Original subtitles

To put it bluntly, Lord Peter,

Inspector MacPherson here, and indeed, all my men, are well up to their jobs.

In normal circumstances, I don't welcome outside interference.

However, your reputation is not unknown to me,

and neither the Inspector nor I will object to the right kind of interference...

That is very kind of you.

..providing it is the right kind.

Will you tell me why you are so convinced this is a murder?

If you can find anybody who actually spoke to Campbell this morning,

or saw him close enough to recognise him, my theory is a washout.

And what is this theory?

That the murderer brought the body up to the Minnoch in Campbell's own car,

wearing Campbell's soft hat and plaid cloak, so that at a distance he might be mistaken for him.

The body was on the floor of the dicky,

and there was a push-bike on top of it.

There were tyre marks on the seat of the dicky,

and a blanket was tucked over the lot, with tyre marks on that, too.

When he reached the Minnoch, he dragged out the corpse and tumbled it over the cliff,

and into the burn.

If a murder was committed, I'm not saying it couldn't have happened the way you describe.

But why shouldn't it just have been a simple accident,

with Campbell stepping back to look at his painting and stepping back too far?

That's how it was meant to look, of course.

But take a small point first.

His palette and his painting knife were found on the ground beside his easel.

It's far more likely, if he were taking a look at his work,

he would have kept palette on thumb and knife in hand,

ready to make any extra little touch required.

The palette would have been found by the body and the knife halfway down the cliff.

More likely, but not certain.

He might have put his palette down to light a cigarette,

then stepped back to admire his canvas.

That is possible. It's a small point, as I said.

- And the paint was still wet when we found it. - Precisely.

Are you suggesting, my lord,

that your murderer...

..having disposed of the corpse...

then sat down and painted a picture?

In Campbell's own style. That is exactly what I am suggesting.

He'd have had to be a very cool customer.

Not only cool, Inspector, but a desperate, and an extremely skilful artist to boot.

You're saying, in effect, that Campbell was murdered by a fellow artist?

With what motive?

Ah, well, we don't know what the motive was yet, do we?

It's an ingenious theory as far as it goes, but I'm not entirely persuaded.

Then let me try and persuade you, Sir Maxwell.

- A tube... - (Telephone rings)

Excuse me.

Chief Constable.

Very well, send him up.

I'm sorry, Lord Peter. You were saying?

- A tube of paint was missing. - How do you know?

This was a tube of flake white.

I'm no artist. Has that some special significance?

It is absolutely impossible for an artist working in oils to paint a picture without using flake white.

It's a fundamental medium which he mixes with other colours to produce various tints.

A man such as Campbell would as soon think of setting out to paint without it,

as you, Sir Maxwell, would think of setting out to catch trout without a cast.

He did use flake white, in abundance.

Look at those cloud masses, and that water.

And there's his palette -

viridian, cobalt, ultramarine, rose madder,

vermillion, chrome yellow,

and an extra large blob of flake white.

- Hm. - (Knock at door)

Come in.

Just a moment, Sergeant.

Um...

has the area been well searched for that tube of paint?

Twice, Sir Maxwell.

First by His Lordship and the Sergeant, and I've been up with a party.

We couldn't have missed it.

So your murderer has made a serious error.

So it would appear.

And he made his escape on the push-bike he brought with him.

Exactly.

Is that the doctor's report, Sergeant?

It is, Sir Maxwell. It supports His Lordship's theory.

That's a pity.

A great pity.

There'll have to be an enquiry, of course.

For the time being, no mention anywhere of murder.

What's for luncheon, Bunter?

I am feeling uncommonly ready for it.

Just a simple stew, my lord.

Shin of beef with onions, carrots and dumplings.

- Sheer bliss. - And equally hard to come by.

- Hard to come by? - Shin of beef, my lord.

Like sheer bliss, in these parts, equally hard to come by.

Now you do surprise me.

I would have thought there were plenty of beeves here with a fair share of shins.

Your Lordship is correct, but the local term for shin of beef is hock.

And I had great difficulty in making myself understood.

I do believe that you're right.

Would Your Lordship wish me to refer to the comestible as hock

during our residence in this country?

It would be a gracious concession to national feeling if you could do so.

Right you are, my lord.

Fortunately, I had no difficulty in making myself understood with Mr Waters' landlady.

I say, go to!

Go to, you old fox. Say on, say on!

It appears, my lord,

that Mr Waters caught the 8.20 train this morning

in order to visit an art exhibition in Glasgow.

That's a relief. I was getting a bit anxious in that direction.

I like Waters, you know,

but he came to blows with Campbell last night.

He spoke slightingly of his work, told me he hated his guts,

and insisted he was capable of knocking off a perfectly good Campbell in half an hour.

Furthermore, Your Lordship's two friends,

the Misses Selby and Cochrane,

travelled on the train with him.

