Original subtitles

I've always thought those obliging criminals who strew their tracks with personal articles

were an invention of detective fiction for the benefit of the author.

Live and learn. After all, you haven't been doing this job very long.

The merest amateur, whereas you, as a professional...

Take a fatherly interest in your ambition.

So, you found it. What are your deductions?

Well...it's a charm,

the sort of thing a woman wears as a brooch.

Gold setting.

All diamonds...with two emerald eyes.

(Whistles) Pucker stones, too.

Your turn, old Parker bird.

Well, let's see. You found this in the undergrowth,

very near the spot where Cathcart was shot.

But nowhere near the footprints of our number ten.

In other words, I don't think our criminal - if that's what he is -

has been strewing his tracks.

So?

It could have been lost by a member of your family and been lying there for days.

Or it could have been lost by a previous tenant of the place.

We can soon find out if it's the first.

If it's the second, the police ought to have some record.

It ain't the sort of thing one mislays without making a fuss.

- What isn't? - Oh, hello, Helen.

Ever seen that before?

No.

Sweet. Where did you find it?

Out in the garden.

Thought you might have dropped it when you were flirting in the bushes with Gerry.

- Are you not changing? Dinner's being served. - Bless you.

Some cold game pie and a bottle of Lafite will do us, eh?

- As you wish. - Oh, Helen?

Would you mind?

Oh... Sorry.

If it ain't claimed, we'll make you a present of it.

Don't be too late, Peter. Fleming's had a long day.

Ah, forget about us, old girl. We'll fend for ourselves.

Peter, for your information, I'm confoundedly hungry.

And you've got the night train to catch back to London. I know.

Won't be a couple of minutes, Helen. Bon app�tit.

- Peter, do you know how long... - Look here.

What?

What do you make of this?

Who put what down here?

PARKER: Approximately two foot by six inches and fairly heavy.

WIMSEY: It's sunk in very deep. And it's broken some of the plants.

It's sunken in deeper on the farther side, as though it were something bulky sat on edge.

You know, I would guess that was a suitcase.

- A suitcase? - Mm-hm.

- But whose? - Yes, whose indeed?

We can assume it didn't stay there long.

It would have been exceedingly visible in the day time.

But somebody might have thrust it there if they'd been caught with it at 3.00am

- and didn't want it to be seen. - But when did they remove it?

Almost immediately. Certainly before dawn, or even old Craikes couldn't have failed to spot it.

- It's not the Doctor's bag. It's the wrong shape. - Right you are.

Unless Craikes and his lads have been leaving things about.

That was thrust there the night before last by...

Now, let's see. Who have we got?

Cathcart himself? Gerald?

Even Mary, I suppose.

Nobody else could be supposed to have had anything to hide.

Except our character on the motorcycle.

The gentleman with the size-ten boots.

Absolutely right, Charles.

Too many clues on an empty stomach.

Let's feed our faces or you'll never survive that journey.

The blotting pad you wanted from His Grace's desk in the study, my lord.

Ah, good man.

Ever read Manon Lescaut, Bunter?

Man On the what, my lord?

Never mind.

Well, you know what they say. "Leave no stone unturned."

Especially when there are sheets of blotting paper.

Now, then, let's see. What have we got?

Ah...

That's Gerald's signature.

The Colonel's.

A long, scrawling hand which I judge to be feminine.

"Five..." something "of fine..." something.

Grouse, probably.

"O-E is...

..F-O-U..."

- Found, I suppose. - Yes, sir.

Is there anything else you require, my lord?

Information, Bunter. Nothing more.

Can't leave it all to Mr Parker up in London.

- So I shall pay a call on Inspector Craikes. - Yes, my lord.

For you, Bunter, I have a somewhat more delicate mission.

My lord?

My sister. Who's ladies-maiding her?

Miss Ellen, my lord.

Now, this is going to call for subtlety, diplomacy...

..and quite possibly deception.

MAN: Hurry up with that rope!

Inspector Craikes?

Inspector Craikes?

Wimsey. Peter Wimsey.

I dropped in to see you at the station and your people said you'd be here.

You wanted to see me, my lord?

It's not important, really. I...

I found a small piece of jewellery. A sort of...good-luck charm.

Quite valuable, I'd imagine.

I wondered if anybody had reported it missing.

