Original subtitles

(Dog barks)

- Well? - Nothing and nobody.

We've searched from cellar to the attic. There's no-one concealed on the premises.

SIR MAXWELL: And the particular bedroom? - No sign of recent occupation.

I trust Your Lordship is satisfied.

I am far from satisfied, Alcock.

I'm not accustomed to healthy young women bursting into my house late at night

in a state of abject terror, babbling about some kind of monster.

- You believed her story, milord? - We will ask the questions, Alcock.

- How do you explain it? - Heightened imagination, Sir Maxwell.

And what should heighten it to that degree?

She's a young person of a romantic type,

and she's been acting very oddly for the last few days.

Give an example.

Well, milord, I have no wish to embarrass Mr Bunter,

but the fact is that Betty has, as they say, taken a shine to him.

She's been going around, talking to herself.

Why, only on Tuesday morning, Mrs Alcock heard her say as clear as a bell,

"Milord, this is my wife, Mrs Bunter."

It's quite true, my lord.

And this evening, when she came back from the cinema,

she asked if I didn't think Mr Bunter was like that there Ram�n Novarro.

I see no reason why a girl should not be attracted by Bunter.

He impresses me as a most personable man.

But, if her story is without foundation,

what could possibly provoke the state of hysteria we witnessed?

I fancy, Sir Maxwell, it was something like this, with Your Lordship's permission.

When she returned from the cinema, Mrs Alcock and I were out visiting neighbours.

Hammond was on duty. He wanted to go to the McClellan Arms for a pint before closing time.

The master always likes to have someone in the house as a precaution against burglars.

Hammond made some reference to this on leaving.

Betty, finding herself alone and being a nervous type, worked herself up into a state

and was the victim of some sort of hallucination, hence her panicked flight.

You're a very persuasive man, you know, Alcock.

Thank you, milord.

Now, tell me why the top floor of this house was placed out of bounds.

Out of bounds? Is that what she told you?

It's the only reason that she went there.

Like Bluebeard's wife, don't you know, visiting the Forbidden Chamber.

I can assure you, milord, the top floor has never been out of bounds.

Never?

Except for the master's studio, milord.

When he's away, none of us go up there. Not even Mrs Alcock, to do the dusting.

Then why did Betty go up there?

We only have her word for it, milord, that she did.

We are wasting our time, Wimsey.

Yes, I think we are.

As Chief Constable, I'm warning you, all three.

It is a serious offence to withhold evidence

or in any other way to obstruct the police in the execution of their duty.

- Is that understood? - Perfectly, Sir Maxwell.

If I could enquire as to Betty's present whereabouts?

Only, Mrs Alcock and myself do feel some measure of responsibility.

Glad to hear it.

We left her in a state of some shock.

Miss Selby and Miss Cochrane are caring for her tonight.

That is satisfactory. Would there be any further that you or His Lordship might require?

- Not for the moment, Alcock. - Then, gentlemen, if you'd step this way...

(Cockerel crows)

(Birdsong)

Damn and blast!

My lord?

I said, "Damn and blast it," Bunter.

Your pal Alcock's a cool customer.

I can assure Your Lordship he's a most excellent butler.

May I say...

..how much I appreciated your consideration last night, my lord,

in not involving me?

You see, I've known Alcock for a number of years

and there exists between us what you might describe as "mutual esteem".

It would have been rather damaging to his pride if I had been there when he was...

being put through the hoops, as it were.

All I can say is, he went through the hoops without batting an eyelid.

Look here, Bunter, I believe Betty's story.

I think those three last night were lying their heads off.

And I'm sorry if I'm casting aspersions on your friends.

The question doesn't arise, my lord.

If they're at all suspicious, they must be investigated.

Straight to the point.

Then let's not even raise the matter of hidden motives.

Let us simply suppose that there was, in that bedroom, on Monday night,

a person who Mr and Mrs Alcock and Hammond wish to keep concealed.

Betty discovers whoever it was. Terrified, she runs in here to you for help.

It then takes two stiff brandies and a jolly good 25 minutes

before we can make head or tail of what she is talking about.

Now, then, the Alcocks could have returned at any moment after her departure.

So assume that whoever it was in the bed alerts them instantly.

We have given them a clear half hour before the police and I put in an appearance.

Ample time to change the bed linen and put the place to rights.

Quite.

But, knowing Your Lordship's thoroughness, you noticed nothing significant?

Well, there was one thing, Bunter.

Betty said that she dropped a candlestick beside the bedroom door.