Did they, by Jove? That's even better.

If he went with those two ladies, he's in the clear.

I um...

I also took the opportunity, while you were with Sir Maxwell Jamieson,

of calling on Mrs Green.

Mrs Green?

Formerly charlady to the deceased.

Also does for Mr Ferguson -

a fellow artist who lives in the...

In the adjoining cottage. I remember.

Was Mrs Green any help?

She assured me that Campbell had slept in his bed.

He'd left by the time she arrived,

but it seems he had his usual morning breakfast of bacon and eggs.

By Jove, that's interesting.

Did she say what Ferguson had had for breakfast?

A pair of kippers.

May I enquire why Your Lordship's so interested?

You may indeed. Dr Cameron's report.

Apparently, there was "nae food in the dead man's wame."

His tummy was empty.

Well, I take Your Lordship's point.

But if Mr Campbell had breakfasted early,

the food could have passed out of his stomach before he was killed.

Not so. According to Sergeant Dalziel, the doctor said his interior was

"as tim as a drum."

And he would stake his professional credit that he...

"Hadnae eaten onything since the previous nicht."

- Now, do you see what that implies? - I do indeed, my lord.

It would appear that the murderer prepared bacon and eggs,

sat down at Campbell's table, and ate his breakfast for him.

Very quick, Bunter. Our man not only has to be a painter,

but someone who knew Campbell well enough to know his habits.

An old enemy, perhaps?

- From a murky past, you mean? - Uh-huh.

Possible, but let's concentrate on the present. Who have we got in the neighbourhood now?

Well, there's a bearded gentleman, Mr...

Gowan?

A celebrated painter,

publicly insulted by Campbell and with whom he is not on speaking terms.

Matthew Gowan.

Mr Farren?

Jealous of his beautiful wife, apparently.

Oh, yes.

And who stormed out of the Selkirk Arms early yesterday evening,

swearing all kinds of blue murder against Campbell.

Hugh Farren.

Mr Strachan?

Hon Secretary of the golf club.

There's been unpleasantness there, all right.

Henry Strachan.

- Mr Graham? - Graham?

Yes, a wild young man,

who had arguments with Campbell over fishing rights.

And who, I understand from Wully Murdoch,

actually succeeded in ducking him in the pool below his cottage one day.

Also, I believe, involved in the unpleasantness at the golf club.

Jock Graham.

Mr Ferguson?

Campbell's neighbour.

Well, I haven't heard anything in that direction.

I shouldn't imagine anybody could live next door to our victim without having trouble.

And he is the most likely one to know anything about his eating habits.

John Ferguson.

Presumably we can dismiss Mr Waters, my lord.

Yes, yes, I would think so.

But let's keep him on our list just for the moment.

Michael Waters.

Is that the lot?

Of his immediate painting fraternity, yes, it is.

One, two, three, four, five...six.

Well, may I serve luncheon now, my lord?

Yeah, well, now you come to mention it, Bunter, my own interior is as tim as a drum.

And what is so gratifying, you know,

is that Sir Maxwell Jamieson, in his own, dour way,

has more or less given us carte blanche

to stick our noses into this business as often as we please.

And your holiday, my lord?

Well, it will simply be a different kind of holiday, Bunter, that's all.

Six painters.

And one of them certainly killed Campbell.

And all we have to do is eliminate the five red herrings.

Gone to London, Mr Alcock?

When was this?

Mr Gowan caught the 8.45 from Dumfries.

How did he get there?

Hammond the chauffeur drove him in the saloon.

Was this a sudden departure?

The master is in the habit of making occasional journeys.

He does not always give previous notice.

And this time, it did not strike you as unusual in any way?

Certainly not.

If that's all, Inspector?

Er...Inspector?

Your hat.

(MacPherson clears his throat)

Mr Alcock...

I'm investigating this matter of the death of Mr Campbell,

and I will tell you...

without circumlocution...

..there are suspicious circumstances attending it.

- Indeed? - Mm-hm.

And therefore it is important to get all possible information

from those who saw Mr Campbell of late.

As a matter of routine,

we have to know where everybody was at the time the calamity occurred.

Naturally.

No doubt if Mr Gowan were at home,

he would be anxious to give us all the assistance in his power.

I am sure the master will be delighted to oblige.

In his absence, can you speak for his movements last night?

Very easily.

Well?

The master took the two-seater and went to Gatehouse at seven to dine with friends.

Did the chauffeur drive him?

No, he drove himself.

What time did he return?

He returned at 10.30 prompt and went directly to bed.

Are you certain he did not go out again?

Quite certain.

He wanted a good night's sleep because he had to rise early

and I myself locked up.

But if for any private or...personal reason

he had wanted to leave the house again...

Well, he could have, of course.

