All language subtitles for Sherlock Holmes s03e05 The Man With The Twisted Lip.eng

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Thank you very much, sir.

God bless you, sir.

You're a gentlemen,

a very perfect
gentle night.

Good day sir.

Oh thank you sir.

Oh my cup runith over.

May yan sweetness
never blush unseen.

My gratitude knows
no bounds sir.

Here I sit your slave
weak and despised.

William Shakespeare.

Blessed are the
poor in spirit, sir.

Blessed are the
poor in spirit

for yours is the
kingdom of heaven sir.

But we arranged
it two weeks ago.

We were to have
supper at my club.

Yes.

He did mention it
to me this morning.

It was just before
the lady called.

Lady?

Which lady?

Well I don't
know her name

but the lady called

and Mr. Holmes went out.

In that case I shall
have take advantage

of an early night.

I must answer the door.

Of course.

Might be a clue.

I hope I'm not
being a nuisance.

Oh he won't
mind I'm sure,

he's the kindest of men.

Mrs. Whitney to
see you Doctor.

Kate, this is a surprise.

Not a pleasant
one I fear John.

Thank you Mrs. Hudson.

Perhaps some tea.

That would be
most welcome.

You must forgive me for
causing so much trouble...

You're causing us no
trouble at all, please.

Your assistant told me

that you were dining
with Mr. Holmes.

Oh I see you've
been to the surgery.

And you had just left.

Well Mr. Holmes has
disappeared without trace

as you can see.

In that case,

I really shouldn't bother
you with my problems.

Oh Mr. Holmes disappears
without trace

at regular intervals.

There's really no
cause for alarm,

only curiosity.

But why did you
want to see me?

If you're ill

you should not be
traveling across London.

I am not ill.

It's Isa.

Well if Isa is ill

I can visit him at home.

He's not at home.

He too has disappeared
without trace?

You can probably
guess what he's doing.

I imagine he's
indulging his addiction.

Opium?

I fear so.

Well he's done this
before has he not?

What makes this
circumstance

so very different?

Well normally his orgies

are confined to one day.

He leaves the house
in the morning

and returns in
the evening,

pale and shattered.

And this time?

I have not seen Isa

for forty-eight hours.

Well have you the
remotest idea

where he might be?

There is an establishment

called the Bar of Gold

in Upper Swandam Lane,

I believe he is there

but I dare not
go there alone.

Oh no, no,

no respectable
woman

would go within a
hundred miles of that

vile alley unaccompanied.

Will you come with me?

No.

But...

No I shall go
there on my own.

You will go home

and if you're husband

is where you think he is

I guarantee to have
him back with you

within two hours.

Though I dare not imagine

what state he'll be in.

Your tea Doctor.

My apologies Mrs. Hudson,

I shall not require tea,

I'm going out

but Mrs. Whitney
will take tea.

And what am I to
tell Mr. Holmes

should he return?

Tell him I've disappeared
without trace.

Upper Swandam Lane
please cabbie.

I sometimes wonder

whether men ever
truly grow up.

They seem to remain
little boys forever.

Do you wonder about
that Mrs. Hudson?

No, Mrs. Whitney.

I don't wonder about it.

I know it

and they always need us

to kiss them
better afterwards,

in a matter of
speaking of course.

No thank you.

I've not come
here to stay.

There's a friend
of mine here.

I just wish to speak
to Mr. Isa Whitney.

Isa?

My God.

Watson.

What's the time?

It's eleven.

What's the day?

Friday the nineteenth.

I thought it
was Wednesday.

It is Wednesday.

You're trying
to frighten me.

Your wife has been
waiting for you

to return home
for two days.

Two days?

Surely not.

A few hours perhaps.

Three pipes,

four pipes,

I forget.

I've got a cab outside

you're going home now!

Must I?

If you value
my friendship.

Oh poor Kate.

Come on.

I have to pay.

I owe the manager money.

You don't have to pay

for your own
destruction.

I'll see to it.

Just get out of
this dreadful place.