- I haven't heard. - Oh.

Well, as I say, it's not important. Not to worry.

I say!

What have you got there?

1924 hand-built Brough Superior motorcycle and sidecar.

1150cc side-valve, Amac carburation, multiplate clutch,

dry sump oil feed.

Well, well, well.

Aye, you'll notice the numberplates missing, licence-holder removed.

Petrol still in the tank. Stolen most like.

Finished its job, run off the road deliberate. Wouldn't you agree?

Cigar, Inspector?

Not on duty, sir, thank you very much.

No, no, of course not. When you're off duty.

Oh, well, if you put it like that, my lord. Thank you.

A word in your ear, my dear fellow.

Make sure that rope's secure and then we'll have her out.

That...somewhat nosy individual, Inspector,

that they seem to have foisted on us from Scotland Yard.

- Who? Parker? - Yes, that's the man.

Now, you take a tip from me.

If you want to put our nosy friend's nose out of joint

and render a real service to the Duke of Denver,

you will find the owner of that machine.

If you have any information, my lord, it's your duty to inform the police...

That is exactly what I am doing, Inspector.

On the night of the crime, there was a prowler in the grounds of Riddlesdale Lodge,

and you can take my word for it - he was riding that machine.

- But how do you know...? - The how is not important.

Nevertheless, it does happen to be true.

You find the chappy, Inspector, and you will be one up on Parker of Scotland Yard.

Nothing I'd like better.

But with the numberplates and licence-holder missing...

He disposed of those for the same reason he dumped the machine.

He's frightened. He doesn't want to be traced.

Right you are, my lord. But he's made it difficult for us.

Not as difficult as you'd imagine.

All you've got to do is find a young man, about six-foot two,

wearing a size-ten shoe and a Burberry with a tear in it.

Oh?

And he may have a deep cut or scratch on one of his hands.

So don't waste your time looking for numberplates.

Just scour the local railway stations.

And if you do have any luck, I'd be uncommonly grateful if you'd let me know,

either at the lodge or wire me at that address.

110A Piccadilly?

I'm a very uncertain bird - always hopping about.

But I daren't be doing this in His Lordship's room. You'll get me the sack.

My dear Miss Ellen, calm yourself, please.

The responsibility is entirely mine.

But if I'm caught...

You are here at my invitation and for the best of all possible reasons.

The best, Mr Bunter?

I refer, naturally, to rendering the best service in our powers...to our employers.

- (Laughs) Cheek. - Now, if you'd like to do your laundry.

Whatever is all that?

Criminal investigation, being our hobby...

Criminal investigation?

It requires all sorts of strange gadgets and devices.

Investigating me, then, are you?

I should be delighted - given the opportunity.

- Fat lot you'll learn from me. - Now, now, now. Don't be sceptical.

Ooh, the things you say!

Ooh, I see I shall have to convince you.

Well, let me see now.

Well, supposing erm...

Supposing...this garment was found on the body of a murdered woman.

Murdered?

Of course one would expect that the victim's clothes would be covered in her own blood.

But supposing we suspected the wearer of this skirt of having committed the murder.

But that's Lady Mary's skirt.

My task, then, would be to find incriminating evidence.

So...

..looking very carefully...

..to begin with...

..we find...

What?

A stain. On the hem.

Just below the side seam.

Red. It could be the blood of an animal.

It could be human blood.

Or it could be a glass of port.

No.

I see that the stain has gone right through the material.

So...

I snip off a tiny piece...

- Here... - ..off the inside edge.

Like so.

Pop it into a little pill box...

..on which I seal the lid...

..and write...

"Found on Lady Mary Wimsey's skirt."

- What's left of it! - (Chuckles)

And the date.

I now post this to a friend of His Lordship's in London -

a scientific gentleman -

who will look at it through a very powerful microscope

and tell me that it is rabbit's blood and how many days it has been there.

And that will be the end of that.

He'd be wrong, cos it's not rabbit's blood.

It's bird's blood from one of them grouse they're slaughtering.

Her Ladyship told me so.

Oh? Feeling better, then, is she?

Well, she could hardly be worse, I'll say that.

She's been playing up something terrible these last few days.

Her and her nervous prostrations - tantrums, that's what I call it.

Not more blood?

"Gravel from Lady Mary's skirt..."