And if he had needed the car again?

Ah, no, Inspector.

Hammond has the keys to the garage.

He would have to have awakened Hammond.

Perhaps you'd care to question him?

Or Mrs Alcock, or young Betty the kitchen maid?

Later, maybe.

It'll not be necessary just now.

(Sniffs)

Did Mr Gowan say how long he'd be away?

He mentioned he would be absent for from a week to ten days.

Do you have his address in London?

He directed that all letters should be forwarded to his club.

And that is?

The Mahlstick, Piccadilly.

M-A-H-L-S-T-I-C-K.

Much obliged, Mr Alcock.

Not at all, Inspector. Glad to have been of service.

I'm sure it's what the master would have wished.

I hope very soon you have the miscreant by the heels.

Good day, Inspector.

- Mr Alcock? - Oh, Betty.

Is the top floor still out of bounds?

It is until the master tells me to the contrary.

But I need the airing cupboard.

There are two airing cupboards, Betty.

But the one down there is jammed full. I've no place for these.

Put them on the kitchen table and let Mrs Alcock deal with them.

It's all very mysterious.

What's mysterious, my girl? The top floor is Mr Gowan's studio.

He's in the middle of an artistic experiment and wants nothing moved. Is that clear?

- Yes, Mr Alcock. - I should think so.

It er...

It must be puzzling to someone like you, but I assure you, my dear Betty,

when you're as familiar with the artistic temperament as I am,

you think nothing of these little eccentricities, nothing at all.

Yes, sir.

- Er...Betty? - Yes, Mr Alcock?

- You're a good girl. - Thank you, sir.

It occurs to me... You know the police are enquiring into Mr Campbell's death?

Well, we have nothing to hide, but should they question you...

unlikely in the extreme, but in the event,

I should say nothing to them of the little restriction imposed on us by Mr Gowan.

It's just the sort of thing to arouse their curiosity.

And we don't want constables in large boots walking through his studio.

- No, sir. - Good girl.

(Timber creaking)

Here we are, then.

Now...

I'll have a girl to answer the phone and do my typing.

And here, I'll have photos of the suspects with their details.

All the exhibits will be on this table.

Maps of the area.

Statements on the desk.

Reference books here.

I'm going to borrow a blackboard from the school for all the new information.

Inspector Parker would approve.

I'll be frank with Your Lordship.

I've handled every crime in the book but...

not murder until now.

So, in honour of the event, I've created this.

All information and evidence will be channelled through here.

Admirable. And are you, so to speak, in business yet?

Oh, yes...in both a negative and a positive sense.

- And what does the negative imply? - Well, now...

we can find no recognisable fingerprints on the artistic paraphernalia.

And the steering wheel of the car is clean. That's the negative.

WIMSEY: And the positive?

There's the Minnoch, where you found the body.

How would your murderer get away?

- I'm assuming he used the bicycle. - Where would he go to?

- Back home? - Perhaps.

But perhaps he caught a train -

either to Glasgow or Stranraer.

Barrhill's the nearest station - ten miles.

Now, my lord,

I've interviewed the folk at Bargrennan, and their young Willy saw Campbell -

or a man wearing Campbell's plaid cloak and big black hat -

out painting on the Minnoch where the easel was.

Our murderer. What time?

A few minutes to ten.

- Just before Bunter and I reached the burn. - Precisely!

Interesting.

Now...

the first train to Stranraer from Barrhill is at 10.18.

He couldn't possibly have caught that, even giving him half an hour.

Not on a bicycle. Not over those hills.

Maybe he had a car hidden nearby.

If your lordship would excuse me, there is no need to speculate.

I've checked with Barrhill.

Not a single passenger boarded the train there at 10.18.

Oh, really. Come on, Inspector. You might have said that in the first place.

I suppose he could have ditched the bicycle and hung around for the 2.50.

You're getting a wee bit warm, my lord.

That's consoling.

I've got a report from the station master...

at Pinwherry.

- The station before Barrhill? - Uh-huh.

Well, a gentleman boarded the train there at 2.39.

And the station master paid particular attention to him because he was a stranger

and appeared out of the ordinary - nervous and excited.

Where did he book to?

Stranraer.

And that is the train that connects with the boat to Larne.

So you think our man may have fled to Ireland?

It seems not impossible.

What did he look like?

A youngish buddy in a grey suit and a soft hat with a wee attach� case.

I have alerted the police at Larne.

Well, you certainly get a move on, Inspector.

Ah, Sergeant. What news?

I visited the cottage and enquired of neighbours.

Nobody has seen Mr Ferguson since early yesterday.

He had two kippers for his breakfast.

Oh, I'm so sorry.

Information supplied by his charlady Mrs Green to my man Bunter.

Come to think of it, I've no idea whether she actually saw him.