Let go!

Get your hands off!

Holmes!

What on earth are you
doing in this den?

I'm going about
my business.

You have a cab outside?

Yes.

I pray send him home.

He looks too limp to get
into any kind of mischief.

I'll see you in
five minutes.

All right.

Give this to the
lady of the house.

Holmes!

I sir.

I was certainly surprised
to see you in that place.

I suppose you think I've
added opium to smoking

to all of my other
little weaknesses?

I merely said

I was surprised
to see you there.

As indeed I
was to see you.

I was searching
for a friend.

And I for an enemy.

An enemy?

Had I been recognized
in that place

my life would not of been

worth an hours purchase.

Cab!

I'm in the midst of the
most remarkable inquiry.

I hope your not
smoking the substance

in that pipe Holmes.

Only to the
extent necessary

to merge with the
surroundings.

I'm off to Lee in Kent.

Are you coming?

Of course.

I think we shall
be safe now Watson.

Would you take the reins?

Where exactly
are we going?

The Cedars,

a lovely villa

near Lee in Kent.

May I ask why I'm
going to Lee in Kent

in the middle
of the night?

Because you are
my trusty comrade

and my loyal friend,

I may need both.

Here are the facts,
as I understand them.

Several years ago there
came to Lee in Kent,

a gentleman by name
Neville St. Clair.

He took a large
villa, The Cedars,

and about a year later

married the daughter
of a local brewer.

They have two
small children.

He has interests in
several companies

and travels to the
city every morning,

returning by
the 5:14 train

from Cannon Street
every night.

He is a man of
temperate habits,

a good husband,

an affectionate father

and is popular with
all who know him.

His debts,

as far as we
can ascertain,

amount to eighty-eight
pounds and ten shillings

while he has two hundred
and twenty pounds

to his credit

in the Capital
and Counties Bank.

Therefore, there is
no reason to think

that money troubles have
been weighing down.

Manageable parody.

Watson,

there's a hint of
skepticism in your voice,

which does you no credit.

I expect Mrs. St.
Clair came to you

saying that her husband
has disappeared?

Exactly!

Well seems to be a
continuous thread

in life's fabric.

Watson, what is this?

I shall ignore your
air of resignation

to the world's
frailties and continue.

Oh please do.

On Monday,

St. Clair left for
the city as usual.

Before he left he
promised that he would

bring home a box
of building bricks

for his children.

Building bricks?

Mark that well Watson.

Soon after he left,
Mrs. St. Clair

received a telegram

to say that a parcel
of considerable value

had arrived for
her at the offices

of the Aberdeen
Shipping Company.

She decided to
travel to the city,

collect her parcel,

have lunch and do
some shopping.

It was by chance

that she found herself
in Upper Swandam Lane,

that same vile alley

that we both visited
this evening, Watson.

And it was at this point

that something quite
singular took place.

Money please.

Get out of here!

Neville!

Neville!

Where are you going?

I'm going upstairs.

There's nobody upstairs.

I saw my husband waving
from an upstairs window.

There is nobody upstairs.

I saw him.

I know my own husband.

What's he doing here?

There is nobody upstairs.

Neville!

Go on.

And they threw her out?

They did.

The malay and the lascar,

who owns the
establishment.

A man of the
vilest antecedents

sent a murderer
into the bar.

A murderer?

Yet he goes free.

And the rear of a building
backs onto the river.

There's even a
convenient trap door

for the disposal
of bodies.

Why don't the
police arrest these two murderers?

Watson, the police have
arrested a cripple.

Cripple?

There's so much
more yet to tell you

but here we are
at The Cedars.

Thank you.

Mr. Holmes?

Any news?

Mrs. St. Clair

I thought you'd be asleep.

Sleep does not
come easily

at a time like this.

This is my friend and
colleague Doctor Watson

who has kindly agreed

to help me in my
investigation.

Mr. Holmes has
spoken of you.

Mrs. St. Clair.

I have taken the liberty
of asking the doctor

to stay overnight.