There was a small spot of candle grease on the carpet which bears out her story,

though it's not exactly proof.

Hang it all, Bunter, they could easily have covered up this mysterious person's traces,

but how the blazes do they make him vanish into thin air?

They didn't, my lord.

What's that?

May I suggest while Mr and Mrs Alcock were clearing up at home,

Hammond drove this person to the station and put him on the 11.05pm train to Dumfries.

Are you telling me that there is a train from here to Dumfries at 11.05pm?

It is the very last train of the day.

Well, that's it. It must be. It has to be.

- There could be an objection to that theory. - What's that?

Miss Betty's description of the person she saw in the bed. He was either ill or injured.

That's no objection, Bunter.

If our Mr X was a stretcher case, or even a walking wounded,

it would only make him easier to spot and I shall leave that to you.

For my own part, the time has come to talk of many things

to one or two of our red herrings.

And, to begin with, why not Ferguson?

DALZIEL: "A thorough search of Mr Gowan's house was conducted and nothing was found.

- Subsequently..." - I've heard all this from the Chief Constable.

- What about Dumfries? - Well, I questioned the man in the ticket office

and the collector at the barrier.

Both had been on duty when the 8.45 left on Tuesday morning.

Neither remembers Mr Gowan.

I thought as much.

Now, further to the matter of Mr Graham, at 11.00am on the morning the body was found,

a man was seen hurrying along the far bank of the river,

as though coming from the scene of the crime.

It was Mr Graham. Two witnesses will swear to it.

Now, Inspector...

"Reason to suppose that the crime was committed by an artist -

well-known painter, interviewed by our c..."

You've been talking to the press, Dalziel.

Oh, that blasted wee whippersnapper.

Never mind the wee whippersnapper.

You've given the game away completely.

The fact we suspect a fellow artist of Campbell's was the one thing I wanted kept dark.

I admit he caught me out. It was just after I'd seen Mr Graham.

But I never said all that.

You said enough for him to put two and two together.

"Mr Graham refused point-blank to answer any questions

and threatened our correspondent with actual bodily harm."

Bodily harm! You blithering idiot, Dalziel. If you can't learn discretion, you'd do better...

(Telephone rings) - ..to find some other profession.

Aye. Aye, it is. Oh, oh, I see. Well, would you not like a word with...?

- What is it, Jeanie? - Hold on, please.

It's PC Gow. Mr Farren's bicycle's been found at the old lead mines.

MacPherson here. How do you know it's Farren's cycle?

Oh, I see.

Is that the same place as Strachan?

Aye. Well, that's good work.

I'll be over.

You needn't ask.

He knows it's Farren's cycle because there's a label tied to it with his name and address on it.

It means a search party.

And you can tell his wife!

Tell me one thing, Wimsey,

and it's no good you pretending you don't know, because you do:

did Campbell die on Monday night or Tuesday morning?

- Whatever made you ask that? - Why can't you give a straightforward answer?

Well, I mean, it seems such an odd question.

Oh, perhaps Inspector MacPherson didn't tell you about the picture.

- What picture? - The one Campbell was painting at the time.

The paint on it was still wet, you see,

even though it had been put on with a quick-drying medium

and had been exposed to the sun and a stiffish breeze.

So he must have been alive on Tuesday morning.

No, MacPherson didn't tell me that.

But what made you ask?

Because I've no problem about Tuesday morning.

I caught the early train to Glasgow to see the exhibition,

but the police went on about my movements on Monday night.

Well, I spent all of Monday night here.

They became damnably inquisitive.

Did they? Well, I'm blessed.

That's why I wanted to know.

You see, if there's any doubt about Campbell being alive on Tuesday morning,

then it could put me in a bit of an awkward spot.

Yes, I see your point.

Still, I'd imagine anyone with a decent alibi for Tuesday morning was home and dry.

Glad to hear it.

I'd like your advice, Wimsey.

I've never come up against the police before and...

- Against them? - Well, you know what I mean.

They give you the idea they don't believe a word you're saying.

So I thought I'd say as little as possible.

You mean you left things out?

I answered their questions.

They asked me if I saw Campbell come home that night,

and I said no I hadn't seen him, but I'd heard the car come in.

And then I had a last drink and pottered off to bed, because I had to be up early.

And that was the last you heard of him?

Yes.

Except I've a funny sort of an idea I heard his front door open and shut again,

as if he'd gone out.

I can't be certain, but I certainly saw him go out again in his car in the morning.

Well, that's valuable.

What time was that?

Between 7.30 and 7.45.

