Original subtitles

# MENDELSSOHN: The Wedding March

I've never seen anything like that cake, did you?

"Bride hath paced into the hall, red as a rose is she."

Well, not yet, she hasn't. But it won't be long now.

And there we are.

(Bells peal)

Mr Henry and his lovely lady have now been joined in holy wedlock.

When they arrive, they will stand here to receive their guests.

Now, this reception to be a credit...to us all.

You've had your orders.

Is there anyone who does not know what to do?

This is your last chance to ask any questions.

Do up that button.

Mary, my dear.

I know this is your first big occasion. Don't get flustered.

Just remember what I told you and you'll come through with flying colours.

- Right, Geoff. - Not Geoff.

When we are on parade, it is Mr Deacon. How many times must I tell you?

Sorry, Mr Deacon.

That's better.

Right.

I shall now proceed to the orangery and await the arrival of the bridal carriage.

Three sharp blasts on my whistle and you will all stand to your stations and await my return.

That's it, then.

MAN: Well?

I know where she keeps them.

Her maid told my wife, and my wife...

Well, you know what women are.

Bless their little hearts.

Which room is her Ladyship's?

The window to the end of the west wing. There's a shrubbery below it, you can hide there.

- What time? - One o'clock. But you may have a long wait.

- Sir Charles is holding a dinner party tonight. - What, on top of a big do like this?

It's the usual thing. I'm only thankful he decided against holding a ball.

That would have made things very difficult, all those young couples wandering everywhere.

As it is, there are 20 guests, including house guests.

I doubt if I shall be able to lock up before one.

And if the gentlemen play billiards, it could be a good deal later.

- Then you've got to wait for them to go to sleep. - They'll sleep quick enough.

All that food and drink. Sir Charles isn't exactly stingy.

So all I've got to do is to sit in the bushes

and wait for you to chuck them down to me?

Are you sure you're gonna be able to manage it?

If I didn't think so, I wouldn't try it.

Ah, here they come.

- Hop it, Cranton. - Good luck, old chap.

My niece's wedding was, of course, a very grand affair.

Didn't Isobel look lovely in church?

By Jove, yes. Henry found himself a winner there, what.

Lucky girl, if you ask me.

Why do you suppose the reception is being held here?

Caithness is a little bit far north when most of your friends live in the south.

Nothing to do with it. Her parents haven't a penny to their name.

That's why I say she's a lucky girl.

But surely as long as they're both happy...

My dear Susan, happiness is a poor investment by any standards.

I know my views may be somewhat old-fashioned, but money...

Money should marry into money.

Or at least buy a resounding title.

Don't be impertinent, Peter Wimsey.

In any case, what are you doing here? You don't know either family.

I'm standing in for Gerald. He and Henry were at Eton together.

Oh, how is your dear brother?

Laid up with a sprained back and feeling very sorry for himself.

Oh, I am sorry.

It's his own silly fault. I'm sorry, do you mind?

No.

There's a meadow absolutely pitted with rabbit warrens.

Gerald has to go charging across it like the Light Brigade. Result? Inevitable.

Over they both go, perfect somersault. Luckily Ajax is all right.

- Who's Ajax? - Well, he's the horse, of course.

And you are more concerned for the horse?

Well, he happens to be mine. Four-year-old chestnut, 16 hands.

Out of Fair Helen. Paid 200 guineas for him only last month.

Why, good heavens, he might have broken a leg.

However, you know, all's well that... et cetera, et cetera, et cetera...

So, as old Gerry is paying the price of his folly, and I have to join my regiment anyway,

I promised to pop in and kiss the bride en route, so to speak.

You can start opening the '08 now. They won't notice the difference.

Well done, Mrs Deacon.

Well done, indeed.

Hello, young Wimsey.

- Hello, sir. - Off to fight for king and country?

Ooh, that's the style.

Hello, pretty Susan.

Oh, Maggie, the setting for those damned emeralds grows more splendid every year.