And I took the liberty

of preparing a
little cold supper.

Oh Doctor Watson
you take my place.

Oh no really.

Watson, Mrs. St. Clair

is a very strong
willed woman,

you refuse her
at your peril.

Thank you.

Now Mr. Sherlock Holmes

before we eat

I should like to ask one
or two plain questions

to which I should
like plain answers.

Certainly Madame.

Do you in your
heart of hearts

think that Neville
is still alive?

Frankly now

I'm not hysterical

nor am I given
to fainting.

Frankly then,

I do not.

You think he is dead?

I do.

Murdered?

I didn't say that.

Perhaps.

And on what day did
he meet his death?

On Monday.

So then how do you explain

that I received a
letter from him today,

being Friday?

Now Mrs. St. Clair

I wonder if you
would do me a favor?

By all means.

I have told Doctor
Watson what happened

up to the moment

when you were ejected
from that building.

Would you tell us

what happened
subsequently please?

For Doctor
Watson's benefit?

And for mine.

I too have to
reexamine the facts,

as we know them.

Now if you're
not too tired.

Of course.

As you may imagine

I do not take kindly

to being forcibly
removed from a building.

I sought and
found police help.

Two constables
and Inspector?

Bradstreet.

Bradstreet.

And then you returned
to the building?

Yes.

The period of time

between these
two visits was?

About twenty minutes.

By the time we returned

the door was unbolted.

Though I'm
sure the lascar

had bolted it when
I left earlier.

I want to look at
your upstairs rooms.

There's nobody there.

If there's nobody there

you can't object
that I look.

You men stay here.

He was in this room!

Time and again
I tell you,

there's nobody here.

May we look in that room?

You mustn't be worried
by this gentleman,

Mrs. St. Clair.

He's an old friend
of the constabulary.

You know, Inspector,

according to
W. S. Gilbert,

a policeman's life
isn't a happy one.

Mr. Boone is a
professional beggar.

No, not a beggar

an honest trader.

Does this man lodge here?

Yes.

You told me
nobody lived here.

Madame, the
beggar is nobody.

If you prick us
do we not bleed?

Shakespeare, Mr. Boone,

I know that one

you've told it
to me before.

Inspector?

That would be the
Thames Mrs. St Clair?

And the large window.

Mrs. St. Clair

a window and a river
in close proximity

does not automatically
mean violent death.

You been here in
the past hour?

Yes.

Anyone else been here?

Alas, no, I've been
as lonely as a cloud.

Tennyson?

Wordsworth, Inspector.

He was standing here.

I saw him.

Mrs. St. Clair
there is no evidence

to suggest that
he was ever here.

Building bricks,
Inspector.

So I see.

My husband left for
the city this morning

and the last thing
he said to me

was that he had to buy
some building bricks

for our little
girl's birthday.

I see.

Either of you gentlemen
buy building bricks?

Somebody must
have left them.

And these are my
husband's clothes!

Are you sure?

Shall I describe them
to you in detail

as you examine them?

My husband's tailor's
name is Smud

if you care to
examine the label.

At that moment
Inspector Bradstreet

began to believe my story.

He and his men

made an extensive
search of the building

they found a bloodstain

upon the windowsill.

They searched the malay,
the lascar and Boone

but found nothing.

They failed to find
my husband's overcoat.

Well.

Overcoat?

The one item of clothing

that was not
accounted for.

Until low tide.

It's heavy sir.

Weighted down
with something.

There were four hundred
and twenty-one pennies,

two hundred and
seventy halfpennies

stuffed into every
pocket of the overcoat.

Your conclusion Watson.

Speak freely
Doctor Watson.

I've lived with
every possibility

this past week
however hideous.

The murderer
must have been

Boone the beggar.

Who else could
have access to

such a vast number of

pennies and
halfpennies?

That is the conclusion
reached by the police.

They've arrested Boone

and he is presently in

Bow Street
Police Station.

Even though my husband
is still alive.