You mean you actually saw Campbell in his car?

Oh, yes, I saw him all right.

Well, I can only swear to his clothing and general appearance.

Because of the angle of the wall, I couldn't see his face under that damn great hat.

But, oh, I'm sure it was him.

- But you told all that to the police. - Oh, yes.

Well, what was it that you didn't let on about?

A couple of things.

First of all, a fellow came round that night and started crashing about on Campbell's door,

using the most filthy language.

Rather fortunately, Campbell was out,

because there were all the signs of a real shindy brewing.

- Who was the fellow? - I'm afraid it was Farren.

Well, well, well.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Yes.

I popped my head out of the window and told him to stop making that filthy row.

He said he'd had enough of Campbell hanging round his wife.

Threatened all sorts of terrible acts of violence against Campbell's person.

Of course, it doesn't mean a thing with him. He's always going in off the deep end.

- And what happened then? - Then he took himself off.

- On his two legs? - No, no, on his bicycle.

Ah, yes, of course.

Look here, Ferguson, how much was there between Campbell and Mrs Farren?

Damn all, if you ask me.

I think Campbell used to get a bit sentimental about her in his cups,

but she's much too high-minded to get herself into trouble.

I can't stand her, personally.

Did Farren depart altogether, or did he come back later, by any chance?

Well, that's just the thing. I don't know.

Someone came later.

- When was that? - Just after midnight.

Somebody knocked on Campbell's door and presently, whoever it was, went inside.

I dropped off to sleep again.

- And you didn't hear the person go? - No.

But I don't think it was Farren, because I fancy I heard a car.

I had a notion it might have been Jock Graham up to one of his larks.

That's possible.

Look here, Ferguson, if I was you, I'd tell the Inspector.

What? Just about the midnight visitor, or Farren too?

Both. Particularly about the midnight johnny.

After all, he apparently was the last person to see Campbell alive.

- I saw Campbell in the morning. - No, no, no, I meant see him to speak to.

If the police can get hold of him, he may be able to give them valuable information.

- Then why hasn't he come forward? - He may have had a dozen reasons.

He may have been selling illicit salmon, or he may have been a she. One doesn't know.

I'm sorry to have taken up so much of your time.

Not at all. I'm only too glad you looked in.

- What a splendid sight. - Yes, a favourite view.

Well, I must be on my way.

Incidentally, which train did you catch to Glasgow?

Well, I had meant to drive to Dumfries, to catch the 7.35 from there,

but on Monday, I had a spot of magneto trouble, so I caught the bus to Gatehouse instead.

Oh, I see. What was wrong with the magneto?

- Armature windings. - Ah-hah.

As I was staying the night in Glasgow, I took it with me and had it fixed there.

Oh, good idea.

Do see Inspector MacPherson, won't you? There's a good chap. Toodle-oo!

(Wind howls)

MAN: Hey, over here!

We've found something!

Come on.

WIMSEY: Well, we'll soon have the truant back.

- What makes you think that? - All stations call.

Oh, nothing agitating, you know.

Anxious friends and relations, that sort of thing.

Not, I admit, that you seem to be frightfully anxious.

If it ain't a rude question, why aren't you?

I think it is rude.

Then I'm sorry, but the question still remains. Why aren't you?

An abandoned bicycle, dangerous old mine,

indefatigable police with ropes and grappling irons,

empty chair, deserted home, and a lady who sits, spinning an even thread.

Might be thought puzzling.

I've already told Inspector MacPherson

that I consider all this story about mines and suicide to be quite absurd.

I'm not responsible for the foolish ideas of country policemen

and I resent this inquisitiveness about my private affairs.

I can forgive the police, Lord Peter, but what business is it of yours?

None whatsoever but, if you care to give me the facts, I might be able to quell the riot.

What facts?

Well, for instance, you might tell me where the letter came from.

I beg your pardon? What was that you said?

I said you might tell me where the letter came from.

What letter?

The one that you received from your husband this morning.

If the police have been tampering with my private correspondence,

they can probably give you the information you want.

Unless, of course, they also dislike interference.

- Since you admit the existence of the letter... - I admit nothing of the sort.

Come now, you're not one of nature's gifted liars.

When I last saw you, you were genuinely anxious about your husband. Today you are not.

You did receive a letter. Why deny it?

Lord Peter Wimsey, have you ever thought how contemptible you are?

You're known in this district.

Many people have shown you kindness,

and you repay that kindness by coming into my house as a police spy,

trying to bully and trap me into betraying my husband.

