All language subtitles for S01E05 Have His Carcase; Episode Two IMDB 7.9

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That's peculiar.

I say...

I say...

I say...

Aaah!

We've identified the man.

One of the professional dancers

at the hotel where
you're staying, Miss Vane.

Did he leave a note anywhere?

Well, if he did,
we've not found it.

Nor the body, neither.

I'm afraid they think
it was suicide.

Oh, no.

No! That's impossible.
I know it is.

Mrs. Weldon,
I found the body.

No, no, no.

He would never have
killed himself

when he was so happy.

You see, Miss Vane...

We were going to be married.

Why should a man wear gloves
to cut his own throat?

Yes, I wondered about that.

And what's a man
with a full beard

doing with a razor...
Anyway?

I'm afraid I'm not
a very good dancer.

You dance very correctly,
mademoiselle.

But when the heart
dances with the feet,

then it will be a merveille.

Is that the kind of thing
you have to say

to all these old ladies?

One may say truthfully
to mademoiselle

what in another case
might be mere politeness.

You're very kind.

But monsieur Antoine,

I really must talk
to you about Alexis...

and to cherie, too.

That can be arranged.

When we finish work, if
that would suit mademoiselle.

Always wanted
to take the spotlight,

Mr. Paul Alexis.

You'd think he did the
floor a favour by dancing on it.

And then the fairy prince
comes down

to marrying an old woman
for her money. Now, Doris...

well, I think that sort
of thing is disgusting.

I feel sorry for her.

You feel sorry for everyone!

I beg your pardon, but
I've been calling you cherie.

Cherie is my professional name.

My friends call me Doris.

Oh, I see.
What will you...

creme-de-menthe?

Thank you, George.
And you?

Cognac, s'il vous plait.

Two brandies, please.

Certainly, madam.

What I really need to know
from you two

is whether you can think
of any reason

why Paul Alexis
should commit suicide.

Ah, truly, that
I do not understand.

One does not cut one's
throat pour s'amuser.

No. The minute
I heard about it...

"That's not Mr. Alexis,"
I thought.

"Well, he hadn't the nerve
to do a thing like that."

You needn't look at me
like that, Antoine.

You know it as well as I do...

Alexis was
a regular namby pamby.

If he'd have
wanted to kill himself,

he'd have taken sleeping pills.

Did he have anything
the matter with his skin?

I mean... Did he
always wear gloves?

No. The gigolo must not
have things

the matter with his skin.

That would not do at all.
The ladies would not like it.

Yes. But he did say that
his skin was very sensitive.

That was why he didn't shave.

Thank you.

That's room 223.

Thank you, madam.

Well, cheerio!

Cheerio!
Salute!

So, he always had a beard?

Yes, but Doris is right.

I remember when he first
came to ask for a job.

The manager said,
"well, I'll take you on trial,

"but you must shave the beard.

The ladies will not like it."

And Paul say he cannot shave.

If he shave, he come out in...

what do you call it?
A rash.

C'est ca. So the manager
say, "you can stay

until we find someone else."

But the ladies,
they love the beard.

It is so distinguished,
so romantic.

So Paul stay,
and the beard stay, too.

So it isn't likely
that he'd have a razor?

That, I cannot tell.
Doris, do you know?

Don't ask me.
He wasn't my fancy man!

He was engaged
to Mrs. Weldon...

if you can call it that.

I suppose she represented
financial security.

Yes...

Yes, you are right,
mademoiselle.

It is well enough
when one is young,

as Doris is young, to say,

"quelle horreur!"

"A young man to marry
an older woman,"

but one is not young forever.

Soon the head grows bald,
and the joints become stiff,

and then the manager says,

"my clients prefer
a younger dancer."

Yeah... I suppose
you're right.

Oh, it's not easy for
us dancers, Miss Vane.

Everyone treats us like dirt.

I'm so sorry.

But you still can't
think of a reason

why Paul Alexis
should kill himself?

No reason, mademoiselle.

No reason at all.

That's right, an Endicott razor,

with a Nick in the ivory handle.

Well! Would you
believe it?

I sold that razor
only a few weeks ago.

To a foreign chap with a beard?

Oh, dear me, no, no.

It was one of those
itinerant fellows

came 'round here
looking for a job.

Oh.

I had no work for him,
and to tell you the truth,

I wouldn't have
given it to him if I had.

Didn't like the look of him, eh?

You'd be surprised
the number of these men

who come 'round here.

And half of them are
no more skilled hairdressers

than my Tom-cat.

I generally give them
a few razors to set,

and the way they go about it,

you can tell,
nine times out of ten,

they've never set a razor
in their life.