Now Mrs. St. Clair

let us reexamine

the significance
of this letter.

May I read it to
Doctor Watson?

By all means.

Thank you.

Dearest, Do not
be frightened,

there is a huge error,

which it may take

some little time
to rectify.

Wait in patience.
Neville.

Written in pencil

on the flyleaf of a book,

octavo size,
no watermark.

Posted in Gravesend by a
man with a dirty thumb.

This is not your
husband's writing?

No.

But the note is?

Without question.

It's the hand he always
used when he was in hurry.

Whoever gummed
down the envelope

handled this very
much in error.

Been chewing tobacco.

This is a trifle,
of course, Watson

but there is nothing so
important as trifles.

Mrs. St. Clair

there was
an enclosure?

His signet ring.

Mrs. St. Clair

has your husband
ever spoken of

the Bar of Gold in
Upper Swandam Lane?

Never.

I suspect that
Doctor Watson

has a question
to put to you.

This is a difficult
question to ask

Mrs. St. Clair

but has your
husband ever shown

any signs of taking opium?

He always appeared
perfectly normal

though I confess

I would not
recognize the signs.

What are they?

Well a listlessness,

a lack of energy,

an inability
to concentrate,

a general air of apathy.

Doctor Watson
is a specialist

at uncontrolled
addiction.

My husband was not
an opium addict,

that's to say is
not an opium addict.

Mr. Holmes,

I know you think
my husband is dead.

I fully realize

that letter could have
been written on Monday

and only posted today.

I know the circumstances

as they have
been described

lead to the
inescapable conclusion

that he has been murdered

but equally I know

that he is alive.

There's such a keen bond
of sympathy between us.

I should know if
evil came upon him.

Please help me
to find him.

Watson if
Neville St. Clair

is alive and well

why doesn't he come home

and demonstrate the fact?

Well presumably because
he's not alive and well.

Yes but this letter?

Could have been
written at any time.

Perhaps under distress.

It could even be a
skillful forgery.

And this signet ring?

Easily removed,

especially if the
victim is dead.

Indeed.

Preceding on
the hypothesis

that Neville St.
Clair is dead,

how did he
meet his death?

Well clearly he
was murdered.

By whom?

Well the police think
it was this chap, Boone.

I see no reason to
disagree with the police.

Except...

Except what?

You say he's a cripple?

Yes.

How severe is
his disability?

Has only a slight limp.

Well my medical
experience tells me

when there is a
weakness in one limb

it's very often
compensated for

by exceptional
strength in the others.

You're not convinced?

This man is a
professional beggar.

He's well known
in the city.

He's well liked
in the city.

I've seen him many times.

He has a remarkable
faculty for repartee

with which he delights
his many clients.

Well he sounds harmless.

Why, therefore, did
the police arrest him

rather than the lascar?

That is the very question

that I put to
Inspector Bradstreet.

The murder has obviously
been committed

by process of elimination.

Boone must be
the murderer.

Are these Neville
St. Clair's clothes?

Why did you eliminate
the lascar as a suspect?

Because Mrs. St. Clair

saw her husband in
an upstairs window

apparently in the
middle of a struggle.

She went to a
downstairs door

and was confronted
by the lascar.

While we were conversing

or to be more precise

while the lascar
and his assistant

were ejecting
Mrs. St. Clair from the building

the fight was
proceeding upstairs,

leading as we now know

to the death of
Neville St. Clair.

A twenty first
birthday present.

A man of
meticulous habits.

No scratches.

What was the motive
in killing St. Clair?

That remains to
be established.

Not a trace of opium?

Could it have
been robbery.

No. No.

St. Clair's wallet
was in his pocket,

the money untouched.

How do you explain the
coins in the overcoat?

I cannot truly answer
that Mr. Holmes.

Let me try.

Boone killed St. Clair.

He removes the
outer garments

hoping to capitalize on
them and their contents.

He lifts the body,

carries it
across the room,

forces it through
the open window,

hence the abrasion,

blood upon the windowsill,

he releases it
into the river...