Found six inches from the hem.

And...so that this little one won't be lonely...

Silver sand found on Lady Mary's skirt.

Now, if this blood proves to be human blood,

and there is gravel and silver sand in the vicinity of where the body was found,

well, then, of course...

But what would you say, Miss Ellen?

Dunno, I'm sure.

That the wearer of this skirt - although not being necessarily guilty -

nevertheless has a great deal of explaining to do.

Yes, well, I'll tell you one thing, Mr Bunter, explaining or no explaining.

She wasn't that fond of the Captain.

Never appreciated him. That's what I said to Cook at the time and she agreed with me.

Uh-huh. Then why was she so upset at his death?

You search me, Mr Bunter. I couldn't tell you.

I mean, it's not so long since she was barmy about that other fella.

Indeed?

And which other fella was that one, my dear?

WIMSEY: The great Impey Biggs himself!

Ah, my dear Peter! How very pleasant.

- When did you get here? - Half an hour ago.

- Nobody looking after you? - Don't be absurd.

The Denvers wouldn't dream of not looking after me.

- I'm simply enjoying a solitary tea. - Where is everybody?

Well, the Duchess has driven Murbles into Stapeley.

The Arbuthnots have gone for a walk on the moor.

- Lady Mary, I gather is... - ..still under the weather. Yes.

Have you just come straight from Gerry?

- Yes. He got your letter. - Mm-hm. Just a note showing him we care.

- How is he? - Reticent.

Oh, it's a rotten situation. But he ain't making it any easier for himself.

- Always had a stubborn streak in him. - Well, I'm not worrying unduly at this stage.

It's you I've come to see, Peter.

Me?

Well, if I'm to defend him, I want to know all that you know.

Do you, though?

All right, but no bullying of the witness.

I think we can make a case out of this,

even if we can't find that mysterious man on his mysterious motorcycle.

Oh, yes, I have my sources.

Denver's silence is an awkward complication, of course, but...

Did you say that you put the police on to find this other fellow?

I didn't, but yes, I have.

- You expect to find him, then? - I hope so.

Ah... And what's going to happen to my case if you do find him?

- Hm? - See here, Peter, you're no fool.

Stop trying to look like a country policeman.

- You really are trying to find this man? - Certainly.

Just as you like, but has it ever occurred to you that perhaps he'd better not be found?

- Not be found? - Remember this.

Once the police get hold of a thing or a person,

it's no use relying on my or Murbles' or anybody's professional discretion.

Everything's dragged out into the light of common day.

And very common it is, too.

Here's Denver, accused of murder,

who refuses to give them the slightest assistance.

Gerry's an ass.

He doesn't realise...

Do you think I haven't tried to make him realise?

All he can say is, "They can't hang me. I didn't kill the man.

Although I think it's jolly good that he is dead.

What business is it of theirs why I was in the garden?"

Hah.

I ask you, is that a reasonable attitude for a man in his position to take up?

He never did have any sense.

Do you know if anybody else had told him about this other man?

I don't think so.

This Scotland Yard chap, he's a personal friend of yours, I gather.

Yes.

So much the better. He can hold his tongue.

Look here, Impey, this is all damn mysterious,

but what the heck are you getting at?

Why shouldn't I lay hold of this fellow if I can?

I can answer that question with another.

Why is Denver screening him?

By Jove... Do you know, I never thought of that.

What sleuths you lawyers are.

I shall have to be careful, shan't I?

You're a clever devil, Peter.

I may be wrong, then.

Go ahead, find your fellow by all means,

but...there is one question I'd like to ask.

Who are you screening?

- Hello. Is that you, Peter? - Yes.

Charles here. Did I get you out of bed?

No, no, no, no, no.

- Are you all right? - Well, of course I am all right, old chap.

Roused from the sleep of innocence, but I'm all ears. Where are you?

Victoria Station. Going on the night ferry to Paris.

I thought you might be. How'd it go?

Oh, not very exciting.

- You went over Cathcart's place in Albany? - Yes, it was an absolute desert.

Your brother-in-law to be was the model of discretion.

There were no papers except bills and receipts.

Oh, there was one bill of mild interest from a beauty specialist in Bond Street.

Beauty? What, in his name?

Yes. I went round to see them.

When he was in town, he'd go there once a week for treatment.

Good Lord. Anything else?

