Original subtitles

Are you gonna talk to your father about money?

Congratulations, George.

Your daddy is a sly old dog.

Your new stepmother's younger than you.

Please don't ask me to bail Ian out again.

I'll not throw good money after bad.

God, what is the point of you?! What are you for?!

- And you are? - Peter Combe.

What's the menu tonight, drinking or dancing?

Both.

- What is it? - It's Louise's handwriting.

It's a crank. You're not to brood on it.

I've never stayed at L'Hotel St. Mariette.

I've never even heard of it.

I think we can make it work between us.

But we have to stop doing terrible things to each other.

What terrible things have you done?

- Nothing, just...

We'll be all right.

He's here.

What? Where is he?

In the drawing room.

You and your disappearing acts.

My God, how beautiful you are.

You love me.

I must do, mustn't I?

And you want this marriage to work.

We both want this marriage to work, Ian.

We agreed to that.

Then there are certain particular assurances I need.

What are they?

My God, it's ridiculous, really.

I know it was you.

I knew it.

I know you forged those letters.

What?

Louise swore on our sons' lives.

Well, then, you're a fool, Ian.

- You're a poor fool. Of course she swore. - She swore.

And I believed you.

And the only person it could possibly be is me.

Of course it is. I'm the culprit, of course I am.

- Margaret, you will go to court and you will submit - No, I won't.

- to an injunction that... - Oh, God, this is ridiculous.

forbids you from ever talking about my sons or their mother

- again. - I won't go to court. I won't submit to anything.

- Yes, you are. You will. - No, I won't!

Of all the things you've ever done to me, Ian,

this has to be the absolute worst.

I cannot believe you believe this about me.

I want you to leave.

But you will submit to that injunction.

I've got the proof.

Dora!

The date for the hearing has been set.

This goes against all our advice.

If you submit to this injunction,

it is an admission of liability.

Mr. Jauncey, I know that I pay you for your advice,

but the duke requires me to do this.

So I will do it.

You're not going to like it.

What is it?

- Shall I tell Cheeseman to bring the car? - Yes!

What are you doing, Ian?

I did what you asked.

I've had you banned from Inveraray

and its environs.

Over here

is environs.

Over there is the whole rest of the world.

You stay in the rest of the world,

and you won't be in breach of the law.

You breached the law.

You broke into my home and you stole private property.

As your husband, I have every right

to enter our shared domicile.

And I have every right to enter the castle

that I bloody well paid for!

No, you don't.

I had you banned.

But please, Margaret, if you're concerned

for the whereabouts of certain private properties,

just give a description of said items

to that friendly bobby there.

No?

Don't want to talk to the nice policeman?

We had a deal, Ian.

- Caveat emptor, darling. - I have children.

So do I.

What do you want?

I want peace and quiet.

I want...

time to think.

I believe I'm owed that.

When do I get my things back?

Let's talk when I'm ready.

Yeah?

Oh, and, um...

...everything's locked away

from prying eyes,

so you can stop sweating about that.

At least for the time being.

I'm only showing you this because you're my barrister.

Is this you?

Of course it's not bloody me. I wouldn't be

showing it to you if it were me.

But it is her.

She does photograph well, doesn't she?

So, there we are.

Divorce on the basis of multiple adulteries.

- Cut and dry. - Actually, no.

I'm afraid you need more.

What the hell are you talking about?

How could I possibly need more?

I brought you all of this. You have

a photograph, for God's sake. You have lover letters!

You have a diary full of men.

And then there's the "V."

You know what that is?

That's her sign.

That's her bare, forked, animal legs

open for her legion of lovers.

"V." I mean, it's everywhere.

You say I need more.

The letters, the diaries, the, uh...

image...

they're not recent.

You continued living with her,

presumably enjoying conjugal relations.

Only when I couldn't fight her off.

She's like a wolf-- hold you down,

strip the meat from your bones.

But the law can therefore decide

that you condoned her behavior.

We need to prove that she was adulterous,

and continued to be so after you'd separated.

Spit it out, Emslie. I'm getting old

and dying here-- what do we need?

We need evidence that she's still at it.

We need the diary she uses now.

- Papa. - Shh, shh, shh, shh.

Where will it be?

- Oh, by her bed. - By her bed?

Papa, I don't want to.

Come on.

Jeanne, this is gonna be fun.

We're like cat burglars.

Raffles, the Gentleman Thief.

Get it! I got her!

- I don't know where it is. - Get it!