Where it's sucked
away by the tide.

In the midst of
this activity

he hears the
scuffle downstairs

as Mrs. St. Clair tries
to force her way in.

There's not a
moment to be lost.

Must dispose the clothing.

He starts with
the overcoat.

He realizes, at once,

it will float
and not sink

so what does he do?

He rushes across the room

to some secret hall

where he's accumulated the

fruits of his beggary,

stuffs all the coins that
he can lay his hands on

into the pockets
of the overcoat...

And drops it
into the water.

And would presumably
have done the same

with the other garments

if you and your men
had not arrived.

Conceals the
other garments

behind the curtain

and hopes they'll
not be noticed

and they would not
have been noticed

had Mrs. St. Clair not
been so persistent.

Inspector, whatever
plot has been hatched

in that opium den

I cannot but imagine

that the lascar is
not somehow involved.

I was sorely tempted to
arrest him on the day.

I'll send a couple
of men up there now.

No.

Inspector,

with your permission,

may I suggest an
alternative strategy?

By all means.

Let me visit the opium den

discreetly,

incognito.

We shall learn
what we may.

But what did you learn?

Nothing.

Nothing.

Everybody... as far
as I can ascertain,

appears to be
telling the truth.

I cannot see an
over all pattern.

Can you see a
pattern Watson?

I see no pattern

but I do see a woman

who despite all
objective circumstances

still believes that
her husband is alive.

And you said on
many occasions

that the impression
of a woman

may be more
valuable than the

conclusion of an
analytical reasoner.

Yeah.

But if he is still alive.

Where is he?

I have no idea

but I do have an
urgent request.

It's now well past
four in the morning,

may I go to sleep?

Certainly.

Thank you.

Watson.

Watson.

What time is it?

Dawn.

I've only had
two hours sleep.

I wonder if you'd do me

the very great kindness

of considering the
possibility of waking up?

I assume you have
a good reason.

Are you game for a drive?

Certainly.

Does it have to
be this early?

I have a little
theory I wish to test.

Is anyone's life at stake?

Certainly not.

Would it be possible
to test your theory

a little later
this morning?

I'll see you downstairs
in five minutes.

Five minutes.

Come on Nelson.

You have the grand
gift of silence Watson.

It makes you quite
invaluable as a companion.

Watson you're
in the presence

of one of the most
absolute fools in Europe.

You exaggerate Holmes.

I deserve to be kicked

from here to
Charing Cross.

The moment
you woke me up

I would have
been prepared to...

I've got the
key Watson

here in this
Gladstone bag.

Good morning gentlemen.

Watson I confess

I have been as
blind as a mole,

but it's better to
learn wisdom later

than to never
learn it at all.

Bradstreet.

Bradstreet.

I've called about that
beggar man, Boone.

He's in the
cells Mr. Holmes.

What can I do for you?

I should very much
like to see him.

He'd probably be asleep.

Most of the population is
probably asleep Holmes.

Very well Holmes,
Doctor Watson

if you'll come this way.

You can leave your bag
in the office Mr. Holmes?

I'll take it with me.

It contains the key.

He's a dirty scoundrel.

Filthy.

Refuses to wash.

Says washing weakens
a man's resistance.

Asleep.

He's a beauty isn't he?

Inspector would you do
me the great goodness

of opening the door as
quietly as possible?

Gentlemen, let
me introduce you

to Mr. Neville St. Clair

of Lee in the
county of Kent.

Great heaven.

It is true

and pray what am I
being charged with?

Charged with making away

with Mr. Neville
St. Clair.

Well making away
with myself?

I've been on the force
for twenty-seven years.

This takes the cake.

But since it is obvious

that no crime has
been committed

I am illegally detained.

My strength is the
strength of ten

because my heart is pure.

Alfred Law Tennyson.

You lied to your
wife Mr. St. Clair.

Is that purity?

Let it be understood

that I would have

endured imprisonment,

even execution,

rather than reveal
my miserable secret

to my wife and children.