We'll soon find out. Sergeant.

Is there anyone on your list of suspects, Inspector, whom you can definitely rule out?

Mr Gowan.

His staff vouch for his movements.

He was in his bed all night

and the chauffeur drove him to Dumfries where he caught the 8.45 in the morning.

Ah...

Sergeant, drive over to Dumfries. Check with the ticket collector.

- If Mr Gowan boarded that train, he'll know. - Very good, Inspector.

And if Your Lordship should come up with something...

I will let you know.

(Door opens) - Ah, that will be His Lordship now.

Misses Selby and Cochrane are here to see you, my lord.

Well, well, well, well, well, well, well.

How are we, ladies? Welcome to our humble roof.

It's no good taking that tone with us, Peter Wimsey.

We're most upset.

- Bunter, you've given them the cooking sherry. - Indeed, no, my lord.

The sherry's excellent.

Bunter's been telling us all about the murder of that dreadful man.

- I thought I made it... - With all respect, my lord,

the ladies appeared to know a great deal already.

Of course we did.

Bunter has merely been dotting the i's and crossing a few t's for us.

Now, why, Peter Wimsey, are we not on your list of suspects?

Good heavens, Bunter. A glass of sherry for your master, quickly.

Should you be on my list?

We are both talented artists,

we both detested Campbell

and either of us -

well, certainly the two of us in concert -

were capable of doing him in.

- And did you do him in? - No, we didn't.

But you might have done us the courtesy of accusing us.

- I haven't accused anybody yet. Thank you. - Very glad to hear it.

We shall certainly demand the satisfaction of refuting any allegations you choose to make.

You see, we have a perfect alibi.

I don't believe it. You two are in this thing up to your necks.

And you will probably swing by them.

That's much better.

Go on, Mary. You tell him.

No, you, dear. I'll prompt you when you go wrong.

I ought to warn you that breaking alibis is my strong suit.

- You won't succeed. - Go on, Margaret.

We went to the Glasgow art exhibition yesterday.

We caught the 8.20 train.

It's an absolute beast. Stops at every station.

So we didn't get into Glasgow till 2.16.

Jack and Claire were waiting for us at the barrier.

- Jack and Claire? - The Barridges, of course.

You must know the Barridges.

Must I?

Is it important?

Well, certainly it's important.

They're key witnesses.

They took us for a late lunch at the Central

and we spent the afternoon gossiping in the lounge.

I thought you said that you went to the exhibition.

- At 4.15. - (He stamps his foot)

Jack very kindly drove us there in his motorcar and dropped us off.

They're not interested in painting, you see.

In any case, it didn't matter

because we bumped straight into John Ferguson.

Oh, he was there, was he?

In Glasgow?

Yes. He was just coming away from the exhibition.

He said he'd been through the rooms pretty thoroughly

and was coming back next day.

- But you know how kind he is. - Well, I don't, actually.

Well, he is. And he very charmingly went all round the exhibition with us once again.

Did he?

I suppose he really had been through the place once already?

Ah, there's the first sign of that suspicious Wimsey mind.

Oh, you don't fool us a bit.

Yes, he had been round already.

He told us beforehand where everything was and mentioned the ones he liked.

So if he's a witness for us, we'll be a witness for him.

We travelled on the same train.

You saw him?

No. But the first thing he said was, "I saw you at the station but you didn't see me.

Was that the Barridges who were meeting you?"

That's pretty good.

Well,

does our alibi stand up?

Well, you could make it even stronger.

Haven't you forgotten another key witness?

No, I'm sure we haven't.

But what about your neighbour, Michael Waters?

What about him?

Well, didn't he travel to Glasgow with you?

Whatever gave you that idea?

Well, his landlady said he did.

Och, she's quite wrong. We haven't set eyes on Mr Waters for at least two days.

Now, look, Mary. We've actually staggered him.

A body blow, I confess.

Poor Mr Waters. Such a nice man.

If we'd known, we'd have lied our heads off for him.

And now I suppose his alibi's ruined.

Oh, that was very deceitful of you, Peter Wimsey.

Leading us on and trapping us like that.

Och, never mind, Margaret. Mr Waters wouldn't hurt a fly.

But since we've put our big feet in it, what do you say?

Let's go the whole hog.

- You mean Mrs Farren? - What about Mrs Farren?

So you know our beautiful, pale Pre-Raphaelite ghost?

Oh, slightly. I know her husband better.

Then let us provide you with the opportunity of improving your acquaintance with her.

Better you than me.

She's not quite our cup of tea.

However, her maid Maggie told our girl Rose that Mr and Mrs Farren had a tremendous row.

Over Mr Campbell.

And Farren rode off on his bicycle, swearing vengeance.

Well, that was the night before last.

And do you know what, Peter Wimsey?

He hasn't been seen since.

