection to those days

when nothing can possibly
go wrong, don't you agree?

I've been wondering why I've been
selected to share this special occasion.

There must have been
likelier candidates.

What a suspicious mind you have.

I suppose
it's an occupational hazard.

So right, of course.

Suspicious minds so often are.
That's the depressing thing about them.

Yes, Campion, I have brought
you here in order to lull you

into a mellow and receptive
frame of mind.

- To what end?
- Ah, you'll enjoy this. One of the house specialties.

Thank you.

You were saying?

- I'm very fond of Belle Lafcadio.
- So am I.

She's got the wrong
end of the stick.

What I am proposing will be best
for her and for Johnny's reputation.

Now, you're a reasonable man,
open to persuasion, and she trusts you.

So...

Ah ha!

You are prepared for it,
Mr Fustian?

We've been in training all day.

To your health, my dear Campion.

Your very good health.

You're not supposed to
sip the stuff. It's not Madera.

Drink it like
the divine draught it is.

Now, let me raise
the question of Lafcadio.

Aah.

Lafcadio.

Oh, yes, of course, Lafcadio.

It was on the...

- It was on the...
- Tip of your tongue?

It was on the agenda.

Oops!

Oh, God, I feel drunk!

- Do you feel drunk?
- Not in the least.

Mmm.

I must eat something.

My biscuit appears to be soggy.

Have another.

Did he understand
about the Cantonetti?

Well, I certainly thought
I'd made it perfectly clear.

Well, he can't have taken
you seriously, Mr Fustian.

It's a wonderful wine,

but it's essential to refrain from spirits
of any kind for the preceding 12 hours.

Even after one small drink,
the strongest head can't stand it.

- Excuse me.
- Pardon me, sir.

You were just saying
something to him over there.

- Mr Fustian, sir.
- Right.

Well, you can safely tell me.

- Do you understand what I'm saying?
- Yes, sir.

I was simply reminding Mr
Fustian that if the Cantonetti

is taken in conjunction with spirits
of any kind, even in small quantities,

- the effect can be, to say the least...
- Ha!

No, he didn't.

I see it now!

It's damn clever!

I really must
apologise for my friend's behaviour.

Not at all, sir, but I do think, in
the gentleman's own interest...

Yes, yes, yes.

Have another drink.

To Cleopatra.

Off we go.

What are we doing here?

Come quickly, dear boy.

This way.

Any sign of the train?

- What?
- Any sign of the train coming?

Careful.

No, can't see.

Yes, you can. See if
there's a light in the tunnel.

- Still alive, then?
- Only just.

It is five minutes to one.

- What happened?
- You went out. To dinner.

Oh, no.

Seems to me, you made a
public exhibition of yourself.

I don't know.

I can't take me eyes off you for 10
minutes without you getting into trouble.

There's been a couple of
phone calls. What'll I tell them?

Mr Campion is otherwise engaged.

Right.

If you ever get nearer to
death than you were last night,

you'd be able to
steal his scythe.

Lucky for me,
your chap was there.

Lucky? Luck doesn't
come into it.

I told you, I was going
to put a man to Fustian.

He was right behind
the pair of you all night.

- It's all here in the report.
- I can imagine.

Makes a very good read.

I'll show it to you one day.

I don't think you're quite in
the mood to appreciate it now.

I intended to be so careful
in that restaurant. I thought,

as long as I don't take anything
he doesn't take, I'll be all right.

It was much subtler
than poison.

Nothing would have been found
in your blood stream, only alcohol.

And there were quite a few
people about, prepared to witness

that you had been reeling
around London drunk as a lord.

- Have you questioned him?
- Yes.

He volunteered
to make a statement.

Statement?
What sort of statement?

A long one. It took them
all morning to get it done.

Look here, Stanislaus, you're
telling me he's confessed?

He's gone over the edge,
delusions of grandeur, megalomania.

There's a lot of stuff in the
confession about 15th century Rome.

Either he thinks he's descended
from Lorenzo de' Medici

or he thinks he is Lorenzo de'
Medici. It's all a lot of rubbish anyway.

You sure he's not faking it?

It's not my department, but
the doctors don't think so.

- What will happen now?
- Asylum. Pentonville.

Remanded till fit to plead.

Which certainly won't be
for a long, long time.

Maybe never.

- I wouldn't have wished that on him.
- No, old boy.

I didn't believe you would.

Albert, I hear he's dead.

Yes, bad business.

He died in the infirmary.

He was only there five days.

I suppose no really sane person
could have done those things.

What had poor Tom done to him?

The inspector hinted that Tom
might have been blackmailing him,

but he wouldn't have done that.

According to Rosa,
Tom was short of money.

He talked of going to the cottage
and painting some more pictures.

If that meant more fake Lafcadios, Max
would have thought it much too dangerous.

And poor Claire. What had
she ever done to offend him?

Nothing. Only she'd guessed.

He talked a lot about
Claire in his confession.

When he phoned her that day, he
told her the police knew everything

and that she would
be charged as an accessory.

He knew how much
that would frighten her.

Oh, Albert.

The wickedness... Dreadful
wickedness, oh, the waste.

And all through that "Show
Sunday" idea of Johnny's.

Well, there won't be
any more of those now.

He's very upset about that.

He came to me last night.

I could hear
his voice so clearly.

And you know, I could sense how
much he enjoyed those occasions.

He wanted me to know, he's truly,
truly distressed they've come to an end.

Is he, dear?

Does he want me to invite people to come and
admire the pictures ghosted by Tom Dacre?

- Well, I...
- If so, he's changed a lot since he died.

Next time you're communing with him,
tell him for me not to be such a goose.

Do you know,

I've always had the strangest feeling that
Johnny couldn't have painted that picture.

And last night, I suddenly realised
what had been bothering me.

What was it?

I remember him talking
to me about Saint Joan.

Thirty-odd years ago.
"Look, Belle," he said.

"She spent most of her life
hoeing and carrying pig swill.

"Then a couple of years sleeping
rough in army camps,

then rotting in jail.

"And she had the kind of mind

"that thought nobody knew
what God wanted, only she.

"I'll lay 20 to one," he said.

"That women must have had
a face like Oliver Cromwell's"

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