All is now revealed
Mr. St. Clair.

So be it.

My father was
a schoolmaster in Chesterfield

I've received an
excellent education.

Traveled, took
to the stage

and finally
became a reporter

in a London newspaper.

One day my editor

wished to have a
series of articles

upon begging in
the metropolis,

and I volunteered
to supply them.

So you became a beggar?

Yes.

And your experience
as an actor

must have proved
invaluable.

Yes.

Exactly.

Yes I painted my face

to make myself look as
pitiable as possible.

I manufactured
frightening scars.

I twisted my lip

for the aid of a piece
of flesh colored plaster

and then with a dark wig

and appropriate clothing

took my position

in the busiest part
of the metropolis,

ostensibly as a
match-seller but, yes,

really as a beggar.

And you did well?

Yes.

In one day I took
twenty-six shillings

and four pence.

I wrote my articles
for the newspaper.

My editor was delighted

and I thought
no more about it

until one day
I backed a bill

for a friend of mine,

had a writ served on me

for twenty-five pounds.

Well I was at my wits end

I mean what could I do?

And then suddenly
an idea came to me.

I asked for a fortnight's
holiday from my employers

and spent the time
in the city begging.

In ten days I
had the money

and was able to
pay back the debt.

That was when I
fell into the trap.

How much were you earning

from the newspaper
at this time?

Two pounds a week.

Far less than begging.

Yes.

During the last few years
I had earned, on average,

at least seven
hundred pounds a year.

But that's a
gentlemen's guilt.

Calmly Bradstreet.

I think it's
pertinent to say

that Mr. St. Clair is
no ordinary beggar.

People do not
expect a beggar

to quote extensively
from Shakespeare,

Mr. Dickens,

the Bible

or the latest
popular songs.

An aristocrat
among beggars.

Well it is not for me to
claim such a distinction

but as the Inspector
rightly observes

I had a gentlemen's income

so I proceeded to
live like a gentleman.

I bought a villa in Kent

I married a beautiful

and respectable woman

and every morning
I traveled

to my business
in the city.

You must have
been embroiled

with the lascar
by this time?

Yes I paid him
a generous rent

for the use of his
upstairs rooms.

My secret was
safe with him.

I fell among thieves

but found honor of a sort.

You see every morning

I would emerge as
a squalid beggar

and every evening

transformed into
a gentleman.

Tell us about Monday.

I had finished
for the day

and was dressing
in my room

above the opium den

and suddenly I looked
out of the window

to my horror
and astonishment

there was my wife
in the street.

Her eyes fixed
full upon me.

Neville!

I ran along to try
and find lascar.

You must not let her in.

I'll say there is
nobody upstairs.

She may return
with the police.

I'll tell them there's
nobody upstairs.

Mr. Boone will
be upstairs.

Mr. Boone's a lodger.

He has a right
to be upstairs.

Neville!

I then became Boone,

the beggar once more.

And then it
occurred to me

that there might be
a search of the room

and that my clothes
might betray me.

So I picked up my coat,

which was weighed
down with the coins

that I had just
transferred

from my leather bag

in which I carry
my takings.

The rest of my clothes
would have followed,

but at that moment

the police arrived.

The rest you know.

We found blood on
the windowsill.

In my haste to
open the window

I cut myself.

A minor abrasion

but if you prick me.

And thus I was arrested

on suspicion of having
murdered myself.

And thus you caused
your wife much anguish.

But I wrote her a letter.

And gave it to the
lascar to post?

Yes.

It was not delivered.

It arrived yesterday.

He probably gave it

to one of his
sailor customers.

I shall never
forgive myself,

the agony, which I have
inflicted upon my wife.

Can I go to her now?

I think we must
impose one condition

Mr. St. Clair.

Anything.

There must no be
more of you Boone.

I swear it by the
most solemn oath

that a man can take.

Farewell sweet Boone.

A flight of angels
sends me to thy rest.

William Shakespeare.

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