Original subtitles

(Gunshots)

(Beaters shouting)

- When's Helen due back, do you say? - Helen? Why?

I know how jolly lost I feel without Rachel.

Come on, man! Come on! Flush 'em out!

(Beaters shouting)

Concentrate, lad, concentrate.

You don't get a kill filing your nails.

You tell Mary that.

MAN: Raise them, come on!

I say, old Gerry's getting impatient.

What do you say if I shoot him?

Make an even 50 brace.

(Chuckles)

(Gunshots)

I'm absolutely panting for a cup of tea.

Rachel, dear!

With all that intensity furrowing their faces.

In Neil's case, it's more likely to be cramp.

(Laughter)

And with Freddy, just plain boredom.

What about Denis?

Denis?

Who knows what goes on in Denis's mind?

- Freddy? Your bird. - After you.

Your bird, damn it.

I must, say, Gerry, I'd hate to be facing you in a duel.

Any more dithering like that, old man, and we won't be waiting for no duel.

Come on. Let's call it a day.

Cathcart! Come on, home!

The weather's breaking up.

(Dogs bark)

(Piano plays)

Your shot, Colonel.

Bad luck.

(Thud) - Oh, blast!

Neil, I nearly nodded off.

What's the time, Mary, dear?

It's quarter to ten.

Well, I shall go to bed.

It's this Yorkshire air. It's so enervating.

It certainly seems to have a stupefying effect on the men.

What's that, dear?

Maudie.

I think I'll come up too.

Night-night, Rachel. Night, Freddy.

- Night, old thing. - Goodnight, Mrs Marchbanks.

Good night.

You're not to be long, Neil.

Oh, all right, Maudie. Just wiping the floor with young Cathcart.

- Night, Denis. - Ma mignonne.

Je te donne la bonne nuit. Sleep well, darling.

Oh, Fleming, have you got anything there for me?

No, my Lady.

(Jaunty tune)

- A card for you, Mr Arbuthnot. - Thank you, Fleming.

- Corsica. - Who's it from?

Wimsey by name and Wimsey by nature, what.

Peter! A bit daring to send through His Majesty's post.

- When's he coming back? - Doesn't say.

Just: Next stop Paris.

Trust old Peter.

Damn.

A letter for you, Captain Cathcart.

Good news?

Come on, Colonel, put me out of my misery.

All right.

(Knock at door)

Come in.

The evening post, your Grace.

Thank you, Fleming. Put them down.

Not bad - a 51 brace with four guns.

Excellent, your Grace.

Is there anything your Grace requires?

No.

Don't stay down boozing till all hours.

- Darling girl, you know perfectly well... - Yes, perfectly well.

Denis, you're to make him come up.

Of course, Rachel. At gunpoint, if necessary.

- You are gallant. - You're too beautiful to need my compliments.

- Good night. - Good night.

Good night.

Good night, darling. I'll be up later.

If you gentlemen require anything further...

Oh, thank you, Fleming, I think we can fend for ourselves.

- Nightcap, Colonel? - Er...

No, better not. I've already been summoned to the nuptial couch.

- Thanks for the game, sir. - Enjoyed it. Good night, you two.

- Night. - Night.

You look a bit down in the mouth.

Not really. It was just one of those days.

I dropped a lot of shares on the market and didn't hit a blasted bird all day.

It's a damn fool world at times.

And a great one at others.

- I reached a momentous decision today. - Oh?

I'm going to marry Mary.

She'll be delighted. You've been engaged for eight months.

No, no, no, what I mean is, I'm going to ask her to name the day.

I never could see much point in those long drawn-out engagements.

My feelings precisely.

Mary and I have saluted the conventions. Why hang about any longer?

Spoken like a true romantic.

- Where'll you live? - There's only one place for me.

Paris. They understand la belle vie over there.

(Whistles cancan)

Good God.

(Knocking)

(Knocking again)

Yes?

A word with you. Won't keep, I'm afraid.

Cut it short, that's all.

I'll try to.

Does the name Tom Freeborn mean anything to you?

It rings some sort of bell. Why?

Tom's an old friend. We were up at the house together.