Er...a couple of modern French novels.

- Oh, and another copy of Manon. - Manon?

Yes, with what the catalogues call "curious plates".

He must have had a life somewhere.

So you're nipping over to Paris?

Yes, I've been in touch with the S�ret� and the Cr�dit Lyonnais.

They'll provide me with his papers - his account and chequebook.

Peter, are you sure you're all right?

You do go on, old lad, don't you? Let me know if you strike gold.

Yes, I'll keep in contact.

Bon voyage, mon vieux.

Bunter!

A bad night, my lord?

Oh.

Oh, ridiculous, it is.

Damn war's been over for ten years now.

Always the same dream.

Oh, it's claustrophobic stuff.

Hear you scratching away, my old sergeant, but you never seem to get to me.

But I did, my lord - in the end.

Will you take breakfast in bed, my lord?

No, I'll have a tub and come down.

(Yawns) Anything in the papers, Bunter?

Nothing urgent, my lord.

A sale next week at Northbury Hall.

Mr Fleet's library. A Caxton. Confessio Amantis.

What's the good of telling me that when we're stuck up here for heaven knows how long?

Thank you, Bunter.

I wish to blazes I'd stuck to books and never touched crime.

Huh? How did you get on with the fair Ellen, by the way?

Very satisfactorily, my lord. A most pleasant young person.

Talkative to the point of...indiscretion.

But not beyond the point?

Oh, yes, my lord.

What about my sister's skirt?

I found some specimens and posted them to Dr Lubbock.

Good man!

Facts, Bunter! Must have facts.

When I was a small boy, I always hated facts.

I thought they were nasty, hard things, all knobs.

Yes, my lord. My old mother always used to say...

Your mother, Bunter? I never knew you had one.

I always thought you...just sort of came along already made, as it were.

Oh, excuse me.

How infernally rude of me. I beg your pardon, I'm sure.

- That's all right, my lord. - Thank you.

Yes, indeed, I... I was one of seven.

That is pure invention, Bunter. I know better. You are unique.

But you were going to tell me about your mater.

Oh, yes, my lord. My old mother always used to say that facts are like cows.

If you stare them in the face hard enough, they generally run away.

By Jove, that's courageous, Bunter.

What a splendid person she must be.

I think so, my lord.

I'll have that tub now.

- Strop my razor for me, would you? Good fellow. - Yes, my lord.

(Water splashing)

- Damn. MARY: I won't be long.

- Who is it? - Mary?

- Peter! - Hello, old thing. How are you?

Haven't clapped eyes on you yet.

Sorry you've been having such a rough time.

I can't hear you.

It'll keep.

(Lid clunks shut)

(Mary gasps)

(Chuckles) All right, Polly, old thing, I'm not a ghost.

Well, well...

What's the matter? Something wrong?

Oh, now, come on, old girl.

I know we've never seen enough of each other, but I am your brother.

- If there's some sort of trouble, tell me. - Trouble?

Oh, you silly old Peter, of course there's trouble!

Don't you know they killed my man, put my brother in prison?

Don't you think that's enough to be in trouble about?

Peter...l... I'm most awfully sorry.

I really am quite all right. It's just my...

It's just my head's so bad I don't know what I'm doing some of the time.

What did you want in that silly old box?

Hm?

Oh, I don't know. It's just my second nature, being nosy.

Better toddle back to bed.

Yes, I do feel a bit chilly.

Oh, Polly! Look, just one moment, would you?

Hang on.

Is this yours by any chance?

(Laughs nervously)

No, I've never seen that before.

- Sure? - Yes. Absolutely sure.

Oh.

Why you girls wear such flimsy little py-jams in this beastly climate beats me.

(Laughs nervously)

Peter.

Hm?

Erm...

When are they going to try Gerry?

Oh, not for a long time yet.

Lots of formalities first.

Off you go, Polly.

- Pass the message if you feel like a chat. - Yes, I will.

Not just yet.

My lord.

Thank you, Bunter.

Bunter...erm...

What did you say you found on that skirt?

Blood, gravel and silver sand, my lord.

Silver sand?

There was something else, my lord.

Mm?

I learnt from Miss Ellen.

It involves Lady Mary.

Thank you.

Did you see him often when he was here?

Oh, Monsieur Cathcart? Mais certainement.