- ..Mr Graham. But I'd be glad if you'd tell me. - No, I won't.

Why should I tell you where I've been?

You'll have heard no doubt that Mr Campbell has been found dead?

Campbell?

Dead?

No, I hadn't heard.

Well, well, well.

May his sins be forgiven him.

I suppose he had a drop too much and fell into the harbour, hm?

It was not like that at all.

If you haven't heard when the whole neighbourhood knows,

where have you been hiding these past two days?

That is impertinent, inquisitive and entirely my own business, Sergeant Dalziel.

And where did this happen? Up at the Minnoch?

How did you know the body was found at the Minnoch?

I didn't. I thought it a likely spot.

I suspect there's more to this than meets the eye.

You mean to say it wasn't an accident? Somebody did him in?

That's as maybe.

Poor old Campbell.

I always told him he was born to be hanged. Instead he gets himself murdered.

Are you suspecting me, Sergeant Dalziel?

Not exactly, sir.

- But as a matter of routine... - I can see it all in his expressive eye, Wully.

All I'm asking, Mr Graham, is what made you mention the Minnoch?

Telepathy.

Come along, now, sir. This is no time for joking.

All right, Sergeant, I mentioned the Minnoch because he told me he might be going up there.

He told you? Himself?

Why not?

You know I did sometimes speak to Campbell without throwing boots at him?

He told me on Monday he was going up there to paint the next day.

I see, sir.

Now, as to your own movements on Monday night...

GRAHAM: You're one of the bulldog breed, Dalziel.

Like St Gengulphus.

"They cried out, 'Good gracious, how very tenacious!"'

You mean to have an answer, don't you?

As a matter of routine, I...

I'm sorry. But in this case want must be your master, as Nestor said in the good old days.

I was not up at the Minnoch, but where I was is my own affair.

- Now, Mr Graham, it's my duty to... - Oh, run along.

You know damn well I wouldn't hurt a fly.

I understand you refuse categorically to state where you were last Monday night?

Got it at last.

Categorically, absolutely and in toto.

Yes, you'd better make a note of it in case you forget.

Uh-huh.

I'll have to be reporting this to the authorities.

You do that, Sergeant. They'll be making you inspector next.

(Chuckling)

Poor devil.

It's a shame to tease him.

Here, that's not bad, Mr Graham.

You know, that's exactly the way Mr...

The way Campbell painted?

That's my trouble, Wully. Too versatile.

I work in everyone else's style but my own.

Well, thanks, Wully.

- Must be going. - See you. Bye, Mr Graham.

I find that most unusual.

What's that, Mr Bunter? The drawing?

Oh, no, no, not that, no.

But, you see, if a gentleman like Mr Graham has nothing to hide,

one hardly expects a point-blank refusal to help the police.

Ah, but, you see, he does have something to hide.

- He's a great man for the ladies. - Oh.

Oh, but, mind you, a proper gentleman. He won't be telling tales out of school.

(Clears throat)

Oh!

- Oh, it's yourself. - It's all right, Wully.

Ah, Mrs Ellison.

You got my note.

BUNTER: How very kind of you to come. Please...

Hello, hello, hello. How are we, Mrs Farren?

Everything bright and blooming, what?

I'm very well, thank you, Lord Peter.

- Is Farren in? - He's out, I'm afraid.

Oh.

- Won't you come in? - Oh, well, that's very good of you.

You sure I'm not in the way?

I bet you're hard at it as usual, what.

Do you know, I envy you, all that spinning and weaving you do.

Sort of Lady of Shalott touch about it.

I'm afraid I'm just being lazy today.

What a splendid idea.

- Do you mind if I sit down? - Do.

Thank you.

Well, now, where's Farren popped off to?

Oh, he's gone out somewhere.

- Oh, the gay dog. - You know what this place is.

People say they'll be back to dinner,

then they run into a friend and that's the last you see of them.

Do you mean he didn't even get back to his grub last night?

I was speaking generally.

- He was home to his dinner all right. - Then barged out again afterwards

saying he wanted some cigarettes and would be back in 10 minutes.

Yes, I know. Disheartening, ain't it, the way we men behave.

I'm a shocking offender myself, you know.

I must say, my conscience is fairly easy.

After all, Bunter's paid to put up with me.

It's not as though I had a devoted wife warming my slippers

and looking out the front door every five minutes

to see whether I was going to turn up.

No, I do think it's unfair.

I mean, one never knows what may happen to people.

Look at poor Campbell, for instance.

Lord Peter, do tell me what's really happened.

My maid came in with some dreadful story about him being killed

but she got so excited I couldn't make her out.

Well, it's a fact, I'm afraid.

They found him in the Minnoch yesterday with his head bashed in.

How dreadful.

- You don't mean he was... - Well, it's difficult to say quite how it happened.