And that's how it was
with this one?

Mind you, he spoke very well...
very refined and quiet.

Very well-kept hands.

That's the first thing
I look for.

Dirty or bitten nails... can't
do with that in this business.

Anyway, I said
I didn't need him,

and he said could I sell him
a secondhand razor?

So I sold him this one
to get rid of him.

Did he give a name,
Mr. Merryweather?

He did, I'm sure.

George!

That sneaking little
sandy-haired fellow

that came here the other day...

what did he say his name was?

The one that bought
the razor off me?

Quite an ordinary name.
Brown, was it?

"Brown"!
Weren't no such thing!

You'll forget
your own name next!

It did begin with a "b," though.

Bright! That was it.

Because don't you
remember me saying

he didn't live up to his name
when it came to setting razors?

Oh, yes, so you did,
Mr. Merryweather.

Bright, that was it.
He said his name was bright.

Ah, Bunter. You've come
most carefully upon your hour.

I've just been telling Miss
Vane of our success in tracing

what I'm sure
Sally Hardy will call...

"the fatal weapon."

Precisely.

Lord Peter tells me

you had a very good description
of the man who bought the razor.

Yes, Miss. Medium
build, sandy-haired,

dark eyes, smallish.

He doesn't have a limp
or nothing like that,

but he does have one shoulder
higher than the other.

Good heavens, like Richard III.

Now all we have to do is
discover how the razor passed

from the possession of an
itinerant barber into the hands...

the gloved hands...
of Paul Alexis.

Unless that itinerant barber
came from the sea

and cut Alexis' throat.

From behind.

Why from behind?

Well... forgive me, Bunter...

with that particular weapon...

Aaah!

Thank you, Bunter.

I'll be with you
in the car in ten minutes.

Very good, milord.

I'm so sorry.

Nonsense!

It's... it's just that,
having seen him, I...

no, no. I'm a brute, and
should be kicked from here to...

Seahampton.

And when time allows,

I shall go down on my knees
and apologize,

and probably propose to you
at the same time.

Oh, Peter,
what an idiot you are.

Aren't I, though?

However, I have to go
in search of Sally Hardy,

who is thirsting
for information.

Why? I've told him
everything I know...

at least everything
the police would allow.

We don't owe him any favours.

I think he owes us one,
though, don't you?

You coming?

No, no. I've got work to do.

I've got a book to write.

Of course,
your next best-seller.

Sally, fancy finding you here.

Abandoned by your
fellow scribes. That's good.

They've gone to watch the
police rowing 'round the rocks.

Ah, they think the body

might have been lodged
under the grinders

when the tide turned.

But I had faith in you, Wimsey.

Can I get you one?

A bit early for me.

You're treating me
damn badly, old man.

You wouldn't be
hanging 'round here

just for the suicide
of a foreign gigolo.

I know you've got
something up your sleeve.

Unless it's just the girl.

For god's sake, Wimsey,
say it isn't the girl!

You wouldn't play such a trick
on a hard-working journalist!

Look here,
if there's nothing else,

give me a story about
you and Harriet Vane.

"Romantic engagement of
peer's son and crime novelist."

Pull yourself together, Sally,

and keep your inky paws
off my private affairs.

Are you reasonably sober?

Sober? When did you know me
not sober when there's a good story?

Sit down. I've got
an exclusive for you.

But you've got to get it
in tomorrow's first editions,

and you've got to write it
exactly as I say.

Oh, no, not again!

My last story was practically
dictated by Miss Vane.

Really? And I thought
your style was improving.

Now, take this down.

You can begin with your usual

"horrible tragedy
at flat iron rock,"

and then...

Interviewed by
our special correspondent.

"Lord Peter Wimsey explained,

with his characteristically
modest smile..."

Peter, really!

"That he had himself
been at pains

"to trace the previous
history of the razor.

"'How did the razor get into
the hands of the dead man?'

"demanded Lord Peter,

"until and unless
that question is answered,

"I shall hold that Paul Alexis
was foully and brutally murdered,

"and I shall spare no effort

to bring the murderer
to justice."

Really, Peter.

Sally Hardy's style is unique,
fortunately,

but, as you'll see
if you can bear to read on,

he did persuade his editor
to offer a 100-pound reward

for information about the razor.

So if we can discover

how it came into the
possession of Paul Alexis...

Then you'll be satisfied
that it was suicide?

But would you?

Of course not...

But then I'm never satisfied.

Hello.

He's here.

Well, I suppose I'd better
come and look the blighter over.

Is he handsome?

Yes, rather.
Shall we go?

In that case, you'd better
tell him we're engaged,

then I won't be obliged
to assassinate him.