Only, of course, in the normal way - coming in, going out.

Il �tait tr�s gentil... Er...very polite always.

What about visitors?

Monsieur?

Visitors. Friends - amis.

Oh, a man so handsome... but of course he was popular.

Friends, of course. Parties.

- Parties? - Er...how you say...?

- Des cartes... For the cards. - For money?

For cards.

- Very often? - Hm?

Oh, regulaire?

Oh, sometimes. Mais c'est toujours tr�s elegant, a gentleman in evening dress.

Did you ever overhear them quarrelling?

Quarrelling? (Chuckles)

- What's so funny? - Oh, monsieur - quarrelling!

Monsieur Cathcart, always, he was er...correct.

- What about women? - Never!

- Never? - Never at all!

- Oh, except once. - Once?

Last February he gave a lunch party for some ladies.

- Do you know who they were? - Oh, no, monsieur.

C'�tait tr�s comme il faut. One of them was his fianc�e.

Un belle Anglaise - une blonde!

Ravissante!

Did he away go often?

Oh, er... partir often?

Oh, this apartment was his pied-�-terre in Paris.

Sometimes he would...away. We would not see him for weeks, even months.

- Did he keep a valet? - A valet? No, monsieur.

My cousin Madame LeBlanc, she looked after him,

and cleaned for him when he was here.

This Madame LeBlanc, I'd like to talk to her. Is that possible?

She will tell you no more, but certainement she lives very near.

I can send for her at once.

That's very kind of you, but not at once, if you don't mind.

- I'd like to look around the apartment first. - Monsieur.

Shall we say in about an hour's time?

One hour, one year! As Monsieur L'Inspecteur desires.

(Door opens)

Oh, Peter.

Have the police come up with anything yet?

Not so far.

Deuced odd about that motorcyclist johnny, I must say.

Odd?

If he came on the main road, why the devil didn't somebody spot him?

But he could have come over the moor from Weardale.

- It's only a minor road, but it's not too bad. - Say, that's an idea.

- Especially if he wanted to keep out of view. - It runs over Wembling Fell.

- Wembling Fell? - Crosses the river...

Yes, hang on, hang on, hang on.

Wembling Fell. Got it. Yes?

Crosses the river, skirts the swamp and drops down past a farm.

A farm?

Griders Hole, I believe it's called.

It doesn't seem to be marked.

Oh, yes. Here it is. Griders Hole.

It's only a rough track, but he could have come that way. He could indeed.

- How far is it? - What, over the moor?

Ooh, about two miles, I suppose.

I think I'll take a stroll out there.

Well, mind the swamp, Peter.

Hardraw tells me he's seen a sheep sucked clean under in less than three minutes.

Thanks, Helen.

If I'm late for lunch, you'll know why.

(Knock at door)

Entrez.

- Madame LeBlanc? - Oui, monsieur.

Very good of you to come. Please sit down.

Le pauvre Capitaine.

I could not believe it when I heard the news.

I shall remember him always.

- (Clears throat) - Oh.

- Thank you, monsieur. - Yes, yes, it's a very sad business.

Tell me. Was he... Was he a good employer, madame?

Indeed, monsieur. He was a very charming young man.

Very generous. He interested himself in my family.

Do you remember earlier in the year when his fianc�e came over to visit him?

Certainement. I myself served them le d�jeuner.

Do you remember anything special about that occasion?

No, monsieur. It all passed off happily.

Did the er...young lady make a strong impression on you?

Elle �tait tr�s distingu�e, very English.

Mais le Capitaine Cathcart was an exceptional man -

so handsome, but serious.

He deserved a wonderful wife.

For my taste she was not enough...warm.

I see.

- What about the Captain's habits? - All good, none bad.

That doesn't sound very human. No vices?

I don't know what you mean in that respect, monsieur.

He was very tidy in his habits.

Not like some English men I have known, who keep their affairs sens dessus dessous.

He was very �l�gant in his dress.

And for his toilette, he was like a woman.

(Sobs)

Le pauvre gar�on!

(Telephone rings) - Excuse me.

Yes. Yes, speaking.

Ah, Monsieur Parker?

This is Jean Jacques Corbeau, Cr�dit Lyonnais. I received your message.

With regard to the affairs of Monsieur Cathcart,

I doubt if I could be of much help.

