All language subtitles for Campion (1989-1990) 8 Mystery Mile 2

THEME SONG PLAYING...

Mystery Mile, a remote
village on the east coast of England.

Cut off by the sea at high tide.

...my cards.

Just the place to hide
Judge Crowdy Lobbett

from the murderous attentions of
the Simister gang, or so I thought.

But already a visit from the
fortune-teller Anthony Datchett

seems to have led to the mysterious
death of the Reverend Swithin Cush.

And now Judge Lobbett himself
has disappeared into thin air.

George is here, miss.

Anything for the post,
Miss Biddy?

These letters.
Thank you, George.

Would you be kind
and write out a label for me?

- Now, the old Parson's gone.
- Of course.

It's for me son-in-law,
Reg Hatton.

- Two T's?
- That's right.

The Beck Garage, Canvey Island.

Essex.

Thank you kindly, Miss Biddy.

Sorry to bother you.

Wreathing and writhing
and fainting in coils.

Hardly any of them can write.

Why don't you do something,
Albert?

Well, like finding the Judge.

All you do is sit around making
asinine remarks and smirking

and telling the Lobbetts
not to call the police,

when it's clear
they're both ill with worry.

I used to be pretty fond of you.

But now I think you're just
cold and horrible and callous.

- Rough stuff.
- How dare you?

♪ The sun has got his hat on

♪ Hip, hip, hip, hooray!

♪ The sun has got his hat on
and he's coming out today

♪ We're over the moon
We're up in the sky

♪ Not a moment too soon,
we'll... ♪

- It's good to see you, man.
- Filthy things, trains.

As for that one,
should be in a museum.

Been wandering round
the country like it was lost.

- Will a drop of the local brew cheer you up?
- That all depends, dunnit?

- Find that Yankee Judge you've gone and lost?
- No.

Not too clever that, is it?
For a professional.

Yours is not to
reason why, Lugg.

As long as
I don't have to do or die.

I got your clean
clobber like you asked me.

Thanks.

- How far is this Mystery place you're at?
- Oh, 20 miles or so.

Twenty miles. Do the
locals still wear wool?

Just about.

You're not going to make
me go there, are you?

No.

A messenger boy,
that's all I am.

Left in Bottle Street,
like a discarded toy.

Not bad. A bit thin. Expect
they water it in this sort of place.

What's the news from your end?
Did you speak to Oates?

The Chief Detective Inspector
begged me to inform you

that Datchett is a con
and blackmailer.

Sometimes he sports
a red beaver,

other times his chin's
as bare as a baby's bum.

Once upon a time he
worked the oars, legitimate.

Have I got time for another?

Anything on Mr Barber?

I spoke to your poncey mate.

Him what pawns.
Something to eat, no more.

He says this Barber bloke's rolling in
it. He's got harems all over the place.

- He says he's an art expert.
- That's right.

The bloke did say
he was connoisseur of art.

Perhaps women don't satisfy
his every passion and desire.

The Simister gang?

Look. I've come to warn you.

You are ignorant compared
with me, you don't know.

They're a nasty lot.
Leave them alone.

Your own mother couldn't
give you better advice.

- There's me train.
- Tell me if you know anything.

Down the club,
they say there's a noticeable

absence of the really
nasty customers.

Ikey Todd and that lot.

- I did hear Ropey's back in the country.
- Ropey?

It is an infamy that such a bloke
should exist at the peak. You know him.

Hmm.

What do you suggest?

Well, in my opinion, sir,
though you won't take it, I'm sure,

I'd apply to Thomas Knapp.

I'm hanged if I will. I do not
associate with Mr Thomas Knapp.

What did I tell you?
It's too late now.

We best go separate,
just in case.

I shall wear the black band round me head
for you and the funeral card'll cost a bit.

Thanks for the drink.

Here. Don't forget your clobber.

Thank God you're back, Albert.
They found the Judge's clothes.

- Who are "they"?
- Kettle's daughter actually.

And where did Miss Kettle
make this interesting discovery?

Saddleback Creek.

Albert.

Do try to be a little less...

Clinical.

- Definitely Dad's suit.
- Soaked in sea water and torn.

- That's blood, isn't it?
- Possibly.

- Nothing in the pockets?
- No, nothing at all.

All the pockets
were pulled inside-out.

I'm wanted in there!
Show me in immediately!

I'll do no such thing.

They're a bereaved family.
They don't want to see you.

- I'll go and send him away.
- Uh, no.