- That hardly... - He's a civil engineer.

He's got some sort of job out in Egypt.

Where he's working, he doesn't get newspapers regularly,

so it was only two or three weeks ago he saw the announcement of your engagement

to my sister in the Times.

He recognised your name and your photograph.

- So? - I had this from him tonight.

He says he knew you in Paris two years ago and that you made money cheating at cards.

Cheating at cards.

What does that matter?

Tom Freeborn's the salt of the earth.

Then you'll have to believe what he says, won't you?

- You mean you don't deny it? - It wouldn't be any good.

You'll have to make up your own mind.

I would have thought that under the circumstances...

I don't care what you think or what you do.

For God's sake, leave me alone.

My dear fellow, I'm not much of a hand at this sort of situation,

but, well, you being engaged to Mary, I...

Oh, if that's what's worrying you, it's off.

- Off, what's off? - Our engagement.

What the d...

I was only talking to Mary about it this afternoon.

I haven't told her yet.

You've broken off the engagement and you haven't told her yet?

That's pretty cool, Cathcart, I must say.

That's pretty damn cool.

You utter swine.

Who the hell do you think you are, coming here and jilting my sister?

An utter swine, of course.

I forbid you to see her again.

Do you hear me? If you try, I'll break every bone in your body.

Poor Denver. All that blue blood. You haven't the faintest idea what life's about.

Understand this, sir, you'll leave this house first thing in the morning.

Sorry, Denver, I leave here when I choose.

And that happens to be now.

Cathcart, come back.

Cathcart!

Come back, you bloody fool!

Neil, what's happening?

(Groans)

- Fleming! - Your Grace?

- Have you seen Captain Cathcart? - He left by the front door.

Damn!

Your Grace?

Oh, what's it matter?

Let him drown.

- Have you locked up yet? - Not yet, your Grace.

When you do, leave the conservatory door on the latch.

Yes, your Grace.

The fellow's an utter swine, Sam.

Poor little Mary.

Damn hard lines.

It's a good thing we found out before it was too late.

(Bell chimes three)

(Whispers) Sam.

Good boy. Stay.

That's right.

Oh, God. Gerry, you killed him!

(Hums cheerfully)

Diversit� c'est ma devise.

La Fontaine was right, eh, Bunter?

Bunter?

- What was that, my lord? - La Fontaine, I said he was right.

Variety, he said, is the spice of life.

Yes, indeed, my lord.

Three months in the wilds of Corsica have blunted your ear, my old assistant sleuth.

(Hums)

Ah, coffee and croissants. Nothing like it.

Nothing like it in the world.

I say, what's going on, Bunter?

You're losing your grip. We're staying here a fortnight.

Devilled kidneys, my lord?

Did I not make it perfectly clear we were staying in Paris for at least two blissful weeks?

You made it perfectly clear, my lord.

Then why are all my bags, not to mention your photographic paraphernalia,

repacked, relabelled and standing out there as though ready for the off?

Excuse me, my lord, but having seen this morning's copy of the Times

I had no doubt Your Lordship would wish to return to Riddlesdale at once.

Riddlesdale?

Captain Cathcart has been found shot dead.

Good God!

The police suspect foul play.

Poor devil.

Poor little Mary, too.

This looks a messy business, Bunter.

Poor old Gerry, he's going to hate this. When's the next train?

I assumed Your Lordship would wish to take the quickest route,

so I took it upon myself to book two seats on the aeroplane Victoria.

You did quite right. You're far from losing your grip.

Poor old Gerald.

Uncommonly worrying for him, what.

Ironic, too. He hated me getting mixed up with the police,

now he's landed in the thick of them himself.

- When does the Victoria leave? - 11.30.

I suppose one must have breakfast.

A bit heavy for flying on, perhaps.

Sorry, Bunter.

Who's on the case? Does it say?

Inspector Parker.

Oh, splendid. That is excellent.

Good old Charles. 11 when, did you say?

30, my lord.

- And we reach Riddlesdale? - Too late, I fear, to be in time for the inquest.

So, you did nothing further in the matter?

What do you expect, I should go running after him?

Besides, it was a brute of a night.