Mrs Farren, if it is a question of betrayal, then I beg your pardon.

I can only say again - and this time as a warning -

the sooner that your husband returns to give an account of himself,

the better for him and for everyone else.

Lord Peter.

I am certain that my husband is innocent of murder.

There's another reason for his absence.

To be insulted was enough. To be deserted as well...

Ah, stupid of me.

It's your pride that you're sheltering.

I tried to look as though nothing was the matter. I didn't want to show Hugh up.

Quite right. Besides, it might be thought that you yourself had failed in some way.

I've always done my duty as a wife.

I've been faithful to him.

I've worked hard to keep this house beautiful, to make it a place of inspiration.

Is it my fault that that poor, unhappy man Campbell should come to me to tell his troubles?

Is there any reason I should be outraged with vile suspicions?

Do you think there was anything more than sympathy in my feelings for Campbell?

- Not for a moment. - Then why couldn't my husband believe it?

Because he's in love with you. Hugh Farren is a decent man.

Is it decent to believe vile things of other people?

Well, the two things often go together, I'm afraid.

Virtuous people are generally rather stupid about those sort of things.

If I were married to you, Mrs Farren,

I would know that under no circumstances would you ever be unfaithful.

It would give other people a handle over you.

Upon my word, your reason is more insulting than my husband's suspicion.

- You're quite right, it is. - Go and see him.

Tell him what you've been saying to me, if you dare.

With pleasure, if you'll give me his address.

There was no address, but the postmark was Ascombe in Westmoreland.

Thank you, Mrs Farren. I'll find him.

Henry Strachan may know his address.

- What makes you think that? - They were very close.

I didn't know.

Secrets I was not allowed to share, that sort of thing.

Just part of a man's world.

Yes.

It's very touching, to see two middle-aged men playing David and Jonathan.

Goodbye, Mrs Farren.

Mrs Smith-Lemesurier.

What can we do for you?

Oh, well, I'll just go and see if there's any news from Mr MacPherson at the old lead mines.

Er...sit you down, ma'am.

Oh, thank you.

Thank you.

And what is it brings you here?

This.

I just wanted to ask if there was any foundation for the dreadful insinuation in that story.

That's as maybe.

What makes them say that an artist committed the crime?

There might be some evidence to point in that direction.

Oh, I don't...

I thought perhaps the reporter had made it all up out of his own head.

Do you mean he actually got that idea from the police?

Well, I couldnae very well say.

He'll maybe have caught it from some other... irresponsible person.

But the police do think that?

Well, I'm not saying so.

But, since the deceased was an artist himself and, as most of his friends were artists,

then there's the possibility.

Then it goes on to mention Mr Graham.

Aye, so it does.

Surely...

Surely it can't be that you suspect Mr Graham of this dreadful thing?

Och, well, there's always some grounds for suspicion

when a crime's been committed and a person will not state just where he was at the time.

Oh, I see.

Tell me, Mr Dalziel, supposing...

..supposing anybody were to clear your mind of this suspicion against Mr Graham...

..it wouldn't be necessary to make the explanation public?

Well, that would depend on the nature of the explanation.

If it were such as to remove all possibility of the gentleman's being concerned,

and if it was well supported by proofs and, provided the matter never came to trial,

there'd be nae need to make anything public at all.

Well, in that case...

Mr Dalziel...

I know I can rely on your discretion.

It's a dreadful thing I have to say.

As a widow, in my sad, lonely position, I...

Well, now, dinnae upset yourself, Mrs Smith-Lemesurier.

Mr Graham would never breathe a word of it.

He's far too chivalrous. (Sniffs)

Just tell me all about it...

as though I might be your father.

Oh, thank you.

Thank you.

You see, Mr Graham couldn't reveal where he was because...

..because...

..he spent the whole of Monday night with me.

Now, then, Bunter.

Anything to report on Betty's creepy-crawly yet?

The suspense is killing me.

Only three people caught the 11.05 last night -

an elderly couple, known to the man in the booking office

and a stranger, who booked as far as Drummore,

which is just one stop past Kirkcudbright.

- Could he describe him? - Quite dramatically, my lord.

He was a man of small stature

and he wore a broad-brimmed black hat, pulled way down over his eyes.

He had a dark overcoat, with the collar turned up and he had a scarf wound round his chin.

Oh, and he carried a small suitcase and wore dark glasses.

Great Scott! He sounds like a spy out of cheap fiction.

Just so, my lord. Anyway, I got in touch with the local taxi man at Drummore,

a Mr McNabb.