If you don't mind, I think
it might be a good idea

if we interviewed
old Clever Science ourselves.

Certainly.

Come in, Mr Kettle.

Thank you, Cuddy.

I saw the car turn in
the drive, Mr Campion,

so I've run straight over
knowing you'll be wanting the truth.

It was my daughter who's found
the remains, as you might say.

Is your daughter here?

Oh, no, sir. You can
imagine the condition she's in.

The shock and the horror of it.

And I may mention,
though I have offered myself,

no one has as yet sent
for the police.

It'll look very suspicious
when they do come.

Even though you're the son of
the dead man, sir, it will look nasty.

- What dead man? Have you got the body?
- Me, sir? Oh, no, sir.

No, when we find that, then I
dare say we'll know who killed him.

- And how was he killed?
- With a dagger, sir.

How do you know that?

Well, it's a question of
deduction, isn't it, sir?

Look at this jacket hole,
right over the heart.

See these stains?

If you don't know what that
is, I can tell you. It's blood.

Heart's blood. The victim
was stabbed to death

with a knife.

And look at these clothes. Sopping
wet. Now, what does that show?

- That they've been in water.
- Ah, exactly. You've hit it in one.

Mr Lobbett was taken out to sea
in a boat, stabbed through the heart,

and thrown in the water.

Where he undressed, being
careful to remove his braces, yes.

So far I think
that's perfectly clear.

But there are one or two
little matters to be explained

before we call in Scotland Yard.

First, the knife thrust. A rather
curious incision, don't you think?

A little hole nicked
with a pair of scissors

and then made larger
with a table knife.

And the blood stains. The poor man seems
to have bled from outside his clothes.

The inside, you see,
is quite clean.

I wonder if anyone's killed
a chicken lately.

There's something fishy about this. A
whole load of fishiness you might say.

Someone's been playing
the fool with you, Mr Kettle,

I should go back to your
post office if I were you.

I'm sorry about that. But I had to
find out how much Sherlock knew.

- What do you make of these?
- Whole thing's an extraordinary bad fake.

Amateur stuff. Definitely not
your father's New York friends.

Probably local talent.

But that was the suit
Dad was wearing.

That's the only thing
that makes it interesting.

Look, it's getting late now.
But first thing in the morning,

I think I'd better do some sleuthing
of my own around the place.

You haven't seen
Biddy anywhere, have you?

- No.
- We arranged to meet in...

To go for a walk together.

She was gonna show me
Saddleback Creek.

- But I can't find her anywhere.
- Really?

- You haven't seen Miss Biddy, have you, sir?
- No.

Why?

Well, Miss Biddy said she'll go down
the shop and get me some baking powder.

Well, that was more than an
hour ago and I've got the oven hot.

Yes, all right, Cuddy.

I think I've been rather
stupid. Come on, Marlowe.

You don't think anything's
happened to Biddy, do you?

- Yes.
- If it has, I'll commit murder.

That's the spirit.

What can I do for you gentlemen?

Um, did Miss Pagett leave
her purse here, Mr Kettle?

No, no. She left nothing, sir.

Fine. Now we know where we are.

Is she still in the house?

Oh, don't be a fool, man. All we
have to do is turn you over to the police.

Where is she?

How dare you come here
threatening me, accusing me!

You call the police, sir.
You call the police.

I shall have something to tell them.

Where is Mr Lobbett?

Why don't you show
them clothes to the police?

Because you daren't, that's why!

- Look, I'm not having this, sir.
- Shut the door.

It's a pity the window
won't open,

you could've gotten rid
of the smell of chloroform.

If she's been hurt,
I'll break my rule and kill you.

Now, Mr Kettle,
the story so far.

You make a mess
of faking the Judge's clothes.

That not only sets us buzzing around
your head, but your own dirty employers.

They order you to kidnap the
first of us that comes in here.

You apply the chloroform...

Innocent sort of delivery van
waiting outside.

Where have they taken her?

If they find out you know all this,
they'll kill me. Don't let them know.

Where? Where?

I don't know! Honest I don't!
I never seen the men before.

I had to do as they said.

I wouldn't have done it
if I could've helped.

I believe him.

The nastiest thing we can
do now is leave him to his pals.

Are you all right, sir?

Well, if it isn't
Albert himself.

May I introduce you to Mr
Thomas Knapp. Mr Lobbett.

But I thought that... Oh, it was
your dad worked on the punk.

- Pleased to meet you, sir.
- How do you do?