I thought he'd come back, that's why I told Fleming not to lock the conservatory door.

I see.

And having given that instruction,

you went quietly to bed and never saw the deceased again?

Not until I fell over him outside the conservatory door at three in the morning.

Ah, yes. Can you tell us how you came to be out of doors at that time?

I wasn't sleeping well. I decided to go for a walk.

- At three in the morning? - Why not?

- Even though it was such a brute of a night? - I told you, I was restless.

Besides, my wife was away.

(Sniggering)

Silence, please.

Very well, you went for a walk.

What time did you leave your bedroom?

I don't know. 2.30, I imagine.

- And which way did you go out? - Through the conservatory door.

And the body was not there when you went out?

If it had been, I'd have had to walk over it, wouldn't I?

Where did you walk to?

Down the garden, out onto the moors.

- You actually left the grounds? - Naturally.

How far did this walk take you?

- Hard to tell. - A quarter of a mile? Half a mile?

Possibly. Possibly!

And during that time, or any other time, you heard no shot?

None.

Now, can you show us the letter you had from this...Mr Freeborn.

Well, as a matter of fact, I thought I had it in my pocket

but I couldn't find it for the Inspector here from Scotland Yard.

I'm afraid I must have destroyed it.

- That's rather unfortunate. - It is rather.

You can show the jury no proof that you ever received it?

Not unless Fleming remembers it.

Ah, yes.

No doubt we can check it in that way. Thank you, your Grace.

Call Dr Thorpe.

(Murmuring)

What the devil's he up to? The Duke, what's the matter with him?

You may well ask, Inspector.

If he's got something to say, tell him to say it.

I'm only his solicitor. He won't listen to me.

I examined the deceased at about 4.30am.

I judged him to have been dead between three and four hours.

Then I can take it that he was shot somewhere between 12.30 and 1 am.

Not necessarily, no. Death would not be instantaneous.

Oh?

The deceased might have lost consciousness,

but in all probability he would have lingered for some considerable time.

I see.

Did you subsequently conduct a postmortem examination?

Yes, I found that the lungs had been pierced by a bullet which had been deflected from a rib.

Death resulted eventually from loss of blood and suffocation.

There was nothing to show that the wound had been self-inflicted?

It could well have been.

But the bullet could equally have been fired by somebody at close range.

- It could. - Thank you, Doctor.

Call Lady Mary Wimsey.

Thank you.

I mean, she'd been engaged to the fellow for eight months.

What the deuce kept them back in the paddock?

He used to live in Paris, I believe.

They planned setting up house there after their marriage, according to my mother.

Maybe that was it.

Temptations, fear of, what.

Perhaps, my lord. Or perhaps Lady Mary simply changed her mind.

So the last time you were in Paris, Lady Mary, was nine months ago.

Last February.

It was just after we got engaged.

With regard to your marriage, had any money settlement been gone into?

No, I don't think so.

We hadn't fixed a date for the marriage.

- He always seemed to have plenty of money? - Yes, I think so. I didn't think about it.

You never heard him complain he was hard-up?

Everybody complains about that, don't they?

(Laughter)

You've heard what your brother has said,

about the deceased wishing to break off the engagement, had you any idea of this?

No, not the slightest.

- Can you think of any explanation? - None.

- There'd been no quarrel? - No.

As far as you knew, you were still engaged with every prospect of marrying shortly.

Yes. Certainly I was.

When you said goodnight to Captain Cathcart, what sort of a mood was he in?

Well, he was playing billiards with Colonel Marchbanks.

He was in cheerful mood. He seemed to me to be in a very cheerful frame of mind.

Cheerful, Lady Mary?

Well, good humoured.

This is important.

Your brother has told us that when he went to see the deceased in his room,

before he even broached the subject of Mr Freeborn's letter,

he appeared to be thoroughly out of humour.

Yes, I know. I just can't explain it.

Your brother has described exactly what occurred. Did you hear them quarrelling?

Well, I... No, I heard raised voices, footsteps and a door banging.

My room is at the back of the house. The whole thing was very indistinct.

Besides, I was really tired. I went to sleep almost straightaway.

What happened then?

Um...something woke me.