Now, imagine his astonishment when a man in dark glasses offered him double fare

to drive him to the Royal Stag Hotel at Dumfries.

I can indeed imagine.

Anyway, I got in touch with the hotel, just to check.

Now, a man in the name of Mr Durant did book a single room there last night at 11 o'clock.

The man in dark glasses signed in at reception.

He left to catch the early morning train to London via Carlisle.

Oh, Bunter, this is preposterous. It's beginning to resemble the plot of a Wilkie Collins novel.

I require some stimulant.

WOMAN: Yoo-hoo!

BUNTER: Two persons to see you, my lord.

Hello, Lord Peter.

Fenella, what a pleasant surprise.

I've got a pleasanter one for you.

I'd like to introduce you to young Helen McGregor - Lord Peter Wimsey.

How do you do, Miss McGregor?

She's going to prove a star witness in this Campbell business, but she's scared stiff,

and you've got to promise to protect her, both from her parents and the police.

Well, I shall do my best, naturally.

Look here, why not sit down?

Would you care for a drink?

Oh, I should think a ginger pop for Helen, and I'd love...

..a horse's neck, if you've got one.

Do we have any pop, Bunter?

I think I should be able to manage it, my lord.

How resourceful you are, my dear chap. And erm...?

I'll have a ginger pop too.

Two pops please, Bunter.

Well, now, let's start at the beginning, shall we?

Right.

You'd better regard me as Helen's mouthpiece, because she's too shy to talk to anyone but me.

It's like this.

Helen's mother is a sort of daily dasher for Aunt Millie and Uncle Henry

and Helen sometimes comes along to give a hand too.

Well, I noticed she was feeling pretty broody about something this morning,

so I told her, a trouble shared is a trouble halved

and the sooner she spilt the beans, the better.

- Are you with me? - So far, all the way.

Jolly good.

Well, on Monday night, Helen's parents were out,

so she walked across the valley to some chums of hers

and stayed there chatting until it was quite dark.

She suddenly realised that, if she didn't hurry, her parents would be back before she was

and then she'd really be in the soup.

They're very strict, you see.

Well, she was nearly home when a car passed her, going fast.

It stopped suddenly at the corner, just ahead.

And when she caught up with it,

there was another car blocking the road

and the two drivers were having a terrible fight on the grass at the side.

And they were shouting and swearing.

And one was trying to hit the other with a sort of iron bar.

Could you describe either of these men, Helen?

It was too dark, milord.

Well, did you hear anything they were saying?

"Try to murder me, would you?" one of them said.

Anything else? Any name, for instance?

One of them called the other "Campbell."

Did you hear anything more?

All she could think of was that if they saw her, they'd kill her.

She ran all the way home and jumped into bed just as her parents came in.

Could you show me the exact spot on the road, Helen?

- She's shown me, which is just as good. - Splendid.

Now you have absolutely nothing to worry about, Helen, either from your parents or the police.

I shall see to that.

Well, now I'd like to ask both of you to luncheon but, do you know, I don't think that this can wait?

Come along, girls.

Shan't be long, Bunter.

You know, this is menial toil. It really is beneath the dignity of any human being,

unless one is like the army of Napoleon, which is popularly reputed to have marched on its belly.

(Grunts) Ah-hah!

Eureka!

The murder weapon, Lord Peter.

It could certainly have made that dent in Campbell's skull.

But if it did, it lets out your hot favourite: Farren.

WIMSEY: We know he was out on his bicycle, whereas this gentleman was driving a car.

Aye, so he was.

- Let's hope it has some juicy, fat prints on it. - Come and see what I've found!

Don't touch, lass!

Oh, sorry, Inspector, but I don't think you'd get fingerprints off this.

It's hair, milord. Human hair.

May I have a look?

Did you ever hear of the Kilkenny cats who fought, leaving only their tails behind them?

Now, here we have two gentlemen having a fight

and both of 'em spirited away, leaving only a tuft of hair.

And it's soft and silky.

A woman's?

Could be.

And it's been cut at one end.

There's lots more around, and this doesn't look like woman's hair.

Do you know, I believe you're right?

It's the same colour...

..only it's much coarser.

In heaven's name, milord, what's been going on here?

The mind boggles, don't it?

Great Scott!

Of course.

Oh, Inspector! Dolts and ninnies that we are, of course!

WIMSEY: Thanks, old Parker, bird, I am much obliged.

Give my love to Polly, won't you? (Chuckles)

All right, old lad. Bung-ho!