What I've been through
to get here.

I had to pinch this thing in Colchester
or I'd never have got here at all.

How did you know I was here?
It was Lugg, wasn't it?

Shall we say that me and
Magers have interests in common.

Your interests.

I happened to overhear something
about you and this Lobbett business.

- What?
- Confidential.

- Interested?
- I might be.

What did I tell you? Me and Albert
have worked together in the past.

We're in the same star.
We understand one another.

- Well, what is it?
- Oh, that's not like you, sir.

Ain't I gonna get offered
any refreshment?

All the way from Colchester
on this thing.

That's much better.

Yesterday afternoon I happened to
overhear a very curious conversation

on one of my new lines.

I should explain. Mr Knapp used to
work for government on telephone repairs.

Then he and the postmaster
general had a slight misunderstanding,

and he retired from
public life for a few years.

Since then I've been on me own.

Using my electrical knowledge
to my own advantage.

If you know the way, it's
easy to listen on the line.

You'd be surprised
the things I pick up.

Filth in high places,
you wouldn't believe it.

Yesterday...

There was
these two blokes talking.

One said,
"Who sent the clothes?"

And the other said, "There was no message,
only the handwriting on the label".

"Ooh", says the other.
"That's who you want".

Didn't mean nothing to me
till the first bloke says,

"Who's this Albert Campion,
when he's at home?"

And the other says,
"I'll find out about him".

Then the first bloke says,

"If it was the girl, get her up
here and we'll put her through it".

Sounds as though one of your
ladies might get into trouble.

- Miss Pagett has already disappeared.
- Oh.

How much?

I'll make you
a gentlemanly offer,

what I wouldn't
if I didn't know you.

Oh, come on now, Thomas.
Cut the cackle.

It's no use to us unless you know
where they were speaking from.

But I do.

Twenty-five quid for the address and
another 25 when we get the girl back.

Now, I can't say
fairer than that.

You're on.

32 Beverly Gardens,
Notting Hill Gate, Kensington.

- You got a scrap of paper on you?
- Hmm.

I heard the butchers,
they're there, all right.

Two heavies on guard outside.

Now, the house where I
hang out with my old mum

backs on to Beverly Gardens.
You could make it your headquarters.

We could nip across them roads
as easy as kiss your arse.

- Who's the boss?
- Calls himself Datchett.

You know, as far as intelligence is
concerned, Thomas, you're coming on.

It's the picture man back.
He's the limit.

Sir Giles, may I be the first
to congratulate you.

Proof. Proof positive
your Romney is genuine.

I should like to arrange for the sale
with you. Let us talk to Judge Lobbett.

- He's not here.
- Still not back?

- He's disappeared.
- Oh, you're joking, Sir Giles.

My father's blood-stained
clothes were found yesterday.

- But this is terrible.
- I'm sorry, Mr Barber.

This is terrible.
I thought he was just away.

My commission,
all the work I have done.

Just send me your account.

Thank you.
If I can be of any help.

Ah, my friend, I...

Giles.

Biddy's been kidnapped, taken to
London. We think we know where she is.

We've got to get
there quickly, all of us,

without the whole
village finding out.

- But, Isopel?
- She'll be safe in my flat.

Mr Barber,
we'd be eternally grateful

if you could give
three of us a lift to London.

A pleasure!
I'm an excellent driver.

And if you can
persuade Sir Giles

to let me handle
the sale of his picture,

- the gratitude would be entirely mine.
- Thank you, Mr Barber.

If you get hungry
just shout down the lift.

If you get scared, just shout at
the policemen out of the window.

And if anyone calls, don't,
whatever you do, open the door.

Especially not if it's an old
gentleman with an aerial to this top hat,

and natty black gators.
That's my wicked uncle.

Oh. You won't let Giles do
anything silly, or Marlowe either.

- You will look after them?
- As if they were my sons, madam.

Both young gentlemen will be
under the direct care of matron.

You see, you don't know
how worrying it is to be in love.

That's all you know,
young woman.

Make room on the bed
for Mr Barber, Mum.

He don't
look too happy in the corner there.

Think you're clever, don't you?

Just when you're going into a really
nasty business, who do you get around you?

Two ready amateurs and
something out of a carpet shop.

Gold.

Oi, Thomas.

Don't lean against that wall, it's me
who looks after your clothes, remember.

- Did Mr Barber come willingly?
- Bit of gentle persuasion you might say.

He knew too much. Besides,
we might need his car.