Actually, I heard a shot.

It was very distinct. I was sure it was a shot. That made me go downstairs...

You went downstairs by yourself. That was very plucky of you, Lady Mary.

Did you go immediately?

No. I put on some brogues and a coat over my nightdress.

It probably took me a couple of minutes before I got down.

Why did you go to the conservatory? The front door is much nearer.

It's a lot quicker than trying to unbolt the front door.

And when you entered the conservatory?

I... I could see that the outer door was open,

and outside I could see a man kneeling on the ground over something.

When he looked up, I could see that it was my brother.

Your brother has described that when you went to the conservatory, you cried out,

"Oh, God, Gerry, you've killed him."

- Can you tell us why you did that? - Yes, I know.

I daresay that what I thought was that my brother had come across a burglar

and fired in self-defence.

You were aware that your brother possessed a revolver?

Yes, I... Yes I think so.

What happened next?

My brother asked me to wake people and get help,

so I woke the Marchbanks and the Arbuthnots.

By that time, I was feeling faint, so I went to my room and took sal volatile.

- What time was all this? - I beg...

What time did you hear the shot?

Er... Well, three o'clock.

Three o'clock?

I... Approximately. I can't be sure.

It seems we've already established that the fatal shot was fired not later than 1.30.

- In that case, perhaps I'm slightly mistaken. - Mistaken, Lady Mary.

1.30 to 3am. Or are you saying there were two shots?

- No, I'm not. - So, what are you saying?

What I'm trying to say... What I'm trying...

is that there were a lot of people running about. (Sobs)

Please, please, Constable.

(Buzz of conversation)

Call John Hardraw.

Mary's gone too far.

Murbles, is there still no news of Lord Peter?

He left Corsica for Paris. That's all we know.

I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give

shall be truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Now, then, you are John Hardraw -

head gamekeeper on the Riddlesdale estate.

Yes, sir.

You live with your wife in the cottage just inside the main entrance to Riddlesdale Lodge.

That's so, sir.

Did anything disturb you on Wednesday night, or the early hours of Thursday morning?

I heard a shot fired. It sounded pretty close.

There's several acres of preserved plantation behind the cottage.

I thought a poacher might have got in.

What did you do?

Well, I got my gun and I went for a walk round,

but I didn't see a living soul.

Did you fire your gun at any time?

No, sir.

And what time did you hear this shot?

Ten minutes to 12.

You're sure of that?

Aye, sir, quite sure.

You didn't hear any other shots?

- None. - None?

Well, none save the first.

But that shot, you say, did not wake you?

No, no, it was the Duke shouting after Captain Cathcart from his bedroom window.

Well, I assume it was from his bedroom. How else could I hear it so clearly?

- You heard what was said? - Oh, yes.

"Come back, Cathcart." That's what he said.

Come back, you...B fool.

And afterwards?

I wasn't sleeping very well so I got up to write some letters at the desk.

About an hour later, my husband woke up and told me to come to bed.

He said, "You're the only sinner burning the midnight oil.

Everybody else has turned in."

I said, "I don't think so.

I think the Duke is still up."

Our bedroom was over his study and I could hear somebody moving about below.

- You went back to bed? - Oh, yes.

I didn't sleep very well and I was lying awake when Lady Mary knocked at our door.

This shot she mentioned, you did not hear it?

No, I've just said.

I heard no shot at that time.

Did you hear a shot at any time during the night?

Yes. Just after my husband had called me back to bed.

I heard a shot quite distinctly.

What time was that?

About midnight.

Midnight. You're sure of that?

My dear man, quite, quite sure.

They certainly wasted no time in getting on with the inquest.

It does seem to be rather precipitate, my lord.

Now spell that, Bunter.

Well...

P-R...

E-C...

I just hope the Coroner and this local lad Craikes give old Gerry a fair deal, that's all.

When you arrived at Riddlesdale, Inspector Craikes, the body was...

Lying on the path, sir, outside the conservatory door.

The deceased were dressed in a dinner jacket and pumps

without a hat or overcoat.

He were wet through.

Besides being much bloodstained, the clothes were very muddy and greatly disarrayed.