- I don't know where it is. - In the bedside ta...

Middle drawer! Look in the middle drawer!

- I think I've found it! I've got it! I've got it. - Stop it! Stop it.

- You sure? - Yes, I've got it!

- Ian!

Ian!

Ian, stop!

Ian!

Ian!

My Lord, I present Ian Campbell, the Duke of Argyll's

petition for divorce from Margaret, Duchess of Argyll,

on the grounds of her multiple adulteries.

The duke, the pursuer in this case,

is fully aware that a petition brought by the husband

against the wife is unusual.

But the evidence we will present at a date given by the court is

unequivocal, highly intimate,

and, frankly, utterly damning.

- You all right? - Mm.

There are reporters outside the house.

They come in the garden, knock on the windows,

and shout through the door questions about you.

About you and men.

But they're lies, Daddy.

It's all lies, Ian's lies.

He's trying to turn everyone against me.

That Judge Wheatley who banned me from Inveraray,

I've heard that he's a member of Clan Campbell.

That's the same clan as Ian, Daddy.

But nobody reports on that, do they?

But how can that be allowed?

And his doctor Petro saying that I'm mad.

There are things that I could say about him, too, Daddy,

but I don't.

But he just makes it all about me,

- my fault. - I'm getting too old for this.

You have to warn me, warn us.

I don't want to learn it from the newspaper,

or have some pimply youth scream at me

over the garden wall.

What does Ian have?

Nothing.

Nothing, Daddy, I promise you.

Bloody man.

I got collateral for you from Ian,

so if anything were to happen,

you wouldn't be left empty-handed.

This is a Deed of Gift, from him to you.

Paintings, silver, antiques.

Argyll heirlooms inherited with the title,

with the castle.

All valued.

But I'm not allowed to go back to the castle.

You've a right to remove what's yours.

Would you excuse me for a moment?

He looks so tired.

You exhaust him, the mess you make.

The mess I make?

Well, nobody else makes it, do they?

Well, I think it's clear

whose side you're on, isn't it, Jane?

Oh...

It is entirely reasonable

that the duchess be granted access to Inveraray Castle.

She must be allowed to identify articles

she claims as personal possessions.

I'll allow a day.

Dawn till dusk.

It's dawn. Let's go.

Hello, Satan.

- You fucker, Ian. - What?

I'm gonna chop your fucking hands off!

Jesus fucking hell!

You think I'm unhinged?

I'll show you unhinged,

you fucking piece of absolute shite!

- I'm sorry.

Please, don't hurt me. I'm sorry!

That's definitely mine. That's mine.

That bedraggled thing I'll cheerfully leave behind.

Oh, my charming wife. That reminds me.

I must move my bowels.

I want all of my clothes, Dora, everything.

And if he tries to stop you, kick him.

That's mine.

Shouldn't you have brought a van?

I don't remove things, Ian.

I pay for people to remove things.

They'll be coming later. Keep up, please, Mr. Jauncey.

So I'm going to have to put up with your burly laborers,

as well, am I?

Oh, wonderful clipboard. Very debonair.

Both those are mine. Each of those.

Those are mine. That's mine.

- And that tray there, mine. - All right.

- That furniture is mine. - All right.

Those are mine, those blue ones.

That picture is me. It's mine.

Yes, of course.

- Those two-- that stag, that table. - Mm-hmm.

No. In fact, those boxes are mine.

That dog bed's mine. The desk is mine.

- No, it isn't mine. Ashtray is mine. - Mm-hmm.

Um...

we should be thinking about leaving.

Dawn till dusk, the judge said.

It's not dusk.

Um...

I'm never going to be allowed here again.

Just let me sit here.

Please.

Let me sit here.

What is it?

Your Grace.

Malcolm Kerr, Chair of the Board of Trustees

to the Argyll estate.

- Yes, I know who you are. - Uh, Your Grace...

Everything in there is mine.

Gifted to me by the duke.

But your husband had already used

all these heirlooms to secure a personal loan.

Yes. To my father.

No, to another lender.

This was before the duke inherited,

while he was still with his previous wife.

Uh...

Sorry. I don't understand what he's saying.

He-he signed that to my father. It's his signature.

Yes, I-I thought you said your father had taken

legal advice on this.

Your Grace, what we are trying to say is

that your husband cannot use these heirlooms

to secure collateral for a personal loan from your father

when they've already been accepted as collateral

from another lender.

This Deed of Gift is entirely meaningless.