But if you could be here at 3.30, I will be pleased to assist what little way I can.

(Exhales heavily)

Urgh!

(Grunts)

(Sheep bleating)

Good day!

Oof! Ah.

Bracing morning, ain't it?

Parky, nevertheless.

Seasonal too.

Still, good for the sheep, I dare say.

Curls the wool and so on, what?

Do you er...lose many animals in that bog?

Rotten-looking place.

Suppose that's why you've got a wall round the property.

What do you want?

Oh, just a neighbourly call, don't you know.

I'm staying just across the moor there.

Thought I'd pop in, see whoever it is, make myself known.

Do you think he's at home?

I'm glad to hear that.

So uncommonly jolly finding all you Yorkshire people so kind and hospitable.

What's his name, by the way?

Mr Grimethorpe.

Ah, there's a good old Yorkshire name.

Wherever I go in the North Riding, I hear him mentioned.

"Grimethorpe's butter is best." "Grimethorpe's pork melts on the fork."

"For Irish stews, get Grimethorpe's ewes."

In other words, in me you see a man whose lifelong ambition it has been

to meet Mr Grimethorpe in the flesh.

So if you will be kind enough to open the gate...

..and let me through.

Ah, that's no end kind of you.

I take it I'll find the master in the house?

Mister?

- Yes? - 'Appen he'll set t'dogs on thee.

You don't say.

Thanks for the warning.

(Rings)

GRIMETHORPE: Answer that bell, someone!

Answer it, damn you all!

Oh, hello!

Mr Grimethorpe at home?

Mr Grimethorpe?

Who is it?

Through here, perhaps?

Thank you.

Excuse me. Thank you very much.

This way?

- I say, what a charming cottage. - Who is that?

Ah.

Good morning. I hope you'll excuse me dropping in like this.

I'm staying over at Riddlesdale Lodge.

- What of it? - May I come in?

- If thou must. - Thank you.

Well, lass, what are thou staring at? Get to thy mother.

Shut t'door.

Bid her mind thy manners for thee.

- Are you Mr Grimethorpe? - What if I am?

My name's Wimsey, Peter Wimsey,

Duke of Denver's brother.

- Mind I sit down? - I'm not stopping you, am I?

Thank you.

Well, I was just out walking. Thought I'd make the pleasure of your acquaintance.

Pretty lonely up here, what?

Don't suppose you get many strangers passing by.

None!

You a married man, Mr Grimethorpe?

What the hell's that got to do with thee?

(Chuckles) Nothing. Nothing, my dear fellow.

That charming little girl who let me in, I thought she might be yours.

Well, if I thought she wasn't, I'd strangle her and her mother together.

Now, what dost say to that, eh?

To tell you the truth, Mr Grimethorpe, I do have an excuse for coming here today.

The fact is, I'm looking for a young man,

an acquaintance of mine who said he'd be touring these parts about now.

I've just come back from abroad. Afraid I might have missed him.

He's a tall fellow with big feet on a motorcycle combination.

I just... Oh, so you know him?

When didst thou say this was?

Let me see now, I'd say it was probably last Wednesday.

I knew it!

The slut. The damn filthy, scheming slut!

So that type were a friend of thine, eh?

Well, I were at Stapeley last Wednesday and Thursday.

You knew that, didn't you? And he knew it too.

It were a damn plot betwixt you.

But if I hadn't been, if I'd have catched him,

he'd have finished up at t'bottom of Peter's Pot.

And that's where thee'll be thy sen, in a minute!

Aaargh! Aaargh-aargh!

That won't do, Mr Grimethorpe.

No, no, no. That's not nice at all. Might murder a fellow like that.

And it's a nasty business, murder.

- Now you just behave yourself, old lad. - Get out of my house!

Certainly.

I have to thank you for a most entertaining encounter.

- Get out of my house! - Sorry you couldn't help me with my friend.

Huh. Nero! Nero!

Come, boy. Get in. Get in the house.

Come on. Come on, boy.

You...

You...

You're mad to come here.

Oh, quick. You mustn't stay. He's gone for the dogs.

- I'm afraid you have the advantage... - Run! The dogs!

- (Barking) - My God, my God. What will become of me?

Go!

Go, if you don't want to see me killed!

Go, man! Have pity.