Would you?
That's splendid.

Will you marry me?

Certainly not.
It's twenty-five to nine.

All right.
Come on.

I hope your rabbit dies.

Mrs. Weldon, may I
introduce Lord Peter Wimsey.

Lord Peter, how
pleased I am to meet you.

Dear Mrs. Weldon, if there's
anything I can do to help you

at this unhappy time...

Too kind. This is my son, Henry.

Miss Harriet Vane,
Lord Peter Wimsey.

Wimsey.
How do you do?

Won't you sit down?

Oh, thank you.

Henry has most kindly
come to help me through this...

this terrible time.

Dashed good of him.

Yes, well, you see, Henry knows

how utterly devoted
Paul was to me,

and that he never, never

would have taken
his own life like that

and left me without a word.

It hurts me so when the
police suggest such a thing.

Now, mother,
don't upset yourself.

We know that
Alexis was all right...

I mean... damned
fond of you and all that.

Yes, dear, I'm so sorry.

It's all been such a shock.

But Miss Vane has been so kind.

And now you and I
and Miss Vane and Lord Peter

are all going to work together
to clear Paul's memory

and discover who murdered him.

Yes...

Wimsey, would you like a drink?

Oh, yes, dear, call the waiter.

Oh, I thought we might
nip over to the bar...

that is, unless Miss Vane...

No, I'm quite happy
with coffee, thank you.

Do excuse us.

Isn't it beautiful
how kind everyone is

when one is in trouble?

Henry and I haven't
always been as...

Close as a mother
and son ought to be,

but when I wrote and
told him of Paul's murder,

he came at once,

although I know
how busy he must be.

I'm sure that's
a great comfort to you.

Oh, yes! Especially
since I did wonder

whether he might...

Well, resent Paul.

It's such a comfort to know
that he, too, feels

that Paul's murder
was a tragedy.

It makes a chap look a fool
when his mother proposes

to give him a 30-year-old
lounge lizard as a step-papa.

All over now, anyway.

Suppose the chap did himself in?

It looks like it.

Mmm. I saw
that piece of yours

in the morning star
about the razor.

Going a bit far.

Oh, do you think so?

You're a sound sort of chap...
brainy and all that...

can't you put my mother
off this murder idea?

She's taken a notion

that you and that Vane girl
are encouraging her.

I take it you mean Miss Vane?

Of course, I see
your game all right.

You're nuts about
this kind of thing,

and it's all a darn good
advertisement,

and it gives you
a jolly good excuse

to go barging around
with the girl.

But it's not quite the game
to go playing my mother up,

if you see what I mean.

I just thought
I'd give you a hint.

You won't take offence.

I'm quite ready to take
anything I'm offered.

Ha! That's dashed good.

Johnny, another
Martell three star.

Glad we understand each other.

No, no.
You misunderstand me,

but I understand you perfectly.

Perhaps we ought to go
and join the ladies?

Ladies, eh?
You be careful, my boy.

Getting to a dangerous age.

If you ain't careful,
you'll find yourself

getting hooked
one of these days.

Oh, I think I shall manage to
keep my head out of the noose.

Huh? Oh, yes.
Of course!

Excuse me.

Would you like to dance?

Oh, Lord Peter, how kind
but no, thank you.

Not so soon after...
in fact, never again.

But I begged Miss Vane
to enjoy herself.

Isn't it a delight
to see her looking so happy?

Yes.

There you are.

Frivolling.

I'm sure you don't approve.

Oh, I don't know.
That all depends.

What on?

Who you frivol with.
Try doing it with me.

Excuse us.

Now that I've
got you to myself...

Yes?

What do you think
of Henry Weldon?

Oh. Well...
I'm sorry.

Please don't apologize.

I'm a rotten dancer.
Can't we sit down?

Darling, even if you danced

like an elderly elephant
with arthritis...

which I assure you you don't...

I would still say that
I've waited all my life

to dance with you...
In that frock.

Qu'est que je vous
ai dit, mademoiselle?

L'elan, c'est trouv.

What did that blighter say?

Oh, something about how

I danced better with you
than with him.

Infernal cheek!

Yes, wasn't it?

Shall we sit down anyway?

We are here on business
after all.

What about Henry Weldon?

Well, in the first place,
what's he doing here?

A sudden spasm
of filial affection?

She thinks so.

Oh... do you?

No, not really.

He's here to look after
the money, that's all.

And warn me off.

What?
Oh, yes.

"This detecting business
must stop.

"And Mrs. Weldon is to be dissuaded
from spending time and money

on the pursuit of
a nonexistent murderer."

He said that?

In the most offensive manner.

