All language subtitles for Campion.S01E08.Death.Of.A.Ghost.Part.2.WEB-DL.DDP2.0.H

(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.

CAMPION: Mmm.

-He's late.
-Who?

Potter, the husband.

POTTER:
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.

-(MAN'S VOICE HEARD)
-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.

(SIGHS) Thank you, Doctor.

Ah, this is
a terrible business.

Indeed.

MAX FUSTIAN: 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 jewelled 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.

(EXHALES)

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!

(LISA CLEARING THROAT)

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.

(SIGHS)

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.

GREEN: 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?
-(EXHALES)

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.

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

The soldier standing
just behind Saint Joan.

CAMPION: 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
Whatman, 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.

LINDA: 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.

CAMPION: 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...

(SPEAKING FOREIGN LANGUAGE)

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?
(SPEAKING ITALIAN)

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 Pennystone
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.

(SCOFFS) That's handy.

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

CAMPION: 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.

LUGG: This place is rubbish.
It's falling down.

CAMPION: This window's
not fastened properly.

Maybe I can get in.

LUGG: Don't strain yourself.

Door open around there.

Thank you, Lugg.

(HUMMING)

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 washhouse.

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.

CAMPION: Can I give
you a lift?

FUSTIAN: 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.

FUSTIAN: 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.

FUSTIAN: It's really
a double celebration.
CAMPION: Of what?

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

FIELDING: Best decision
you ever made.
FUSTIAN: 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.

FIELDING: Johnny Lafcadio.
CAMPION: 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.

(CHUCKLING) 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?

FUSTIAN: Oh, Saverini's.

That's where everyone goes
this season. Salute!

MAITRE D': 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.

(DINERS CHATTERING
IN THE BACKGROUND)

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!

(DISTORTED LAUGHTER)

(LAUGHING)

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!

(DISTORTED LAUGHTER)

No, he didn't.

I see it now!

It's damn clever!

FUSTIAN:
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.

(LAUGHTER ECHOING)

(ECHOING) Have another drink.

(ECHOING) To Cleopatra.

Off we go.

CAMPION: (ECHOING)
What are we
doing here?

Come quickly, dear boy.

(DISTORTED LAUGHTER)

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.

(MOUTHING)

(GROANS)

-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.

OATES: 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.

BEATRICE:
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"

(THEME SONG PLAYING)