- But you need my help. (Barking continues)

No, no.

Stay, and he'll murder me for sure.

Go. Go!

Nero, come on. Get him! Get him!

(Barking)

(Chickens squawk)

Stop him! Stop him!

Stop him!

(Snarls)

Phew!

(Dog barks)

Jake! Jake!

What didst thou let him pass for, man?

There were nowt I could do. Anyroad, there were no call to set t'dog on him.

Damned idiot! Shut thy mouth.

Come on, Nero. Come on.

(Barking)

Thanks very much.

Afraid I caused unintentional mischief.

It's his master's way with them that comes to look at missus.

Thou'd best keep away,

unless thee wants her blood on thy head.

(Sighs)

Before the war, when Captain Cathcart was a very young man...

- That was before I come here. - ..he had investments in Russia and Germany.

He also had a large share of a very prosperous vineyard in Champagne.

The war finished all that. It finished the fortunes of many people.

So he came out of the war a poor man?

He suffered a diminution.

Yes. Yes. But on the other hand... Let's see, where are we?

From 1922 onwards, there are irregular cash payments made into his account.

One, in February 1923, for as much as 35,000 francs.

And another for 14,000 in September of the same year.

- Can you explain these payments? - They never made us uneasy.

You see at the time of his death, he was 14,000 francs in credit.

Yes, I do see. And I'm fairly clear about the money he drew out for his living expenses.

I'm less clear about these regular withdrawals, starting in 1925.

Now, once every three months.

They remain constant for two years and a year ago were increased by ten per cent.

Monsieur Cathcart was very correct, but not communicative.

Well, then, have you any theory as to these payments?

A man in his position, unmarried, with some private means.

Are you suggesting he had a mistress?

Monsieur, you must not put words in my mouth.

I don't know if he had one mistress, a dozen or none at all.

Well, if it wasn't a woman... was he being blackmailed?

Oh! Le chantage!

There is the difference between us, Monsieur Parker.

We have a mystery on our hands.

The French banker explains it in terms of love.

And the English policeman in terms of blackmail.

(Corbeau groans)

(Sighs)

- Had a pleasant day, my lord? - Pleasant? (Chuckles)

An anaemic description, Bunter, for my robust adventures.

In the space of the last few hours, I have inhaled the stench of an infamous swamp,

known as Peter's Pot;

crossed swords with a jealous ogre of a husband;

and succeeded by only centimetres in saving the seat of my bags

from the fangs of a Baskerville-sized hound.

In short, Bunter, His Lordship is a shadow of his former self and badly in need of stimulant.

- Stout fellow. - I'm glad Your Lordship came to no harm.

Ah! So am I, Bunter. So am I.

But it was touch and go.

Meanwhile, I suppose nothing's been happening here.

On the contrary, my lord.

The arrival of the Dowager Duchess has caused rather a stir.

- My mother? Here? - About half an hour ago.

Her Grace fetched Her Grace from Stapeley station.

I must see her. Where is she - in her room?

I fancy she's with Lady Mary.

- (Chuckles) - Mother! Oh, how wonderful to see you!

Ah. Now, then, how are you?

Ooh. Looking a little peaky.

No, I'm top hole, Mother. How was York?

- Ooh, depressingly medieval. - (Chuckles)

- Is that why you left it so soon? - Your obstinate brother. That's why I left.

Isn't it strange?

Of my three children, I always regarded you as the problem one.

And now I'm forced to revise my opinion.

Really, Mother? Well, I don't think you have to.

I mean, I know old Gerry's landed himself in this most frightful jam...

Don't excuse him, Peter dear.

I wouldn't say this to anyone else, but he's behaving not only with the obstinacy of a fool,

but with a great lack of consideration for the rest of his family.

And as for your sister...

Now, Polly's had a rotten shock.

I don't know what she's had.

But when I discover she's warming her thermometer on her hot-water bottle

to promote a temperature,

and has swallowed the entire contents of a bottle of ipecacuanha

so that her symptoms become even more convincing,

- Mother! - It's true.

Are you absolutely certain?

My dear boy,

she's been throwing the wool over the eyes of all of you.

I suppose you'd call that kind of thing a neurosis or some such nonsense, and coddle it.

In my days, we called it hysterics and naughtiness.

And we knew exactly how to deal with it.

(Vendor cries out)