But if you were
to tell Mrs. Weldon that,

she'd disinherit him.

I knew he was stupid.

Ah. That's what you think.

Henry told me he didn't want
Paul Alexis as a step-papa,

and now the banns have been
very effectively forbidden.

Yes.

But are you seriously casting
Henry Weldon for first murderer?

I'd like to... But I can't.

You see, if this is
murder and not suicide,

it's an uncommonly clever one.

And I agree with you.

I don't think Henry Weldon
has the brains

to have murdered Paul Alexis.

But you do think someone did?

In all seriousness,

I must say that I do.

The thing we must get right

is the time of death.

Now, that morning,

Alexis travelled from
Wilvercombe by a train

to Darley halt,
arriving at 10:15.

The guard remembers him,

and he bought a return ticket.

A return ticket?
Would a suicide do that?

The very question I put
to inspector Trethowan,

who said that suicides,

particularly foreign suicides,

were that inconsistent there
was no accounting for them.

All right.

Let's suppose Alexis
hadn't quite made up his mind.

Yeah. While he was
thinking about it,

he travelled to Darley halt

in order to walk 4 1/2
miles to flat iron rock,

arriving at, say,
um... 11:45.

And what about the tide?

When I was there,
it was coming in.

Not when he arrived,
it was still ebbing then.

The tide didn't turn
until 1:15,

so at 11:45, our friend
could have walked dry-shot

to the rock and sat upon it.

Some time later,
Miss Harriet Vane arrived.

Sat down 'round the corner
of the cliffs with her picnic

and dozed off.

So you came 'round the cliffs

and knew you'd found a corpse.

No, not immediately.

I was woken by the seagull.

At 2:00?

Yes. I looked at my watch,

and I wanted to know if
I could get to Wilvercombe

along the seashore,

so I came 'round the corner,

and... I thought
he was asleep at first

and that he'd be
cut off by the tide.

But when I went to wake him,

there was all this blood
running down.

Just a minute.
You said that before.

Blood. Thick, red clots?

No, no.
It was liquid.

When I put my hand into it,
it was quite wet.

But if the blood
was still liquid,

Alexis could only have
been dead a few minutes...

ten at the outside.

Couldn't he have been slowly
bleeding to death for some time?

No. Not with
a wound like that.

Death would have been
almost instantaneous.

Oh.

Harriet, you do realize
what this means?

I have staked my reputation
on murder.

I shall have to
leave the country

and shoot tigers
in fever-haunted jungles.

Well, I am very sorry
to hear that,

but, I, too, have my reputation.

I cannot lie.

You're absolutely certain that
when you came 'round the corner

and saw the rock
for the first time,

there was no one in sight?

Absolutely no one.

There was just a man
lying here dead.

I approached from there.

The tide was coming in then

and just one
set of footprints... his.

Peter?

And the murderer lurking.

Peter, where are you?

Can you see me
from where you are?

No. Where are you?

Oh, Peter...
You don't think

that while I was
examining the body,

the murderer was...

It is possible.

Nice drop of ale, that.

You don't get anything like
that in London, more's the pity.

Summer visitor, are you?

No, no, no.
I'm here on business.

You get enough of them,
I daresay.

Too many, I shouldn't wonder.

Summer visitors. They
be 'round here like flies,

pitching their tents,

hiking up and down in
their little socks and shorts

with packs on their backs,
getting themselves drowned...

yeah. I met a fellow only
a couple of weeks ago

who said he was thinking
of camping in this area.

I'll think of his name
in a minute.

Thick-set chap, ginger
hair, moustache, whiskers.

Now, what was his name?

Sounds like your camper, Tom.

What?

Gentleman here
asking about your camper.

Had to wear dark glasses.

Said there was something
the matter with his eyes.

That's the one.

Nice enough fellow,
though, apart from that.

Martin, his name was.

Martin!

Mr. Haviland Martin.

Martin. I knew
it began with an "m."

I say!

Yes?

This is odd.

What's odd?

It's a ring... in the rock.

Looks quite new,

as though it's been
fixed quite recently.

It's the sort of ring you'd
tie a boat to or possibly...

There was a boat.

A fishing boat, I think.

I waved and shouted,
and they took no notice.

Either they didn't see me, or...

They thought I was doing
my health and beauty exercises.

And not one of them wasted.

Peter, I wish you wouldn't...

admire you?

Say silly things
you don't mean...

or even if you do mean them,
I wish you wouldn't.

You make it
very difficult for me.

I can't help my feelings,

but I will keep my tongue
firmly between my teeth.

Peter...

I feel we should continue
looking for clues.