The river's full of rocks at that point, you see.

- Did he fall in? - Well, it looks like it.

You know, I wonder you hadn't heard about this before.

He was a good friend of yours, I believe?

Yes.

We knew him very well.

Oh, dear.

Oh, look, I say, I am sorry.

Look, this has obviously been quite a shock to you.

Well, never mind, your husband's sure to be back soon.

The news will be all over the county by now. In fact, it's surprising he's not back already.

Really, Lord Peter, you talk as if the death were in my family.

We knew Mr Campbell, certainly, but there's no reason for me to be prostrated, you know?

No, no, no, no. Of course not.

I just thought you seemed a bit upset, that's all.

No, I must have misunderstood.

You most certainly did.

I felt sorry for Mr Campbell.

He was a bitterly unpopular man.

And he felt that more than people ever realised.

He had a perpetual grudge against everybody

and the more you hate everybody for hating you, the more unattractive you grow.

That's why I always tried to be fair to him.

I think some people misunderstood.

But one can't stop doing what's right because people misunderstand.

Can one?

No, indeed, no.

I mean, if you and your husband...

Hugh and I understand one another perfectly.

Well, let's hope the truant turns up soon.

- Off on his bicycle as usual, I suppose? - Yes. He's got his bicycle with him.

I think there are more bicycles per head of population here

than any other town that I know.

That's because we're all hard-working and poor.

Yes, just so. Nothing as virtuous as a bicycle.

I mean, you can't imagine a cyclist committing a crime.

Except perhaps murder. (Laughs)

Why murder?

Well, you know, the way they all rush around in gangs on the wrong side of the road.

No brakes, no lamps, no bells. Practically murder, what.

Well, goodbye, Mrs Farren.

Remember me to your husband.

Do you need any help?

Which is the self-starter?

Well, if you move over, I'll show you.

That one.

Super motor.

You're Lord Peter Wimsey, aren't you?

So I have been led to believe.

I'm Fenella Strachan.

It's very nice to meet a civilised Englishman.

Charming of you to say so.

Strachan?

Arte you related to Henry Strachan, the artist?

Niece. I live in London. Thank God.

Well, Croydon, actually.

Mummy and Daddy always send me up to stay for a week during the summer hols.

- Awfully mean of them. - Don't you like it up here?

Well, I'm not exactly your tweeds and brogues type.

And as for that stuffy old golf club, it's not my line at all.

What is your line?

Dancing.

They say my rumba is the bee's knees.

I can well believe it.

- Do you dance? - I doubt whether I'm quite up to your standard.

What were you doing in my car?

Just killing time.

I mean, it's impossible at home.

Aunt Milly's been having hysterics all over the house

ever since they arrested Uncle Henry.

Arrested? Who's arrested him?

The police, of course.

For killing that man Campbell.

Well, it's not quite accurate to say they've arrested him.

But they've taken him in.

Comes to pretty much the same thing.

You see, the evidence against him's absolutely damning.

- Is it? - Mm.

What a hole!

I don't suppose there's a decent opium den within a hundred miles.

Well, now you come to mention it, I don't suppose there is.

But if you care to come back to my place, I can offer you a muffin.

A little spin first to work up an appetite?

Done.

(Engine revs)

Have you ever thought of getting married?

Well, I suppose one thinks about these things but I haven't got round to it yet.

Perhaps when I reach the age of consent, we might think of it then.

You don't feel perhaps the age gap...?

Oh, no.

I've always preferred older men.

What a very delightful thought.

And one to which we must certainly give serious consideration when the time comes.

But talking of older men, Fenella...

Uncle Henry?

This damning evidence that you mentioned...

Well, it certainly is.

You see, he suddenly went whizzing off on his bike before supper on Monday evening.

And that's the last we saw of him.

Until when?

Next morning, of course.

He was out all night.

And you should just have seen the state he was in.

Clothes torn, all the skin off his hands and the most wizard black eye.

What happened to him? Did he fall off his bike and knock himself out in a ditch?

If he'd said something like that, one might have believed him.

You should just have heard the story he told.

I didn't believe it for a minute.

INSPECTOR: Let's get this straight, Mr Strachan.

At about seven o'clock on Monday evening,

you left home and cycled up to the old lead mines above Creetown?

It's picturesque. I'd been meaning to go sketching up there for some time.

It was a bit late in the day, wasn't it?

I wanted to look around for a likely spot I could come back to.

It's a dangerous place to go

with all those abandoned shafts and the ground so overgrown.

As I discovered.

But, man, I'm curious.

What prompted you to set off so late in the evening?

My wife said supper wouldn't be ready for at least an hour.

I have a tiresome young niece staying in the house.

I felt like getting out and going for a spin, which is what I did.

(Clears throat) - On reflection I agree with you.