Chief Inspector Parker says they ought to be able to round up Gowan in 24 hours.

I still think it would be quicker to use some force on that toffee-nosed butler.

I'd stake my rank he knows where Gowan's hiding.

I don't doubt it but if he's been doing what I think he's been doing - covering up for his master -

he'll find some way to warn him, as soon as he knows we suspect.

I must say, I agree with Sir Maxwell.

Aye, but it's certain Campbell and Gowan had a fight.

I don't deny that. There was an encounter between them, all right,

and a very odd one too, judging by the evidence.

My sixth sense tells me that Gowan ain't our man.

The doctor says that spanner could've made the dunt on Campbell's head

and there's a thumbprint on it. If the print matches Gowan's...

..I might even eat my words, Inspector.

But I don't think we ought to lose sight of our other red herrings.

Has Ferguson been to see you?

Aye. And Dalziel's checked at Gatehouse Station. They know Mr Ferguson.

He bought a first-class return ticket to Glasgow and caught the 8.30 train.

Yes, he said he had a good alibi for Tuesday morning.

WIMSEY: What news of Waters? - Nothing. He's disappeared completely.

You know, for a quiet, country place, Kirkcudbright boasts a bright lot of inhabitants.

They appear and disappear like Cheshire cats.

WIMSEY: Graham - now is he still refusing to cooperate?

MACPHERSON: He won't say a word.

Remember, he's a great one for horseplay. He ducked Campbell in a pool once.

He may have tried some other lark and, this time, killed him by accident.

Possible, but not very likely.

WIMSEY: Strachan? SIR MAXWELL: Is he still sticking to this story?

MACPHERSON: He is, Sir Maxwell. He swears black and blue he fell down that shaft.

- He is black and blue. - Aye, but he's no alibi for Monday night

and he could've won those marks fighting with Campbell.

And, finally, Farren?

MACPHERSON: Well, now, Sir Maxwell, he is the man who went looking for trouble,

swearing vengeance against Campbell, and I know him too.

He's one of those persons up in the clouds one minute, then struck down by black depression.

If he killed Campbell, I think he might take his own life after.

That's why I had the old mine searched. But there's no sign of him.

Yes, well, we don't seem to be making much progress.

I want the search for Waters and Farren intensified.

- Very good. - And, if Graham has nothing to hide,

he's got to be made to speak.

I will not tolerate this obstruction. Deal with him, Inspector.

- I'll see to it, Sir Maxwell. - Excuse me, Wimsey.

Well, if you have no objections, Inspector, I will continue with my day's programme.

- Henry Strachan is the next on the list, I fancy. - Your Lordship's more than welcome.

First of all, I have a most pressing engagement.

Luncheon.

High tea, rather than luncheon.

High tea, my lord?

A meal not to be despised, Bunter.

True, you have served me with a bottle of Pouilly-Fum� instead of a mug of tea

but the result, I assure you, was just as satisfying.

Well, I'm very glad to hear it.

Yes, well, I was pulling your leg, old lad. I was ravenous.

At one epicurean stroke, you have appeased both glutton and gourmet.

Thank you, my lord.

And what have you achieved in my absence?

- A minor diplomatic success, my lord. - Hm?

In which direction?

The matter regarding Miss Betty and Mr Alcock.

There was a certain obduracy on both sides.

I mean, Betty resolutely refuses to return to service in the house...

And I can't say that I blame her.

And Mr Alcock is equally reluctant to take her back.

I'm afraid I was...

- ..I resorted to a little minor deception, my lord. (Gentle romantic piano)

I told Mr Alcock that both you and the Chief Constable had,

on the whole, accepted his story about Betty's hysteria

and discounted Betty's story.

Having convinced him, he was prepared to take Betty back in employment on Mr Gowan's return.

In the meantime, the Misses Selby and Cochrane

are planning a tour of the Highlands in a motor car.

They've taken rather a liking to Betty.

Yes, they're anxious for her to go with them as their maid.

How absolutely splendid, Bunter.

I shall miss her, my lord.

(Knock on door)

Excuse me, my lord.

(Lively classical piece)

- I say, look here, hey! - Wimsey.

- My dear fellow, what a pleasant... - Mr Graham, my lord.

I'm in the most ghastly hole, it's too awful. You're up to your neck in this thing.

Go to! Where gettest thou that goose look?

- It's only just been sprung on me. - What has?

All right, Bunter, that will be all. Thank you.

This Campbell business.

Put on your nightgown, look not so pale.

I tell you yet again, Campbell is dead and cannot come out...