Now that the tide's been
in and out half a dozen times,

it will be difficult to
distinguish between clues and...

flotsam and jetsam.

No, only jetsam.

Flotsam is what is still
floating on the waves.

This wouldn't float.

Could it be jetsam,
do you think?

Hardly.

I wonder how it got here.

Do people ride horses
down here as a rule?

Too dangerous to get down,
I should have thought.

I'd better get Bunter to check
with the local riding stables.

And if not...

Belongs to a nice little cob,
about 15 hands.

Fairly well-bred, given
to kicking her shoes off

and pecks a little
with the all-four.

Very impressive, Holmes,

but I simply don't believe
you can deduce all that

from an old horseshoe.

Not old. Quite new.

You see,
it hasn't been worn thin

from the 'ammer, 'ammer, 'ammer
on the 'ard 'igh road.

It's a little rusty
from lying in the water,

but it's hardly at all
rubbed by sand and stones,

and not at all corroded,
so it hasn't been here long.

All right.
I grant you that.

But the actual horse?

The size of the shoe
denotes the size of the nag.

Oh, yes, well... I might
have thought of that.

But well-bred?

A nice little round,
well-bred hoof.

It's a little worn down
on the inner front edge,

which shows that the wearer
was disposed to peck.

And the way the nails
are placed and clinched

shows that the smith
wanted to make it extra secure,

which is why I said
that a... A lost shoe

was a common occurrence
with this particular gee.

Well, well. I don't
suppose you could go on

and tell me the sex and
colour while you're about it?

I do have my limitations.

Really?

It's funny... I never thought
of you as a countryman.

My dear girl, I've been
riding since I was three...

on and off.

I must say, finding this shoe

was the most gorgeous
piece of luck.

And observation.

Quite right.

I could kiss you for it.

I think you are getting
a little intoxicated

with the excitement
of the discovery.

You need not shrink or tremble.

When I kiss you, it will
be an important event,

like one's first taste
of lychee,

not a casual adjunct to a piece
of detective investigation.

Certainly.

Kisses, like wine, should
be allowed to mature,

preferably over
a period of years.

Hoist with my own petard.

Your shoe, madam.

Now all we have to do

is to fit the shoe to the horse.

Which may lead us
to the murderer.

Peter!

From a ring in the rock

and a horseshoe on the beach?

You don't seriously think
Alexis was murdered

by a madman
riding out of the sea

clutching a cut-throat razor?

Do you?

No...

No. It's impossible.

So Mr. Martin was in here
last Monday, was he?

So he was, sir.

He parked his Morgan outside.

I didn't know he had a Morgan.

He said he only rented it.

I happened to remark on it
being an unusual make of car,

and he said, the trouble
it was giving him,

he wished they'd give him
another one.

Anyhow, in he comes,
has half a pint,

asks the way
to Tom Goodrich's farm.

Said he wanted permission
to camp on his land.

Asked if he could pitch
a tent in Hinks'' lane.

Is that a regular
camping site, is it?

No, I don't remember
anybody asking for it before.

Your good health, sir.

Oh, uh...
Have one yourself.

Thank you very kindly, sir.

Well, he was a quiet
sort of chap.

I've no objection to some
poor devil who lives in a town

helping himself to a mouthful
of fresh air and drink of water,

so long as
he leaves the place tidy.

So, Bunter, Miss Harriet
Vane's camper friend

arrived two days
before Alexis' death

and left the morning after.

And here's a funny thing,
milord,

Mr. Goodrich and the landlord
are both pretty certain

they've never seen him
in the area before,

and yet he asked
for Mr. Goodrich by name,

and he seemed
to know this place,

though it's not
a regular campsite.

Curiouser and curiouser.

And very handy for the beach.

Tire marks here...

A three-wheeler.

The Morgan, milord.

Little patch of oil.

Yes. The landlord said he
was having a spot of trouble.

I told you, he was
tinkering with the engine

when I asked him
the way to Darley.

This is where
he pitched his tent.

Hello...

What have we here?

A nice little cob,
about 15 hands.

And I should be very
much surprised if that gate

doesn't lead onto a path
down to the beach.

Oats!

And on this side of the gate.

Come on, boy.

Up, boy, up.

Ah.

You need a new shoe, old boy.

You seem to have
lost yours somewhere.

Something here, milord.

Ah, quite so.

Odd that he should
try to burn it...

Unless...

You will have noticed,
my dear Holmes,

the horse has a head-stall.

With an experienced rider
and a bit of rope...

I really think we ought
to speak to Mr. Martin.

You're sure you can't remember
anything else about him?

Quite honestly,
I was only concerned

to get on to Darley
and report the death,

so as soon as he pointed me
in the right direction...