Mother will keep him quiet.
She's as good as a bull pup.

Up here.

All given to me
by the government

in unconscious recognition
of my services.

Over here, Albert.

That's 32 Beverly Gardens.
The one with the new chimney.

Just to the right
of the big green skylight.

Just stay with me, deary.

...rubber shoes all round.

It's no good
till it's dark anyway.

I'll buy for a thruppence.

I'll see ya.

Look, Mother, argue as much as
you like, five queens is five queens.

- Are you accusing me of cheating?
- All right.

If these gentlemen will accept the fact
that packs may have got mixed up a bit.

- Time we went.
- Right, gentlemen.

Well, so delighted
to have been of service.

The weather
forecast and news summary

will follow at once.

Here. A nice drop of rum.

Don't breathe a word, no one.
If I whistle, drop.

- Just on the other side of that big skylight.
- All right.

London telephone service, madam.

Breakdown gang.

Tracing a fault.

I'm sorry that our conversation
hasn't been more fruitful, Miss Pagett.

I've a little work to do, so I'll leave
you with Mr Ropey here for a while.

I'm sure we'll speak again soon.

Come on, love, spit it out.

Where is Judge Lobbett?

We're sure you know.

I don't want to play noughts
and crosses on your pretty face.

I don't know.

I've told you.
I swear, I don't know.

Ugh!

Emergency?

Fire. Number 32 Beverly
Gardens, Notting Hill Gate.

It's well ablaze. Could you
send someone round to see it?

Thank you.
And the police too, of course.

Fire! Fire! Fire!
Help! Fire! Police!

Fire! Fire!

Get Biddy out quickly.
The way we came.

This way, this way. Trust
uncle. Return tickets, please.

Come on.

Good night, Mr Datchett.

Oh, my God!
Darling, are you badly cut?

Uh, a few stitches.
Lugg knew a jolly good doctor.

Good? Doc Rafton's a marvel.

You'd be walking around in four
separate bits, if it wasn't for him.

Now it's all over
I think I'm going to cry.

Now, now, don't cry.
Here, have a big swig of this.

- Thank you.
- And imagine we're a Sunday newspaper.

Spare us nothing, not one
single gruesome detail.

Well, there's
not much to tell really.

When I came to, I was in that
house with those awful men,

That nasty little creep of a
fortune teller seemed to be the boss.

Well, he won't trouble us
for some time.

They aren't the lot that
kidnapped your father.

And they seemed quite sure
I knew where he was.

But how could you?

It's 'cause of my writing the
label, that address for old George.

They thought I had
the Judge's clothes.

George couldn't possibly have
had the clothes. It's ridiculous.

You do realise, don't you?
This is a death game.

That was quite clear.

In the end, either their leader,

whom I didn't see,
or Mr Lobbett,

is bound to die.

I've known it all along.

Right. Duff's up!

I'm afraid the British burger
is not a gastronomic success.

What is it?

- Herrings and tomato sauce.
- Mmm, delicious.

Bloaters in blood.

Good for the brain. I nipped
out and got the first edition.

We don't get much of a mention.

"Mysterious outbreak,
arson suspected.

"Several men removed from the
house in unconscious condition,

"helping police
with their enquiries."

I could have done
better me self.

Hey, that looks like Dad.

"Giant Diplodocus
found in Suffolk.

"The well-known amateur
archaeologist,

"the Reverend Alaric Watts
of Reading Knights."

- Reading Knights?
- It looks damnably like him...

It is Dad. It must be.

It is, of all the utterly, improbable
and wretched pieces of bad luck.

It is your father,
I put him there.

- You?
- Mea Culpa.

Well, me and your father, not forgetting
George, a good old fashioned put up job.

- But if you...
- Things were getting too hot.

They pinked us the first
evening when Datchett turned up.

Then poor old Swithin
pointed the way.

With this. Reading Knights
were safe with Alaric Watts.

But he disappeared
in front of us.

Mystery Mile magic,
into the maze down the ditch,

change into rougher clothes
in the hut in the beach.

Henry George's brother waiting in a boat,
Reverend Watts waiting down the coast.

George was told
to destroy the clothes.

But George said
"waste not, want not",

and posted them all
to his son-in-law.

And Mr Kettle intercepted the
parcel which caused no end of bother.

Look, they are bound to get word
of this, so speed is of the essence.

I guess we've got
a few hours' start.

You're all going to stay here under Lugg's
avuncular wing, while I return to Suffolk.