Hector, you're quite impossible.

That's what their Lordships told me last week. But I've still got my squadron.

This absurd talk about a war.

Absurd, my eye! Of course there'll be a blasted war.

- The Germans are just sabre rattling. - Are they indeed? Let me tell you, madam,

the Germans have the largest sabre with the sharpest cutting edge in Europe.

The finest army bar none. And the Kaiser means to use it.

Can't say I blame the fellow. All I say is, thank God we've got a navy.

No offence, Peter.

None taken, sir. My own sentiments entirely.

Has the drink dried up?

Deacon. For heaven's sake, man, come and wet our whistles.

Ever clapped eyes on the famous Wilbraham emeralds before?

- No, I haven't, sir. - Feast your gaze, my boy.

I know of them by reputation, of course.

Reputation rank with royal scandal.

But beauties fit for a beauty just the same.

I've never seen anything like them before.

There are none to match them in the country. That is quite certain.

Don't you feel vulnerable wearing a king's ransom?

Vulnerable, Hector? Why in the world should I feel vulnerable?

Thieves, robbers, bandits? It never crossed your mind?

I do not happen to move in the society of such people.

When not wearing them, Lady Wilbraham, I hope you keep them in a safe place.

Where no burglar would ever dream of looking for them.

That is my very own secret.

Good God! '08.

Old Charles is getting more cheese-paring every year.

Fancy trying to work a switch like that halfway through your own son's wedding reception

and think we'd be too soused to notice it.

- Complaining, Hector? - Good God. What? No.

It's just that I have an inborn tendency to brag at my old friend's expense. Can't resist it.

Good show on the whole.

I think congratulations are in order.

Oh, I take no credit for it. Henry and I simply gave Deacon the guest list

and told him one or two things the occasion required, and let him get on with it.

Valuable fellow, Deacon.

What I really came to say was, bride and groom preparing for departure.

So if you want to throw rice or tie old boots to the end of their barouche...

Off you go, old girl.

- I was hoping that we might... - Are you staying the night, Wimsey?

Well, that's very kind of you, Sir Charles.

Nothing of the kind. We expected your brother. His bed's there, you're welcome to use it.

- Then I shall be delighted. - Splendid.

I can't stand an odd number at the dinner table.

All right, Louise, you may go now.

Yes, Madame. Does Madame wish the window open?

- Certainly not! - I thought perhaps...

- Have you never heard of draughts? - Draughts, Madame?

The cold, you silly girl.

La grippe.

If I listened to you, I'd wake up in the morning with a nose like an out-of-season strawberry.

- Pardon, Madame... - Granted, Louise. Good night.

Bonsoir, Madame.

I say, Wimsey, we'd bag a few birds with these, what.

I suppose I shouldn't be playing with my son's wedding presents.

- But I couldn't resist showing you those. - By Jove, sir, they're beauties.

Got them at Naismith's in St James's.

I bet you didn't pay a penny under 500 guineas.

750 to be precise.

(Wimsey whistles) - They'll last him a lifetime. More.

- Don't go blowing our heads off, Hector. - I'm sorry.

Self-ejecting, of course.

Number three shot, sir?

I always use number five, myself. Does less damage to the birds.

Henry, he prefers number three. Says they're better for high flyers. Ladies retired, Deacon?

Yes, Sir Charles.

Oh, well, it's been a long day.

You can start locking up. I'll see to it in here.

- Very good, sir. Good night, gentlemen. - Good night.

Good night, Deacon. Damn good show.

Yes, Deacon, your efforts have not gone unappreciated.

Thank you indeed, gentlemen.

Ah, another glass of port, Hector?

No, no, no, no. Not for me, Charles.

I've had my quota for my liver. I'm away off to my bunk.

- What about you, Wimsey? - No, thank you, sir. Must make an early start.

Got to face my CO bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

What's that extraordinary machine I saw you driving?

It looked just like an anaemic banana.

There's nothing anaemic about it, sir, I assure you.