It's, um, it's dusk.

We have to go.

Now.

We can plan our next move back in London.

- Thank you, gentlemen.

Thank you. I have been instructed

by the duchess to file her counter-petition

against the duke for divorce

on the grounds of his adultery.

Who with?

- Who's the other woman? - Margaret, who was it?

Was it one of your friends?

It's my stepmother.

- What?!

- Your stepmum?

Uh, there will be no further comments at this stage.

Thank you, gentlemen.

George, are you out of your mind?

None of it's true. None of it!

He doesn't need you anymore.

You'd say anything to get him all to yourself, wouldn't you?

You'd say absolutely anything.

Jane. You know what you did.

You have a witness

to your husband's adultery with your stepmother?

Yes, of course. They're abroad at the moment.

They're difficult to reach.

It would be useful to speak to them sooner

rather than later.

Mm-hmm. Of course.

Your husband has cited Peter Combe

as one of the co-respondents.

Peter's a friend, a good friend.

There's never been anything of that nature between us.

And the other names?

Mr. Fraser, I dine with men.

I meet men, I converse with men.

It doesn't follow that I have affairs

with every single man that I meet.

There's only so many hours in the day.

And the image?

The gentleman in the Polaroid photographs-- who is he?

You're sure that nothing

that is said in court can be reported by the newspapers?

Divorce is a private matter between individuals.

There's no public interest

in the painful dissolution of a marriage.

Obviously, press interest will be high.

Mm. My father's very unwell,

and my children have their own lives,

and I don't want to cause anybody...

The details of the case

and individual testimonies cannot be reported,

at least not in the British press.

They can report the judgment,

though that's usually very dry.

Not fodder for the front pages.

He doesn't get to divorce me.

I get to divorce him,

for cruelty

and neglect.

Well, for basically being himself.

This could go my way, couldn't it?

There's a real chance this could go my way?

He's stolen my private property.

He shouldn't be allowed to use that against me.

As evidence, the diaries

and letters are easily contested.

Even the Polaroid photographs

of the gentleman alone are not evidence of your adultery.

However, there is the irrefutable fact

of the gentleman... with you.

In your bathroom.

Yes, but...

the gentleman in the photograph

is my husband,

the Duke of Argyll.

He'll have to be examined to prove he's not the man.

Oh, no. How terrible for him.

- Help! I need help!

- Daddy.

Call Dr. Griffiths.

- Oh, Daddy. - It's nothing.

It's just a wee tumble, and my legs went.

- That's all.

It's all right. It's all right.

I'm so sorry, Margaret.

I'll come and see him later.

Hello, Margaret.

Poor George. I always liked him.

Lovely service. Gorgeous hymns.

I stayed at the back. I-I didn't want to intrude.

You're intruding now, Maureen.

It's not the best timing, but this just won't wait.

You have to stop this ridiculous charade with Ian.

That's my advice as a friend,

and if you've an ounce of sense, you'll take it.

I thought all my friends had deserted me.

Do you blame them?

The show that you're making of yourself.

My dear, I could weep.

- Didn't know you cared. - I don't.

But it's not just your yawning fanny being shown to the world.

It's all of ours, isn't it?

Plastered all over the papers,

being thumbed by every shop girl and grocer.

All nudge-nudge, wink-wink

and sniggering speculation about our class.

You're breaking the rules.

Our private lives stay behind closed doors.

It's why the little people in their grubby pits look up to us

because we are not them, but you're dragging us down

so we look just like them, all bare arses and flapping cocks.

Perhaps we should be dragged down.

You are going to give Ian what he wants.

Give him everything.

You think you're friendless now,

your life will be a howling wasteland if you don't stop.

So, stop.

I fell 40 feet down a lift shaft.

I thought I was going to die.

I thought I was going to be crushed to death.

But I didn't die.

Then I was told I'd never walk again, but I walked.

So don't tell me what to do, Maureen,

because I won't be told.

Not by you or Ian or anyone.

You are a duchess.

There are photographs of you

with a man's erect penis in your mouth.

Did you think it was a secret?

Never mind what the scandal's doing to you.

Consider what it's doing to us.

Floodgates open, nothing sacred.

You won't be forgiven, Margaret.

We will close ranks, and we have ranks to close.

You, dear, do not.

Oh, Christ, she doesn't half choose her moments,

doesn't she?

Bloody freezing out there.

Well... Margaret.

I'm sorry.

Let's get drunk, shall we?

- Mm. - Eh?