I'm not.

You are.
You haven't even got a wing.

I'm coming with you.

Yes, all right, Giles.

No, you stay here, Giles.
Keep an eye out.

Anything suspicious.

I'm not sure.
I really am not quite sure.

I would say that it had never
been used. What do you think?

Campion?

No panic, your family's
all right in London.

I've got Giles with me.

What's wrong?

This.

"Our special photographer with a long
distance camera manages to get a picture,

"archaeologist at work."

Disgusting newspaper people,
spying on us. No privacy left.

Anyway, it's an Ichthyosaurus,
not a Diplodocus.

They won't spell
their own names right next.

Will you excuse me?
I really must warn the museum.

Such a darn fine portrait of
yourself, that's the trouble.

Yeah.

As we say, my cover's blown,
blown sky high.

Even higher.

Yes, and this messes up your
whole plan, Campion, I'm sorry.

I've been a fool. Look at it.

You must drop this whole thing.

You know this just might be our chance to
bring the big fish himself to the surface.

No, I don't see that.

We had a little bit
of a shindig in London.

A schlimazel with
some of Simister's people.

It gives us the blessed possibility
that the big bezesus himself

will turn up and
make a personal affair of it.

What's your idea?

I want you to come back
to Mystery Mile with me.

It's our home ground,
so to speak.

They'll have to attack us.

Either we get them
or they get us.

Any development will be pretty speedy,
certainly sensational and probably final.

What do you say?

You're on.

Should be someone
here on guard.

Henry!

- Always did drink a bit.
- It's not drink.

If the coast is clear I'll give you a
signal. In the meantime, wait here.

Campion, I think
I better come clean with you.

- Later.
- No! Now.

Just in case.

After I retired, I worked on
a state prison commission.

One day I was called in to
interview a man named Colson.

He was serving a big sentence
on a dope smuggling rap.

He was a Simister man.

He was dying of cancer.

I got him out so he could spend
his last few days with wife and family,

and in gratitude he gave me
a clue to who Simister was.

He'd never seen the man himself.

What was the clue?

This little fairy tale book.

I remember old Sindbad.

Comfort me with apples.

I think your dying crook
was having you on, Judge.

Oh, I don't think so.

I read this damn
nonsensical little book

through 20 times and
I cannot find the clue.

But it's in there some place,
now I'm sure of it.

Well, this is not quite
the time for a literary discussion.

Keep your eyes skinned,
both of you.

The universal Mr Barber.

It's only me from over the sea.

They've beaten us to it, chums.

Barber and Mrs Weibrow
are both drugged in the house.

- What?
- We're in a trap.

We've gone and put our little
necks into it like bunnies in a snare.

Back in the car?

Hopeless. That's their bright
idea, I fancy.

We'll have to try
the Lobbett way.

I told George to leave a boat on
the mooring all the time. Come on.

- Come on, Albert.
- Off you go.

I'm not coming.

Don't be an idiot. Come on!

Look, boy, you cannot do this.

Pull away, Giles! That's an order.
Or you'll have us all murdered.

It's no good arguing
with him, Judge.

"Kiss me, Hardy."

Tell Lugg to lay me out proper
and put pennies on me eyes.

"So that all his life he might
have reason

"to remember the adventures
of Sindbad the sailor."

"In a certain town in Persia there
lived once upon a time two brothers.

"Their names were
Cassim and Ali Baba."

I've gone mad.

Good evening, Mr Barber.

Or do you prefer Mr Simister?

You are alone.

Judge Lobbett
sends his apologies.

He was called away
on urgent business.

I am not interested
in that gentleman.

I shall have no difficulty in
picking him up whenever I wish.

At this moment,
my chief interest is in you.

You are a very clever man,
my friend.

Very clever.

I have here a most
interesting dossier.

I assure you it contains
some very remarkable reading.

You and I have both
made the same mistake.

We underestimated each other.

Please sit down,
make yourself comfortable.

Try the soap box.

I have come to admire you,
Mr Campion.

So much so that it may
interest you to know

that I now consider it worthwhile to
offer you a position in my organisation.

Sign along the dotted line.

Please tear carefully, nothing
genuine without this signature.

Always you like a little joke,
eh, Mr Campion?

I suppose I should live in.
All found.

Washing done by the firm.

Perhaps a Circassian slave or
two thrown in when times are good.

You would be well advised to
take my offer seriously, young man.

The alternative hardly
bears thinking about.