Oh, stop drivelling, Wimsey. This really is damnable.

I didn't kill Campbell and now the most frightful thing's happened.

Does the name Mrs Smith-Lemesurier mean anything to you?

That rings a bit of a bell, yes.

Oh, by Jove, yes.

Last year, sale of work for the Episcopalian church, she cornered me.

The only way I could escape was by buying a green silk sachet

- embroidered with "pyjamas" in her own hand. - She's a man-eater, Wimsey.

Have you got yourself involved?

- Never. I swear it. - Then why bring her into it?

Well...you saw that damn fool paragraph in the Gazette.

- Mm-hm. - Well, she's been to the police.

- Given me an alibi. - Oh, yes?

Oh, yes. It seems I spent the whole of Monday night in her bed.

(Chuckles)

You poor old thing. You didn't, of course?

I was otherwise occupied, and that's the devil of it.

Look, Wimsey, if her story gets out, I'll never live it down

but, if the police have the truth, I could go to prison for three months,

and so could my five witnesses.

- Only five? - Unless you count Gilda Farren.

I was passing her door, she called me in.

She was in a great state, because Hugh had run off in a tantrum.

Wait one moment. About 10.30, last Monday?

- Right. She kept me for about half an hour. - Mm-hm.

I calmed her down, but she kept running to the gate when she heard a footstep.

Well, that explains that. She heard mine. I saw a man's hand pull her back.

My hand.

And, after half an hour?

This is damned awkward.

If I tell you the truth, no names: no pack-drill.

I cannot promise you that, you know perfectly well.

Six of us went poaching salmon on Lord McRae's estate.

How very reprehensible.

And damn good work. I can't stand old McRae.

Look, Wimsey, the point's this.

Is there any way of stifling that predatory octopus, without bringing the boys into it?

Well, I'll see what I can do. I'll put it to Maxwell Jamieson, in my own way.

But Mrs Smith-Lemesurier?

She'll be threatened with the full panoply of the law, for seeking falsely to tarnish your halo.

You're a friend, Wimsey, a damned good friend.

Oh, have a drink with us tonight, will you?

I'm afraid I've got to be up bright and early in the morning,

that's going to be difficult, but well, yes, why not?

By Jove, I will have a drink with you and your five witnesses.

I would be delighted.

(Laughs)

- Bright and early, my lord? - Yes, I have got to drive to Westmoreland.

Very good, my lord. What shall I pack?

Well, just an overnight bag, if you would.

It has been a full day, if I may venture to say so?

Both full and satisfactory, Bunter, and it ain't over yet.

I have one more call to make.

- Bunter? - My lord?

Bunter, what thoughts do the words "David" and "Jonathan" summon to your mind?

A quotation, my Lord.

"I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan.

Very pleasant hast thou been unto me.

Thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women."

Thank you, Bunter.

(Door opens)

(Starts engine)

(Honks horn) - I say, Wimsey!

Lord Peter!

Hello, Fenella. Is your uncle in?

He's out painting, but do come in.

Ah, well, no, thank you. I think I'd better not.

You don't know where he is, by any chance?

Absolutely, because Aunt Millie and I drove him out and dumped him there.

Go down to the Carrick shore.

About half a mile along, there's a sort of huge, great, granite rock.

He's sitting on the top, painting the Isles of Fleet. You can't possibly miss him.

Never, with such succinct directions.

You know you've been a great help in all this business, Fenella.

For the last time, I'm afraid.

What does that mean?

Uncle Henry thinks the present atmosphere up here unsuitable for someone of my tender years.

I'm being packed off back to London tomorrow.

I never thought I'd be sorry to go.

I don't expect we'll meet again.

I wouldn't dream of never seeing you again.

Here is my London address.

Come and have tea with me when I get back.

Goodbye, Fenella.

(Phone rings)

JEANIE: Yes? Yes, it is.

Oh, I see. Yes. The result?

- Who is it, Jeanie? - It's a lab in Glasgow, Inspector.

- That thumbprint on the spanner. - What about it?

It's a perfect print of Mr Campbell's thumb.

- Thank you very much. Goodbye. (Approaching voices)

Now, will somebody please tell me what the devil is going on?

I go away for a few days and, when I get back, my landlady starts screaming blue murder,

and locks herself in her bedroom. She called me a murderer.

- It's Mr Waters, isn't it? - Yes.

Aye, well, there may be something in what she said.

We've been looking for you for quite some time.

WATERS: As far as I am concerned, it is a lot of fuss about nothing.