But if you think there's anything funny about falling down a shaft...

Oh, I don't, Mr Strachan.

It's a miracle you didn't break your neck. How did it happen?

I was just deciding to go home when one bit of the old ruin caught my eye.

I stepped back to view it better and the next moment the ground gave way under me

and I was plunging downwards into darkness.

I was unconscious a long time.

At first I couldn't think where I was or what had happened.

Pitch darkness all around me and far up above a tiny patch of starlit sky.

I screamed and staggered to my feet.

But the moment I did that, this frightful giddiness came over me

and I must have lost consciousness again.

When I came to, it was broad daylight and I could see where I was.

Well, the shaft couldn't have been more than 20 feet deep but it went sheer up like a chimney.

I remember yelling but no-one heard me.

It's a very lonely spot, of course.

In the end, there was only one thing for it.

- To try and clamber up. - It was an inch-by-inch process.

Luckily, there were these horizontal cross beams

and I was able to use those to get a breather now and again.

I'd never have made it otherwise.

(Clears throat)

Well, I can well imagine your feelings of relief, Mr Strachan.

What time was this?

I don't know.

I'd no watch.

And what then, Mr Strachan?

I got on my bicycle and cycled straight home.

- What time were you home? - I'm not sure.

About 9.30.

So for 14 hours there are no witnesses to your movements?

Now, look here, I've been absolutely straight with you

and I've had an experience I hope never to repeat.

If you've any ideas about my having killed Campbell,

- you can put them out of your mind! - Mr Strachan...

I can put no ideas out of my mind at the present time.

Somebody killed Campbell.

You'd quarrelled with him.

And according to my information, he threatened you with actual bodily harm.

Exactly. He threatened me.

There's no secret about it.

Gowan and Graham were there too.

According to this statement, Campbell said to you,

"I hope for your sake our paths don't cross on neutral territory.

There's some awful lonely places round here."

That lead mine is an awful lonely place, Mr Strachan.

Are you suggesting he followed me there?

What ho, Bunter!

I'm sorry I'm late.

I've been returning a Miss Fenella Strachan to the bosom of her uncle.

There's a very odd young lady indeed.

Case of what you might call lamb dressed as mutton.

Can't be more than 15. Still at school, in fact.

Doing her best to act like a femme fatale of 35.

Anyway, Strachan claims to have spent Monday night

at the bottom of a disused mine shaft, no less.

He certainly looks as though he had.

Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't know we were entertaining.

Mrs Ellison is just on the point of leaving, my lord.

Thank you, Mr Bunter, for your hospitality. But...

- Mrs Ellison? - Mr Waters' landlady.

- Mrs Ellison, of course. - I thought you'd be interested to meet her.

I'm more than interested. I'm delighted. Delighted, Mrs Ellison.

Likewise, my lord. Aye.

Which is more than I can say for your Mr Bunter.

Oh, now, shame on you, Bunter.

Mrs Ellison's glass is empty.

Oh, no, thank you just the same, my lord.

Yes, yes, yes, Mrs Ellison. I insist.

There we are, Bunter.

You wouldn't want to see me drinking alone now, would you?

Oh, well, put like that, my lord...

Mrs Ellison has been most informative

concerning the nocturnal activities of Mr Waters on Monday night last.

Really?

You can tell by his tone, can you no?

Out to deceive, he thinks I was.

On the contrary, my dear lady.

Plain as the nose on your face.

I ask you, my lord.

Do I look the sort of body that'd want to mislead a policeman?

Mr Waters, it seems, certainly did not catch the 8.20 to Glasgow.

So I have been informed, Bunter.

Had they asked at the time...

Had I known at the time about poor Mr Campbell..

You would have told the police. Well, of course you would.

But what makes you now think that he didn't go to Glasgow?

Well, before he went to his bed,

he told me he was going to that exhibition with Miss Cochrane and Miss Selby.

And then, some time between 11 and midnight, it was...

On the Monday night?

I heard someone throwing pebbles at Mr Waters' bedroom window,

sleeping as I do one room removed from Mr Waters', you see.

Both windows looking onto the street.

Naturally you...

I was not prying, let that be made quite clear. I was...

Not prying. I am sure you weren't, Mrs Ellison.

But naturally, having been awakened...

- I went to my window. - Naturally.

And there in the street below was this man.

I mean, if the police had asked about the previous night,

do you not think I would have told them?

- He thinks I'd not have told them. - Well, now, shame on you, Bunter.

I mean, I saw Mr Waters myself on Monday night.

Shortly after 10.15 - no, 10.30, I believe it was -

I delivered him back, slightly inebriated I admit, to your own front door.

Now, did I tell the police that?

The difference, you see, between a gentleman and a gentleman's gentleman,

so-called.

Did you recognise this man?