It's a four-cylinder overhead-camshaft 16-valve Mercedes. Only five of 'em made.

- That's a Hun machine, isn't it? - I'm afraid so, sir, but it goes like gee whizz.

- Over 100 on the right bit of road. - Then you're a menace to life and limb, sir.

And deuced unpatriotic into the bargain.

I wouldn't let your colonel catch sight of you in it.

I've been thinking about that, sir. Bit of a facer, what.

You young devil. Come on, let's get to our beds. Our host is dropping on his feet.

Nothing of the kind. Sure I can't persuade you?

Then I think I'll persuade myself.

- Pleasant dreams. - And the same to you.

Thank you, old boy.

Good night, sir.

- It's been a great day. - Good night.

- Good night, Sir Hector. - Good night, my boy.

(Snores)

(Stirs)

What's that?

Who's there?

(She screams)

(Screaming continues)

- For God's sake! - No inquests. Get out or we're both done for.

(Distant screaming)

(Distant screaming)

I winged him, Wimsey. I winged the blighter.

- What the devil's going on? - Lady Wilbraham's emeralds, sir.

- They've gone. - By heaven.

It isn't true.

'Fraid so, sir.

- Where are you going? - Try to catch him.

(Groans)

MAN: What was that? Sounded like a gun to me.

WOMAN: No need to panic.

What was that, Mr Deacon?

WIMSEY: Make way there.

Excuse me, madam.

Come on.

(Engine starts)

I do wish, Charles, you wouldn't get so worked up.

Worked up? Of course I'm worked up!

Settle down, old lad, let me get you a brandy.

The place overrun by policemen,

my house guests treated as though they were common felons.

No-one has treated me as anything but the gentleman I am.

Then what the devil did he mean by "an inside job"?

Who? Oh, that inspector fellow.

"Had all the appearances of an inside job," he said.

What the devil did he mean by that?

Am I under suspicion, too? Is that what he is implying?

You jolly soon will be, old lad, if you don't come off the boil.

- Confound it! - Where are you off to?

- I'm not hanging around here waiting for him. - Yes, you are, you old buzzard!

You're going to take the Navy's advice for once and bring your blood pressure down.

Come on, settle down, there's a good lad. Go on. Settle down.

That's it.

If this inspector Johnny wants to go hunting baddies under bushes with a spy glass, let him,

if it makes him happy, damn it.

He's got to do it anyway, that's what he's paid for.

- Brandy? - How you can be frivolous at a time like this.

- It's better than being pompous. - I'm not being pompous!

Are you sure?

No, of course you're not. Forgive me. No more than I'm being helpful.

We must try, both of us, to be sensible.

This is no time for old friends to go arguing.

It's a damn bad business.

What we've got to do at a time like this is pull together.

I mean, if this fellow comes back and sees us arguing,

it's going to put the cat among the pigeons, isn't it, what?

(Door closes) - Old Sherlock returns.

Gentlemen. Sorry for that little diversion.

One of my men thought he'd found something.

SIR CHARLES: Yes, yes, I rather gathered that. And had he?

As it happens, sir, yes. To get back to what we were talking about...

- What? - I beg your pardon, sir.

May we ask what it is that he found?

Oh, footprints, sir, under Lady Wilbraham's window.

Unfortunately, they've all been scuffed.

Now, he climbed down the ivy, it seems.

It's very thick on the wall just there.

And some of the branches are torn, which would seem to indicate...

Inspector, I have told you before and I can tell you again

that I can vouch for every member of my staff.

- Can you, Sir Charles? - Always made it a rule

never to employ anybody without checking their background.

And I can tell you for a fact that there is nobody working for me

that has a police record or has ever been in trouble with the law.

I can believe that, but there's always a first time.

But damn it all, man, I saw the thief running off- winged him with my second barrel.

There's no question of it being what you call an inside job.

I don't deny the existence of your thief, sir,

and if he's got a gunshot wound, that could be very useful, very useful indeed.