No, Mr Simister.
No little Albert on the staff.

Foolish!

I must say
you've got some cheek.

I mean here you are chucking your
weight about in the middle of a marsh,

miles away from home,
and mother.

Suppose I bang you on the head
and go away and say no more about it?

I don't think you'll do that,
I've studied your record closely.

I think a body would
be very difficult to explain.

Your friends at Scotland Yard
would not like it.

I'd very much liked to know, as
one of us is going to cop it shortly,

how you've managed to keep so
quiet about yourself all this time.

Ahh!

I am glad this opportunity
has occurred.

The desire to confide is very
strong in a man of my temperament.

I have never before found myself
in a position where it was quite safe

to indulge in that desire.

I am the only man in the world

who has ever turned
my particular business

into something as pleasurable
as other more legitimate concerns.

I go where I like,
live as I choose.

I have many friends in high
places. I am universally respected.

If I made my money out of oil or
motor cars, it would be exactly the same.

You buy the brains on one side
and the executive power on the other.

Exactly.

It is a pity I should have to kill
you, my friend. I find you intelligent.

Ah!

The secret of my success
is simple.

My father was
the original Simister.

Good Lord, you inherited it?

Why not?

As I have been remarkably
frank with you, Mr Campion,

perhaps, before we part,
you could be frank with me.

How did you stumble upon
my true identity?

The clue was in a copy
of a children's book.

Completely harmless in itself,

and utterly unintelligible to anyone
who did not already suspect you.

The book is in my pocket now.

- May I have it?
- No.

Please?

I'm inclined to dot you one.

I'm younger than you are, and probably
more gifted when it comes to biffing.

But you are not so well armed.

Let me explain.

I read in your dossier that you
sometimes carry a child's water pistol

which looks like
a real revolver.

I confess I was amused
when I read that.

So amused I thought I too
would have my little joke.

My pistol contains a
particularly corrosive fluid.

So you planned this
little conversatione?

Most carefully.

Page one, I think.

Ah, I had forgotten.

Do you always
do your murders like this?

Me? Ho, ho, ho! Never before.

It was only because Judge
Lobbett was foolish enough

to write for an art expert that
I decided to act personally.

I am enjoying myself immensely,
such a delightful conversatione.

What a pity
it should have to close.

Don't think me crude, but, um...

The body question
is still a worry.

Your body? Not to me.

You may have noted my people
have drugged the servants.

I shall return to
where you found me,

drug myself properly this time.

Your friends will find the
amiable Mr Barber, the art expert.

My alibi will be perfect.

And I shall have a beautiful
Romney as a memento of my visit.

As a last favour, will you have
my epitaph put on my grave stone?

If it's short.

Oh, yes. No text just this...

Neatly inscribed.

Here lie I, poor Albert Campion.

Death was bad...

But life was...

Aah!

Here is your epitaph for you.

Campion! Help me!

Campion! Hurry!

Campion, I'll give you
anything in the world. Campion!

Campion!

Oh.

That's the only mystery left.

Why did that dear old man
take his own life?

- Perhaps we shall never know.
- I can tell you why.

I'm sure he won't mind you
knowing, now it's all over.

Swithin wasn't a parson at all.

Someone's been pulling your leg.

Swithin had a brother, a year
or two older, but much alike.

Both orphans and poor.

Swithin's brother
became a priest.

But there wasn't
enough money there

for Swithin to take the
necessary varsity degree.

One summer they were rock
climbing together in Austria.

There was an accident,

and the brother was killed.

In spite of the shock and the grief
he kept his head and swapped roles.

The right man was buried
under the wrong name.

And Swithin took the curacy.

An impersonation story
50 years old. Good Lord.

Last year he wrote to me
telling me all about it.

I suppose he wanted to
confess to someone in writing.

Unfortunately, that nasty man
who kept the post office...

Kettle.

He must have read the letter and
passed on the glad news to the gang.

Blackmail, of course.

They tried to make him work for
them, but he wasn't having any.

As perfect a parson as ever lived,
and a damned old fool at the same time.

God bless him.

Lugg, suppose I retire? This
profession of mine puts people off.

You've had a relapse,
better get you home.

No, I'm serious.

That's unhealthy in itself.
Look.

If you must
have a woman about the place,

find a nice sensible, homely,
hospital nurse.

Someone who'll
do the washing up.

But we don't want that, do we?
Wouldn't be the article, would it?

Push away, Lugg, or we'll miss
our piece of wedding cake.