The pockets contained a cigarette case and a small flat pocket knife.

- Nowt else? - Nowt else.

I take it you examined the ground surrounding the body?

As soon as it were light, sir.

There were blood marks all along the path leading to the conservatory,

and signs consistent with the dragging of a body to the point where it were found.

And upon further investigation you...

I found in a small clearing here a great pool of blood,

a handkerchief soaked in blood and a revolver.

A revolver.

It's of American pattern, without any distinguishing mark,

.38 Smith and Wesson.

One bullet had been discharged.

That's mine.

I would like to recall the Duke of Denver.

It was disgraceful, Duchess. The Coroner behaved most improperly.

He'd no business to give such a summing up.

It was a bit thick. He didn't leave those poor blighters much choice, did he?

Don't be absurd, Freddy, they had every choice.

They returned a verdict of murder against Gerald for one reason and one reason only.

They're socialists, every one of them. Little Englanders.

I wouldn't go so far as that, dear lady.

And I would, Mr Murbles.

To show a title to their kind these days, it's like a red rag to a bull.

With respect to your Grace, political malice wasn't the only reason for the verdict.

There was the question of the revolver.

That was Gerald's revolver. He admitted that.

He kept it in a drawer in his study, he said.

With a key kept permanently in the lock.

- Well, I mean to say... - It was a bit light-hearted.

I mean to say, just because it was his doesn't necessarily prove it was he who used it.

Well, I mean, anyone could...

Still, Mr Parker, I expect you'll have the whole thing cleared up in no time.

Perhaps you've got the real culprit up your sleeve already.

Not quite, but I'll do my best to get him.

- With no doubt a little help from... - My brother-in-law?

Mr Parker, no doubt you're very amused at the antics of the family amateur.

Far from it, your Grace.

- Are we expecting Peter? - One doesn't expect Peter.

Either he's all over you when least wanted, or nowhere to be found when he is.

We don't even know his address in Paris.

I've been onto the Embassy. They've promised to get in touch with him.

If he's there, that is.

Well, he jolly well ought to be here.

There's poor old Gerry languishing in quod. If anything does happen to him...

Well, old Peter's head of the family till young Pickled Gherkins comes of age.

- Hello, dear old things. - Speak of the devil!

Ah, Fleming. Give Bunter a hand with the bags, there's a good fellow.

- At once, my lord. - Hello, Freddy. Keeping them amused?

Hello, Peter old lad.

Helen, you look stunning in adversity.

She nailed her colours to the mast, A Roman matron to the last.

- Is that in the Oxford Dictionary Of Quotations? - Not yet but it will be. Give it another 10 years.

- Nice to see you, Charles. - Hello, Peter.

- And you, Mr Murbles. - Good to see you.

We were just agreeing you were sadly missed.

You two do rather seem to have mucked things up between you.

I heard all about Gerry from the taxi fellow.

York Prison.

How's Mary, Helen?

Very upset, I think. Rachel's with her.

Oh, well, never mind. She'll keep.

I...

Tonight, Parker and I hold high revel.

Tonight he shows me all the bloody footprints.

It's all right, Helen. That's not swearing. That's an adjective of quality.

You're going to be pretty upset when you've digested the evening headlines.

- Headlines? - "Dowager Duchess Strikes Again."

Oh, my God. What's she done now?

Well, not actually struck but heading north, I understand.

Probably intending to set up some sort of HQ right opposite the prison gates.

Oh, you can't be serious.

I say , do you suppose she plans to bake a cake for Gerry with a hacksaw blade inside it?

No, not quite her style.

But if I were the governor, I think I'd box a bit clever for a few days.

Mother can be formidable when the spirit moves her.

Impossible, I should say.

I wouldn't say that, Helen.

At a time like this!

Acting as though she were the mother of some Croydon bank clerk

caught dipping into the petty cash.

- I told you you were going to be upset, old girl. - I am.

Deeply upset.

She is too, by Jove.

An emotional outburst from the ice queen herself.

Never thought I'd live to see the day.

It's been a very disturbing experience for all of us.

Well, old Parker bird, let's hear the worst.

- By what miracle are you here, anyway? - Well, largely luck, actually.