Are we anywhere near Darley?

Yes. Ten minutes
down the road,

first right, half a mile inland.

Thank goodness.

Is there anything the matter?

Well, I've just found
a dead body on the beach.

Good Lord.

I think we have earned
a small, yet powerful drink.

I absolutely agree.

But first, I must
wash and tidy up.

I must look a mess.

Oh, I'm not allowed to comment,

but I will meet you at 6:30
in the bar resplendent...

I refer merely to the
name of your hotel.

Oh, Miss Vane!
Is there any news?

The hotel said
you'd taken a picnic lunch,

and I wondered if you'd
gone to the place where...

yes. Lord Peter thought
he ought to have a look at it.

And did he discover anything?

Anything that might lead him
to the murderer?

Now, mother...

I think I ought to
talk to the police first.

Yes, of course.
I quite understand.

I won't ask any more.

I tell you what, there's
a jolly little pub I know

just outside Seahampton
that does cream teas.

If we arrange
to go there sometime,

perhaps you'd like to join us.

What do you say, mother?

Oh, yes, my dear, would you?

I should be delighted.

What a kind thought,
Henry, dear!

Wimsey! Glad to see you.

There's a fellow
claiming the reward.

Says he gave
the razor to Alexis.

Good oh! Where is he?

He'll be here
in about 45 minutes.

He telephoned my paper
from Seahampton,

and they put him on to me.

But he says he won't talk
unless you're there.

His name's bright.

And he should have been here
five minutes ago.

In here, Mr. Bright.

This is the gentleman
you wanted to meet...

Lord Peter Wimsey.

How do you do?
How do you do?

Miss Harriet Vane.

How do you do?
How do you do?

I've told him, Lord Peter,

if he wants to claim
the morning star reward,

he'll have to let me in
on the story.

I suppose that's only fair.
I haven't done anything wrong.

I'm sure if I'd known
what that poor gentleman

meant to do with the razor...

let's begin at the
beginning, shall we?

Do sit down.

You won't mind
Miss Vane being here?

She discovered the body,
you know.

Oh, no, my Lord, not at all.

Do sit down.
Perhaps you'd like a drink?

Um, Sally?

Miss Vane?
No, thank you.

Lord Peter?

Uh, no, thanks.

Well?

Well, my Lord, I am,
as you might say,

an itinerant hairdresser...

thank you...

I used to have my own
business in Manchester,

but I lost it through...

through misfortune.

Whereabouts in Manchester?

Massingbird street.

It's all been pulled down now.

When was your last job?

Well, I... recently, I've
only had temporary posts.

Work's been hard to come by.

I did work for a week
at Leston hoe...

what was the name of the shop?

Ramage's, but...
I had to leave.

Why was that?

One of the customers...

I had the misfortune
to cut him slightly and...

drunk, were you?
No! No, I...

it's true that
a glass of spirits

does affect me more
than the ordinary person...

nobody's trying
to criticize you.

We're just trying
to get at the truth.

The truth?

The truth is, I was
at the end of my tether.

Thank you.

I'm sorry.
It's just that...

no one knows how hard it is,
trying to get work,

struggling against my old enemy,

and nobody will
give you a hand up.

Anyway...

I bought this razor from old
merryweather in Seahampton.

He wouldn't give me a job,

but I thought
if I had my own razor,

I might find it
easier to get work.

Could you describe the razor?

Oh, yes.
It had an ivory handle.

I think it had
a slight crack in it.

But it was a good razor,

came from a place
in Jermyn street.

How was the blade?

Oh, quite all right.

A bit worn, but perfectly sharp.

So I came to Wilvercombe...

that would be last Monday...

and I tried for work
at Moreton's,

but Mr. Moreton said
the season was over,

and he didn't want
any extra help,

and he didn't employ
casual labour.

Very hurtful he was
in his manner, and...

Well, to tell the truth,

I was at the end
of my resources.

I hadn't got enough left
for a cup of tea.

Go on.

I walked down to the sea,

about midnight
it must have been,

and I could hear the waves
breaking against the sea-wall,

and they seemed to say,
"chuck it."

"Why don't you chuck it?"

I'll tell you no lie, my Lord,

I did think of ending it all
there and then.

I actually took the razor out
and opened it.

And then I saw this young man,

further along,

and he moved towards me.

He was in evening dress,
and he had a black beard.

I remember that because
it is unusual in a young man,

unless he's an artist.

So he offered me a cigarette.

He had a gold cigarette case...
I remember that.

And it was one of those
Russian cigarettes.

Sometimes you get talking
to a stranger

when you wouldn't
to anyone else,

so I told him my troubles,
and he said...