"Little Bitty Pretty One"]

You know about the photograph, don't you?

You don't look very surprised or shocked.

"Pledging My Love"]

You know how the rumor mill works.

People are betting on who they think it is

and who you're protecting.

- I'm not telling you. - I'm not asking.

You should know me better than that.

One tiny moment,

the click of a camera.

That's what's on trial, really.

It's not a trial, Margaret.

That I got on my knees and enjoyed it.

It is a trial.

And I have to be sorry

because the law doesn't like women who aren't sorry.

Then pretend.

Ian's pretending to be the sad and wronged noble husband.

You can pretend to be good and nice.

I'll have to school my face in remorse.

Go on. Let's see it.

- Yes, that might need some work. - Mm. Mm-hmm.

Do you still love him?

is my desire, dear...

Does he still love you?

Do you think he wants us to go?

Nightcap at mine?

Hmm. I'm sorry for dragging you into all this, darling,

I really am.

Hey, I'm a grown-up. I can look after myself, remember?

Hmm.

Thank you for being my friend.

Hey, don't be soft. Always.

- Go to bed. It's bright as day.

- Bye, darling. - Bye. Love you.

Pubic hair is fascinating.

Idiosyncratic as a fingerprint.

I can tell my regular clients apart

by a mere clump of the downstairs fuzz.

The photograph, if you please.

Hmm. It's not that clear, is it?

- Come.

What the fuck are you doing here?

We are obliged to be present in all matters pertaining

to our client's defense.

Oh, Jesus Christ.

Well, then, Your Grace,

release the beast.

Do you see now? You see?

That's why I call her "Satan."

I want you to tear her to shreds.

Apologies. A little tangle.

Sir, I want to remind you

that the evidence for your case

is circumstantial and flimsy, at best,

and excessively punitive and spiteful, at worst.

Your wife has endured a lot during your marriage,

and I'm confident that the law will be far kinder

to her than you've been.

Well, that all depends on the view of the judge.

You're wife's in pain, Your Grace.

- Yes? - It's me.

Sorry to hear about your father. He was a good man.

I've seen you look better, Margaret.

Rode hard, put away wet.

That's how you look.

What do you want, Ian?

I thought you and I should have a civil conversation.

Fun as all this has been, it's gone far enough.

Fun?

God.

Do you know I think you died in that prisoner of war camp.

You died.

And this is just a corpse that you drag around.

Because you don't feel anything at all, do you?

No.

I don't know if it's the war, but you're right.

I don't feel anything really. I never have.

This.

This battle between you and I...

makes the blood bang.

Closest I ever got to feeling alive.

Sir?

You cheated my father, Ian.

He trusted you, and you cheated him.

He wanted you to be a duchess. You're a duchess.

Couldn't see anything beyond that.

All you ever wanted was his money, my money.

And now, you've spent it all, and you need another rich wife.

I expect you've already got one lined up.

That's what this is really about.

Maybe.

But for the public, this will always be

about your innumerable, flagrant infidelities.

Who's the chap in the photograph, by the way?

I'd like to buy him a drink and congratulate him

- on the size... - You were never faithful

to me, Ian, so let's not pretend that's who we are.

Who were my mistresses?

Jane, for one.

Can you prove it?

Do you have love letters,

diaries, a photograph?

'Cause I do.

Here's the situation as I see it.

My case can be heard by a judge,

at which point details I think you would prefer

to remain private will become a matter of legal record.

Or?

Pay me 250,000 pounds,

clear my debts, pay my lawyers, and agree

to be divorced for adultery, and then,

all of this unpleasantness just goes away.

You want to shame me into submission.

Yes.

But at least it will be all over.

But it won't be over, will it, Ian?

Because there'll just be something else.

Then something else.

Then you'll hold it over me forever.

I think that that's a risk you'll have to take.

Well?

See you in court.

How can it be Judge Wheatley again?

Let's forget Wheatley for one second.

You have bigger issues.

The photograph of you and Peter Combe...

God, I should have known that Ian would have me watched.

You said there was nothing between you and Mr. Combe.

And there isn't. Peter will swear to it.

How is Ian allowed to spy on me like that?

All parties in Argyll v. Argyll!

All parties!

You have to drop the counterclaim against him.

We have no evidence about your stepmother.

I know that Jane and Ian had an affair.

Without evidence, it's just speculation.

You have to drop it.

You have to before we start.

- Court rise.

Dr. Tulloch, a material piece of evidence

against the duchess is a Polaroid photograph.