He was well wrapped up in an overcoat and muffler.

But I heard Mr Waters open his bedroom window and, "What do you want?" he says.

- And what did he want? - Oh, I couldn't hear his answer.

"But stop making that blasted row," said Mr Waters.

And down he went.

He opened the door, let whoever it was in and went into the sitting room.

And I went back to my bed.

But a little later...

A little later...

I heard footsteps running up the stairs to Mr Waters' bedroom.

And down again.

I heard the front door open and shut.

And off they went.

- Walking or in a car? - A car.

Then, about a quarter of an hour after that,

I heard the door open again.

And footsteps tiptoeing up the stairs to Mr Waters' bedroom.

I mean, had I known at the time, do you not think I would have told them?

He thinks I wouldn't have.

And in the morning, Mrs Ellison...

Well, I wakened Mr Waters at seven as he asked

and put his breakfast in the sitting room.

And then I went off to do my little job of work that I always do.

And when I came back, about 20 past eight,

I see that Mr Waters has eaten a very sketchy sort of breakfast.

And gone.

- And? - Off.

On his bicycle.

Bicycle?

A bicycle that always stands inside the front door.

- Isn't that right, Mrs Ellison? - It was there on Monday night.

And gone Tuesday.

Now, my lord...

Mrs Ellison, I am no end grateful to you.

Now, come along, Bunter. Show good intentions and escort Mrs Ellison home.

Thank you. I can manage quite nicely.

- I wish you good day, my lord. - Good day, Mrs Ellison.

A most stimulating chat and thank you so much.

And you, Mr Bunter...

..I wish you goodbye.

What do you make of that, my lord?

- Hard at it since lunchtime, I would imagine. - No, I meant the man in the street.

- Campbell? - Come back to finish his row with Waters?

They drive off together in Campbell's car to fight it out.

Campbell gets his head bashed in,

Waters conceals the body somewhere

and then goes home to make everything look as ordinary as possible.

He then works out a plan of action.

He goes off in the morning on his bicycle when Mrs Ellison's back is turned.

He puts the body and the bicycle into Campbell's dicky

and then hares off to the Minnoch to stage the accident.

No, it's no good.

Oh. I was about to compliment Your Lordship on a most logical progression of thought.

No, Bunter. The circumstances may seem to fit the crime,

but if my hypothesis is correct, where is Waters now?

What on earth is the good of concocting an elaborate fake like that

and then throwing suspicion on oneself by running away?

My lord...

And if you are going to say perhaps he has fallen down a mine shaft like Strachan...

No, my lord. I was about to observe that there is a common denominator

with our five red herrings.

- And what's that? - Absence on the night of the crime.

Oh, there you are, Betty.

This is a fine time to be getting home.

Oh, well, it was a film, Mr Hammond.

It finished a bit late.

There was a fire in the projection room half way through but they soon had it out.

Not soon enough.

Oh, but it was a lovely film.

Do you not think that Ramon Novarro's a lovely man.

Bloody dago!

That love scene with Mata Hari.

I'm not ashamed to say, oh, I was shivering all over.

Does he not remind you of Mr Bunter?

What?

Ramon Novarro.

I cannot say I see the comparison, Betty.

And if I were in your shoes, I wouldn't mention the resemblance to Mr Bunter.

Oh, well, Mr Bunter's not physically beautiful.

Not in the same way, that is.

Oh, but they're both masterful men and that's what's important to a woman.

Is it?

Well, I'll tell you what's important to a man.

It's ten minutes to closing time

and I'm not standing here listening to any more of your nonsense.

Well, where's Mr and Mrs Alcock?

They're out visiting. They'll be back in half an hour.

I don't understand.

You'd no need to wait for me. Why did you not leave the key under the mat?

When Mr Gowan's away, it's Mr Alcock who says what goes in this house.

The premises are never to be deserted.

There are too many valuables.

(Whispers) The place is a standing invitation to burglars.

Burglars?!

What am I supposed to do if the house is suddenly swarming with burglars?

Just scream. I'll come running.

(Dog barking)

Incidentally, what about MacPherson's great idea?

The young man that boarded the train at Pinwherry.

We picked him up at Larne.

- And? - A complete washout, I'm sorry to say.

Yes, well, I'm not entirely surprised.

- Matches are on the table. - Thank you.

Yes, a perfectly respectable fellow.

He works for a linen factory.

He was given a long weekend's leave to visit his family who live somewhere near Pinwherry.

Due back on Monday. Overslept.

Missed the train. Had to hang around for the 2.39.

Hence the agitation.

His description didn't exactly tally with any of our suspects.

- There we are. - Thank you.

Confound the fellow.

MacPherson's in Ireland now, checking up on the story.

He's wasted a whole day of one of our best men's time.

(Door hinges squeak)

(Man groans)

(Screams)