I only wish my
difficulties could be solved

as easily as yours.

So he gave me some money...

five pounds it was...
and he said,

now, you give me the razor.

I can't do that,
it's my livelihood.

In the mood you're in,

it's more likely to be
your deathlihood.

A funny way he had of talking,

quick and sort of poetic,
you know.

So he put the razor in
his pocket, and he said,

"funny we should meet tonight,

two minds with
but a single thought."

And then, off he went.

He said that?

He did.

But if I'd guessed
that he really meant...

well, I never would have
given him the razor.

But he never actually
told you his name?

He didn't, Miss.

But he said he was
a dancing partner

at one of the hotels,

and wasn't it a hell
of a life for a man

that ought to be a prince
in his own country,

making love to ugly old women

at tuppence ha'penny a time.

Very bitter he sounded.

You'll have to
let the police know.

After all, you've done nothing
wrong, as you said yourself.

Why don't you get it
over with right away?

Go 'round to the police
station with Mr. Hardy,

and perhaps you can
discuss the reward?

It sounds okay to me,

but we'll have to
check up on your story.

But if it's all okay,
then there'll be

a good fat check for you.

That should keep you
going for sometime

if you'll just steer clear of
that little weakness of yours.

The great thing
about weaknesses is

never to let them
interfere with business.

Well, I'm very much
obliged to you.

That seems to settle
things very nicely.

Thank you, my Lord.

Miss Vane.

Good-bye,
Mr. Bright.

That was rather horrid.

Yes, it was.

Still, if it got
the truth out of him.

If it was the truth.

Ah. You think it wasn't?

It doesn't sound quite right
for Alexis somehow.

And also...

yes?

Speaking as a novelist,

if I were trying to think
of an explanation

as to how that razor got
into the hands of Paul Alexis,

that's exactly the sort
of story I'd come up with.

Oh.

Bunter?

You had a reason for
melting into the mouldings?

Yes, milord.

I thought it advisable,
in case your lordship

subsequently desiring
to have the person

kept under surveillance.

Your forethought is, as
ever, Bunter, remarkable.

You wouldn't happen to have
a tide-table on you, would you?

Certainly, milord.

Oh, thank you.

Well, I don't know.

I find it all rather
evocative and convincing.

The "waves breaking
against the sea-wall."

Except that they weren't.

Your instinct was
quite right, Harriet.

At the time he mentioned,

the tide was at the
extreme bottom of the ebb.

No, I agree with you, milord.

Mr. Bright's story
just doesn't hold water...

if you'll forgive the pun!

Still, you know what they say...

truth is stranger than fiction.

Oh, certainly.

The most difficult thing
for a writer of fiction

is to make the truth
sound convincing.

Maybe that was
Mr. Bright's difficulty,

maybe he just got carried away
by his imagination.

Well, Sally Hardy has insisted

on him collecting the reward

from the offices
of the morning star.

And they said they'll need time
to check on his story.

So we're going to keep
in touch with Mr. Bright.

And if he doesn't show up
for the reward?

Then we'll know there's
something fishy about him.

Report on
Mr. Haviland Martin, sir.

Can the sort of man
who goes camping

really be called
haviland Martin?

They've traced the car.
MY-12.

Tom Goodrich remembered it.

Short and sweet,
eh, Percy? MY-12.

"Haviland Martin rented the car
from a garage in London,

"last Thursday week,
paid the deposit in cash,

"and returned it
on Sunday night.

"He gave, as reference,
a Cambridge banker,

"and showed them
a driving license

made out in the name
of 'Martin.'"

hmm.

Milord?

What does your mystery-writer's
mind make of that?

I think that if I were
trying to invent a way

for a murderer
to reach an appointed spot

and leave it again,

complete with bag and baggage,

leaving no traceable trail,

I'd have him behave exactly
as Mr. Haviland Martin has.

I'd have him open a bank
account in a false name,

hire a car,

giving the bank's address
to the garage as sole reference,

pay cash, and then possibly
close the bank account again

in the near future.

Did they check on the bank?

"Mr. Haviland Martin has been
a depositor for five years."

I would agree with you, Harriet,

but five years seems
rather a long time

to premeditate a crime.

Hmm.
Yes, Percy, what is it?

I saw old pollock, sir.

I told him to be here
by 11:00.

Oh, no.

All right.
I'll see him in a minute.

Pollock's the old devil

we think was fishing out there
that day, milord.

I don't know if
you want to be present?

Oh, thank you.

Very decent of you, inspector.

Would you mind, Miss?

It's quite all right, inspector.

I have to go anyway.

I meant to tell you,
I'm changing my address.