- I think we'll be the best judge of that. - Sir Maxwell?

Exactly what have you been doing since last Monday night?

I've been sailing with a bloke, that's all.

- What bloke, Mr Waters? - Tom Drewitt, my old college friend.

Let's go back to the Monday night, Mr Waters.

After you left the pub.

Well, I walked home with Wimsey, and said goodnight

and went straight to bed.

Then I heard some idiot chucking stones at my window, and there was old Tom.

- What time was that? - Soon after 11, I suppose.

I told him I had to be up early in the morning to catch a train to Glasgow,

but he said he had a much better idea.

He had his boat Susannah lying off the dune and why didn't we sail up the Clyde to Glasgow,

make the trip in two or three days?

Frankly, I was in two minds.

- So what did you do? - I went off to have a drink with him, onboard.

And then Tom drove me home.

Go on.

Well, I had a damn good night's sleep,

and then, when Mrs Ellison woke me in the morning, about sevenish,

I saw that the weather was fine and I thought, "Well, why not, after all?"

So I took my bike and pushed off.

Did you tell Mrs Ellison where you were going?

She knew I was going to Glasgow. It was no concern of hers how I went.

I cycled over towards the dune, signalled to Tom, and he came and took me off.

What did you do with the bike?

I shoved it in a little shed up there, among the trees.

(Waters clears his throat)

Anyway, we dropped down the estuary on the morning tide,

and made the Mull about teatime and anchored just outside Loch Ryan.

Wednesday, we lazed about a bit, did a bit of fishing,

but then the weather turned very nasty,

and Thursday was a real beast, raining and blowing like hell.

That was when the boom caught me.

After that, Tom gave up, so we put about and headed back towards the dune.

So much for my sea voyage to Glasgow.

When did you get in, Mr Waters?

About two hours ago.

I collected my bike from the little shed and cycled back to my digs.

I must say, I didn't get quite the welcome I expected.

- And where's our friend Mr Drewitt now? - He's on Susannah, down at the dune.

He'll be there a few days, making things shipshape.

Go and see him, will you, Dalziel?

And, if he can corroborate your story, I don't think you've anything to worry about.

- Thanks very much. I can go now? - Yes. We know where to find you.

MACPHERSON: His story tallies with Mrs Ellison's.

- Yes, it narrows the field. (Phone rings)

JEANIE: Yes? Yes, it is. Hold on, please.

It's Scotland Yard, Inspector.

MacPherson here.

Hello, Chief Inspector Parker.

Gowan?

Oh, but that's fine.

Very good, Chief Inspector.

If you could get him on a train as soon as possible...

What-ho, Strachan!

(Tuts) Wimsey.

Your delightful niece told me that you were here.

Delightful? That's a matter of opinion.

It's my opinion that she's going to turn into a very remarkable young lady.

Indeed, and it can't happen too soon.

As far as I'm concerned, her presence here's an annual penance.

(Chuckles)

Good, vigorous stuff.

- Your injury's not hampering you? - First time out, had to try my hand again.

Mm-hm.

You use very big brushes.

A broad, sweeping style.

Campbell used a knife a lot, didn't he?

Yes.

- Must be quicker work with a knife. - It is, generally speaking.

Mm-hm.

Do you work as fast as Campbell did?

Not quite as fast as he would with a knife.

Using my own methods, I could probably produce a sketch as quickly as he could.

How much longer do you need on that?

Another half hour.

Your interest is very flattering, Wimsey,

but I doubt if you came all this way to admire my work.

No, that is partly true, I'm afraid.

I did want to ask you one or two questions.

What about?

Your story about falling down that mineshaft.

Well?

- The police are sceptical. - Damn the police.

It's their job to be.

That bloody interfering MacPherson.

It's a miracle I'm here talking to you, not dead and rotting at the bottom of that stinking shaft.

Personally, I find it such a preposterous story, I'm inclined to believe it's true.

- Thanks. - Not a bit, not a bit, not a bit.

No, I think you fell down that shaft and had a miraculous escape.

I honestly believe that that was part of the night's adventures.

What are you insinuating, Wimsey?

I'm not insinuating, really.

But I have to consider all the possibilities.

Farren had threatened Campbell.

Campbell had threatened you.

Are you accusing me of having anything to do with his murder?

I'm not accusing anybody of anything.

But I am suggesting that you know more than you told the police.

After all, you and Farren might have planned this thing together.

You are, I believe, quite close friends.

Rather like David and Jonathan, in a way.

(Grunts)