- You've seen this photograph. - I have.

I studied it for professional comparison.

My Lord, the defender claims that the man

in the photograph is her husband.

Dr. Tulloch, you examined the duke

to establish if this was so.

I did. I observed all the distributions

of the suprapubic hair formation.

The man in the Polaroid photograph has a thick,

bushy growth that extends towards the umbilicus.

The duke, in contrast, has a very thin

and fine suprapubic distribution.

So what did you conclude from this clearly

experienced professional examination?

That the person in the photograph

was different from the duke.

Different. Not her husband.

Thank you, Dr. Tulloch.

How would you describe

your relationship with the defender?

The duchess and I are friends.

We go for dinner,

walk our dogs together, go to the cinema.

I make her laugh.

She's needed that during her marriage.

Someone to make her laugh.

The pursuer has a photograph

of you and the defender embracing on her doorstep

in the early hours of the morning.

Yes, he does.

Have you at any time in your friendship

been intimately involved with the defender?

Never. We've never once been adulterous.

It's not even a remote possibility.

We're friends. That embrace

is the embrace that friends give each other.

My Lord, I have a letter

from the duke's physician, declaring that the duke

suffers from a condition that requires him to sit.

I'll allow it.

Yes, my wife frequently went out in London, unaccompanied by me.

Sometimes she returned at midnight.

Sometimes at- 00 or- 00 in the morning.

She said she was with friends.

And were you entirely happy about that?

No. All of her friends were men.

She assured me it was all completely innocent.

- And you believed her? - Of course.

But then, my suspicions became overwhelming.

I moved out of our London home into Claridge's hotel.

And after that, I discovered her letters and diaries

and... other things

that she kept secretly.

And did you notice anything in her diaries

that took your attention particularly?

The lists of names and dates.

Names of men.

And the letter "V."

And what does the defender signify

with the use of the letter "V"?

She-she signifies

that intercourse occurred.

- How can you be so sure?

Because it appears next to my own name,

in the early years of our marriage.

When we were happy.

You had intercourse with the defender

when you were married to your previous wife.

You committed adultery.

I did so for the purposes of obtaining a divorce.

I see. You are practiced in calculation

when it comes to obtaining a divorce.

You say you left the London home and took a suite at Claridge's.

But you were reconciled with the defender in Paris.

You shared the same room, the same bed.

Briefly.

Briefly or not, at that time, you condoned what you suspected.

My wife is very persuasive. There were nights at Inveraray

when I had to lock myself in the library in order

to get some sleep, and even then, she would

- batter on the door.

But you seemed prepared to accept all that

when the defender paid for your scheme

to salvage a shipwreck from Tobermory Bay

and the restoration of Inveraray Castle.

I put it to you that you only began to care

about the defender's London lifestyle

when her money began to dry up.

No, not at all.

You weren't angry when the defender refused you money?

- No. - You didn't physically attack her?

There were no occasions of violence?

- No. And no. - You didn't,

with the help of your daughter, terrorize the defender

by holding her down in her bed and stealing her diary?

I didn't terrorize her.

I merely took her diary

from her bedside table as she reached for the telephone

to call the police.

My daughter, Lady Jeanne, will agree.

I'm sure.

You drink, don't you?

You drink to excess?

I drink the usual amount.

I put it to you that you drink to a degree

that it would influence a man's behavior,

his judgment, his state of mind,

and would cause his wife distress, even as she did

- everything in her power - My wife...

to care and support her hus...

My wife, the defender,

is unfaithful.

And I drink the usual amount.

Duchess? Duchess?

Duchess, over here!

- Shameless hussy! - Scum.

- You're scum! - Slut!

In the matter of Argyll v. Argyll,

the court now calls Margaret, Duchess of Argyll.

What purpose

do your diaries serve?

They're a record of my social engagements.

People who've written, dinner invitations, parties.

The letter "V," your husband alleges,

is a symbol for intercourse,

is a shorthand for these social engagements, an aide-memoire?

Yes. People who have sent flowers, for example.

And the love letters?

Those are from before my marriage.

Many women keep such letters.

They can be comforting,

especially if one's unhappy.

You were unhappy with your husband?

I wanted very much to be happy.

I tried to make my husband happy,

but he was volatile and neglectful,

and... I was very lonely.

I must ask you about an explicit Polaroid photograph.

You said the man was your husband?

I thought it must be.

He did keep material of that nature.

- It was his fetish.