You needn't worry...

I'm not going to leave town
or anything like that.

You're quite right, inspector,

the resplendens is rather
large and rather expensive,

so I'm taking lodgings.

Very wise, Miss.

The address, by the way,
is 4, jubilee walk.

Where, sir?

That's where the dead man lived!

What's she up to now, I wonder?

Morning, Mrs. Lefranc.

Oh, I'm sorry, love.

You're earlier than I expected.

I'll... I'll just finish this.

I like the front to look nice.

Oh, that's all right.
I'm in no hurry.

Now, I never asked.
Are you in the business?

What business?

A theatrical.

No. I write books.

Oh... you're not one of
them journalists, are you?

Oh, no.

Worried to death
I've been with them,

poking their long noses
into my private affairs,

never a thought for my feelings.

Poor Mr. Alexis
dead and gone,

and me, like a mother to him.

I can imagine how you
must feel, Mrs. Lefranc.

As a matter of fact,
it was me who found him.

Well... I never!

Would you like to see the room?

This is it,

and I'm sure you won't
find better in Wilvercombe.

It's nice and quiet,

and you'll be able to do
your writing beautiful.

I've had it all cleaned up,

and his clothes
and things put away.

But if you was to dislike the
books or bits and pieces about,

then I could always
put them down in the cellar.

No! No, they're
no bother at all.

I mean, it's not as if he died
in this room, is it, poor love?

And anything infectious
there is not,

for he always
enjoyed good health,

barring the pain in his joints,

which used to play him up
from time to time,

and the agony he
went through was cruel.

My sister had the rheumatics,
so I know all about it.

A trapeze-artist she was.

I've got her photo
in my room, Miss Vane,

if you'd like to see it,

and the wreaths her old pals
sent to her funeral

was beautiful to see.

Now, how long would you
be wanting the room for?

Well, I don't really know.

It depends when
the inquest is held.

Oh, yes...

They have to find him first,
haven't they?

Poor lamb...
I can't sleep at nights

for thinking of him washing
about in all that nasty sea.

Would you be wanting 2 1/2
guineas per week, all found,

or 12 shillings
and find for yourself?

Can't a man take his own
boat out when he likes?

So you admit you were there?

Who said so?
They Baineses, I s'pose.

Nasty, peering, prying lot.

Now, then, Mr. Pollock,
think carefully.

What time did you
get to the flat-iron rock?

You better ask Tom Baines.

Poking and prying, like
one of they blood Bolsheviks.

Oh, never mind all that.

If you've nothing to hide,
just answer the question.

Were I off the flat-iron
Wednesday?

Right.

Yes, I were.

About what time?

One? Two?

Might be about then.

Did you see anyone on the shore?

I see a vule of a woman
capering about on the beach.

That's what I see...
going on as if she was loony.

I must tell Miss Vane.
She'd appreciate that.

Did you see anyone
on the flat-iron?

There were a chap lying down.

How long had he
been lying there?

Couldn't say.

She climbed up on the rock,

and then starts a-yowlin'
and wavin' her arms.

I didn't take no notice.

I never takes no notice
of females.

Now, pollock,
just answer me this...

did you see anyone else
on the shore that morning?

Couldn't say.

Were you in sight of
the shore all the time?

Yes, I were.

And you saw nobody apart from
the woman, and the man lying down?

Ain't I telling you?
I never looked.

What were you doing
off the grinders that day?

Was someone else with you
in the boat?

No, there weren't.

How about your grandson?

Oh, him? He was there.
Why shouldn't he be?

Mr. Pollock, can we get
one thing quite clear?

Did you see anybody walking
or riding along the shore

between 1:00
and 2:00?

Can't say.
Never noticed.

All right, then, pollock.

You can give your statement
to constable Ormonde outside.

And we shall want to
question your grandson.

Well, you can't, then.

He ain't here.
He's gone to Ireland.

Come on, pollock.

Pack of fools.

Police here, police there...

no blasted freedom
in this country!

Well, milord,
what do you make of that?

If he was in his boat,
off the grinders that day,

and he did see Miss Vane
and the body on the rock,

then he was bound to see
anybody else on the beach,

and yet he says he didn't.

So it has to be suicide.

Of course, he could be lying.

He is certainly lying,
inspector...

But about what, and why?

Excuse me, sir, but there's a
gentleman here from Seahampton,

a dealer in old coins.

He saw the picture
of Paul Alexis in the paper

and thought you
ought to know something.

Know what?

Well, the day before he died,

Alexis drew everything
out of his bank account

and bought 300 gold sovereigns.

Well, if this is suicide,

it's like no suicide
I ever heard of.

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