The Chief Constable of Stapeley sent for us over Craikes' head.

(Chuckles) I bet Craikes loved that.

As soon as the message came through, I asked the Chief for the job.

Trouble was, I was tying up a few details on a forgery case,

so I was a bit of a late starter, I'm afraid.

By the time I got here, Craikes and the coroner were as thick as thieves.

They'd arranged the inquest for this morning, which was absurd.

And you, Mr Murbles, what are you unhappy about in particular?

Primarily that I couldn't contact Sir Impey Biggs in time.

Oh, old Impey defending, eh? Oh, I say, that's splendid.

I don't suppose we shall see him now before Monday. And then...

Well, I must say it, Wimsey, your brother has gone out of the way to make difficulties,

not only for himself but for all of us who are trying to help him.

What sort of difficulties?

Why was he in the garden at three o'clock in the morning?

He will not give us a frank explanation.

You mean old Gerry's fibbing?

Well, shall we say, his behaviour this morning left much to be desired.

Then there's the business of the shooting.

Now, I know old Dr Thorpe won't commit himself but it certainly wasn't suicide.

How do you know?

Well, I didn't want to upset Gerry's story, so I played my own bit down like billyo.

But all that stuff about him finding Cathcart so upset

and so "Go to blazes!" in his manner, well, that was just my whiskers.

No, no, Mr Arbuthnot. That part of the Duke's testimony I believe absolutely.

Well, I was the last one with Cathcart before Gerry saw him.

We had a nightcap and he was on top of the world.

- Any particular reason? - Because he'd made up his mind.

In the morning, he was going to ask Mary to agree to a date for their wedding.

And then he said, "We shall go and live in Paris, where they understand la belle vie."

I tell you, he went upstairs to bed whistling.

Thank you, Freddy.

Invaluable man.

Charles!

I feel the grass growing under our feet.

Come on.

A bit bumpy across the Channel, Charles, but a glass of bubbly soon soothes the tum.

It's rather a good idea to keep one's crimes in the family.

One has so many more facilities.

La R�tisserie De La Reine P�dauque.

(Whistles) I say.

South Wind.

Manon Lescaut.

It's look as though he works out rather true to type.

True to what type?

You may well ask, Charles.

Baiser du Soir.

I only saw him once.

Vain young dog, by the look of all this.

I was rather surprised at Mary taking to him.

But then, I really know awfully little about Mary.

Any joy with you?

I thought there might have been some signs of him having started to write a letter.

In answer to the one he received? What about that?

Well, we know he received it but we can't find a trace of it.

There's nothing in the ashes because there's a roaring fire every night,

but I'm almost certain he burnt it.

Bad news.

Bad enough to transform a gay young lover

contemplating un peu amour in Paris into a snarling curmudgeon when my brother busts in.

- Peter, let's assume... - What would do that? Blackmail?

That's the most likely explanation.

Let's just assume our blackmailer was summoning him to a rendezvous.

Gerry delays him with more ugly news, by which time, Cathcart don't give a damn anyway.

Pausing only long enough to spit in my bewildered brother's eye,

he hurtles downstairs, snatches the revolver,

and rushes forth to do or...

- Don't really work, do it? - No. There's the time lapse, you see.

Anyway, he didn't leave with the revolver.

Fleming would have seen him take it.

So he would, old killjoy.

Let's have a look outside.

Those confounded letters.

- What? - There's the other one as well, ain't there?

From Tom Freeborn. Where the dickens could Gerald have put that?

The Duke says he destroyed it.

Mr Murbles insists that's absurd and I agree with him.

If he was going to throw that sort of charge up in Cathcart's face,

he'd hardly dispose of the evidence, would he?

- Sherry, Peter? - Not at the moment, thanks.

And I wouldn't advise you to, either, not if it's Gerry's.

Get Fleming to rustle up a bottle of Krug '21.

On the other hand, if he has that letter, or knows where it is, why not produce it?

Why, indeed?

A lark's a lark, but when it comes to the gallows...

Do you suppose your brother really contemplates the gallows?

I assume Murbles put it to him straight.