And the woman in the image? Is that you?

- Might I see it? - Of course.

I'm sorry, but this image is so faded,

it's impossible for me to say who that woman is.

Your Grace, your husband alleges

that you have had adulterous liaisons with over 80 men.

Have you ever been unfaithful to your husband?

No. Never.

My Lord, the defender has been standing for hours.

Might she be perhaps permitted a chair?

The defender will remain standing.

Mr. Emslie.

My husband was allowed to sit.

The defender will restrict her remarks

to what is germane.

Mr. Emslie, please proceed.

Your Grace,

I would like to ask you about the love letters.

You say they were innocent.

I say they were sent before my marriage.

And you kept them because they were... comforting?

Yes.

My Lord, a letter to the defender.

"My Love, my tongue feels dry,

and violent upsurges shake my body.

I can hardly wait, so much am I filled with visions of you,

memories and others which will become truth soon."

Well, goodness me.

Are violent upsurges comforting?

Comforting, for most women, would be a, uh, a-a kind word,

not a violent upsurge.

That letter was sent to me before I married the duke.

Yes, the court heard you say that.

The court also heard that

- Peter Combe is just a friend. - He is.

Well, then I would like your explanation for this--

the photograph of Peter Combe leaving your house

in the early hours of the morning, and you embrace,

very lovingly in public.

My Lord, Mr. Combe has already testified with respect

to his friendship with the defender.

I'll allow.

What was Peter Combe

doing with you until the early hours of the morning

that should occasion such a, um...

warm embrace?

We were talking.

That's all.

We played music, we talked.

And I embraced him because he's my good friend.

What is "V"?

I've already said, it's a...

a record of my social engagements, an aide-memoire.

"V" is your cipher for intercourse, isn't it?

You like to keep trophies of your conquests--

letters, photographs.

"V" is sexual conquest, and it is everywhere in your diaries.

V, V, V,

- V, V. - No, no.

No, it's nothing to do with that.

Well, then, what is it?

Because it isn't, um... flowers.

- It's private. - Private. Innocent.

Like the violent upsurges.

Do you know the difference between the truth and a lie?

Yes, I do. And I've heard my husband lie in this court.

This action brought

by my husband is not merely about divorce.

He doesn't care about infidelities.

He doesn't care about affairs. The only thing

he cares about is destroying me.

He wants nothing less than my total ruination,

and all I've ever tried to do is help him.

And yet, you lied constantly

throughout your marriage.

You lied about the paternity of your husband's sons,

and, for what I can only imagine is good measure,

defamed the moral character of their mother.

You lied about your own stepmother,

the most egregious lies.

You claimed that she and your husband were having an affair.

You are a liar, aren't you?

You're lying now about your lovers,

and you are lying about the Polaroid photograph

because as this court has shown,

the man in the photograph is not your husband, as you claimed,

but the woman in the photograph...

that is you... isn't it?

Yes, it's me.

Those are my pearls, that's my ring.

That's my bathroom.

That woman is me.

Well, well, there we are then.

I believe I'm not the only one to have no further questions.

The defender may step down.

In this application for divorce on the grounds of adultery,

I have considered the evidence and testimonies

of both pursuer, Ian Campbell, Duke of Argyll,

and the defender, Margaret Campbell, Duchess of Argyll.

Concerning the duchess,

I consider her to be a highly sexed woman

who had ceased to be satisfied with normal relations,

and had started to indulge in disgusting sexual activities

to gratify a debased sexual appetite.

Evidence was supplied in the form of diaries,

letters and Polaroid photographs.

The man or men depicted cannot be identified,

as the angle of the images exclude the head.

And that the defender and the man or men depicted

were indulging in a gross form of sexual relationship.

There is enough in her own few admissions and proven facts

to establish that she was a completely promiscuous woman,

whose sexual appetite could only be satisfied

with a number of men, whose promiscuity

had led to a queer form of perversion,

and whose attitude to the sanctity of marriage

was what the moderns might call sophisticated,

but what in plain language could only be described

as wholly immoral.

I find that the duchess has committed adultery

with several men,

including the man or men in the Polaroid photographs.

But I grant the duke his divorce on the grounds

of his wife's adultery with Peter Combe.

The duke will pay one eighth of the expense,

the duchess to pay the rest.

Did he marry you for love or for money?

I-I don't know.

I simply don't know.

I knew I loved him. I knew I wanted to save Inveraray

desperately badly.

What he felt, I don't know.

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