But do you think the Duke realises imaginatively

that it is possible to hang an English peer on circumstantial evidence?

Imagination ain't Gerald's strong point.

I suppose they do hang peers?

They can't behead them on Tower Hill or anything.

Well, they certainly hanged Earl Ferrers in 1760.

Did they, though?

As the old pagans said of the gospels:

"After all, it was a long time ago. Let's hope it wasn't true."

It was true, all right.

What's more, they dissected and anatomised him afterwards.

At least that part of the treatment's obsolete.

It's pity. That sort of detail might make Gerry start to take matters seriously.

We've got to do something, can't have him cooped up like this.

Awfully unpleasant for him,

particularly with the birds being so good this year.

That's where they found the body.

And these marks?

He'd either been dragged or managed to crawl from the spot where he'd been shot.

- Which was? - Over there.

- Footprints? - Mainly Craikes and his local elephants.

I've eliminated them. Also, Mr Arbuthnot's bedroom slippers,

Lady Mary's brogues,

your brother's shooting boots,

Mrs Marchbanks galoshes... you name them, I've got them all tabbed.

All except one.

This, my dear Wimsey, belongs to no-one I've ever seen or heard of.

Hurray.

What's more, there's some better prints over here.

"Then downward from the steep hill's edge they track'd footsteps small."

Only, they're largish.

A man's number ten.

With a worn down heel and a patch on the left inner side.

Let's see, they advanced from the shrubbery to here,

where they seemed to hang around for a while.

Of course! They then walk across the gravel, which shows no footmarks,

until they arrive at this point where the body was found.

So, our unknown gets this far.

What was he going to do then, do you think?

(Whistles tune)

Let's see where he was shot.

It's over here.

One, two, three, four...

14, 15...

They found the handkerchief and the revolver by this tree.

19, 20.

And Cathcart was shot...?

Here.

21.

Apart from the blood patches, not very revealing, I'm afraid.

The rain and the mud had messed everything up by the time I'd arrived.

We'll come back to this later.

I'd like to trace where Number Ten came from.

Well, as I was saying, what with the rain and the mud...

I followed his footprints to that mark there.

And that's where they end.

That won't do at all.

Hello. This may be our friend.

I think it is.

If it was, we've lost him now.

Must have been in quite a hurry.

- I've found him! - Good.

The human frame ain't made for this sleuth hound business.

He tripped over this root.

Serve him glad.

And so he goes on...

..until the boundary wall.

And the exact point where he got in.

Oh, well done, Charles!

- A recent demolition, wouldn't you say? - Dislodged when he scrambled over.

Hang on.

Yes, there's the dent where he dropped down on his heels.

Give us a back, old thing, will you?

- OK? - Right.

I say, you won't dislodge any of those big stones, will you?

It's not too secure.

Oh, how very obliging of him.

- Confessed, has he? - A fragment of Burberry, no less.

And blood. He must have caught his hand.

- Or... - What's on the other side?

A rough track, as far as I can see.

I'm going over.

Argh!

Are you all right?

Muddy but unbowed.

Hang on, I'm coming over.

How very athletic of you, Charles.

Our Number Ten must be a man of above-average height.

And exceptional agility.

Quite.

What a very communicative verge this is.

What?

Motorcycle tracks.

Oh, yes, parked here.

More tracks.

Two motorcycles.

Two motorcycles?

But only one Number Ten.

- Either that or one motorcycle... - And sidecar. Of course.

He parks his bus out of sight so as not to invite attention while he's reconnoitring.

He climbs the wall, dislodging the stones as he does so,

and proceeds to the conservatory.

Then some time later on...

- Something disturbs him. - Wait a moment.

Broken branch, broken root, torn Burberry.

Some time later on, something scares him

and all he can think about is the shortest cut back to his machine regardless.

Splendid.

I am greatly cheered, old Parker bird.

My turn, I think.

Did you ever read The Lay Of The Last Minstrel, Charles?

I did a fair amount of it at school. Why?

There was a goblin pageboy in it.

He was always yelling, "Found! Found! Found!" at unnecessary moments.

I always thought he was a nuisance, but now I know exactly how he felt.

What's the matter?

By Jove!