But I still think it likely that someone in this house tipped him off.

Why?

He knew exactly where Lady Wilbraham was sleeping.

He knew exactly where to look for the emeralds. He went straight to the... to the spot.

Nothing else in the room was disturbed.

Good point, Inspector.

Why, only this afternoon Maggie was boasting about her famous hiding place.

- In front of the staff, Admiral? - Not in so many words, no.

Young Wimsey said he hoped she kept them in a safe place.

And she said where no burglar would think of looking for them.

But that was her secret. Well, something to that effect.

Now, Sir Charles, to get back to the matter of your staff.

What about Lady Wilbraham's maid? French, isn't she?

Don't worry, sir, I'm bearing her very much in mind.

But we'll start at the top of the list. Your butler, sir, Geoffrey Deacon.

He's been with me for three years. Before that, eight years at the Artemis Club in Pall Mall.

Came to me with impeccable references.

As a matter of fact, Lord Cranleigh recommended him to me.

- Married? - Yes. Earlier this year.

Married the parlour maid, Mary Russell.

A very respectable local family.

That sounded like young Lochinvar.

Young Lochinvar?

"..out of the west. Through all the wide border, his steed was the best."

Only the ruddy steed had to bust a tyre just as I got up with him.

- This is Inspector Frost. Lord Peter Wimsey. - How do, Inspector?

I'm sorry I've been so long, but you know what it is like changing a bally tyre in the pitch black.

All wrenches and inner tubes and fingers and thumbs.

However, all was not lost, Inspector.

The miscreant was driving a maroon Unic.

The last I saw of him, he was heading hell for leather down the London Road.

The registration number of his car was LH 4875.

Splendid, my lord. A wounded man in a known car.

We can forget your staff for the moment, Sir Charles. Can I use your telephone?

Yes, yes, it's in the alcove.

Oh, this is a wretched business.

It happened under my own roof on my son's wedding day.

Poor old Charles, the worst of bad luck.

Come on, old lad, you look all in.

Settle down, let me get you a brandy.

Oh, no, I'm perfectly all right.

How is she, Susan?

She's asleep in my bed.

Dr Baines gave her a sedative to calm her.

Poor Maggie.

Under my own roof.

I suppose I shouldn't say this, but I don't give a damn

whether that blighter gets away or not as long as we get those emeralds back.

- That wretched necklace was her pride and joy. - I know.

I remember her telling me once. She said she felt naked without it.

Don't worry, Charles.

If the worst comes to the worst, she'll collect the insurance.

By Jove, yes, �60,000. Quite a comforting thought, what.

- It isn't. - What's that, pretty Susan?

I said, it isn't.

What I meant to say was,

well, it would be if it was true.

My dear old thing, what on earth are you driving at?

It was when the sedative was beginning to work.

She wasn't hysterical any more.

She was quiet.

And quite lucid.

She said...

She said she'd let the policy lapse.

My God...

Sit down. Do as you're damn well told. Brandy, Wimsey.

Got straight through to Stevenage. They're putting up a road barrier.

There's been no car through for the past two hours. So unless he changes route,

which I very much doubt, we're bound to catch him.

Sir?

Quick, get the doctor. I think he's had a stroke.

- Serves him right, I say. - That's enough. Bit of respect now, Cranton.

Respect? You tell him about respect. It's against the law to shoot burglars.

It might have been murder.

Manslaughter, maybe. We won't go into that.

You only got it in the arm.

There's not many gentlemen uses number three.

There's not many gentlemen with a racing car that shouldn't be allowed on the public highway.

Lieutenant Wimsey is not on the public highway no more,

he's on his way back to join his regiment.

But never mind about that.

Very nice statement you've made, Cranton.

Very nice indeed.

- But there's one thing I don't understand. - What's that?

A respectable jewel thief with a handsome record like yours,

I didn't expect you to go grassing on your chum Deacon.

He's no chum of mine. I'll tell you what Deacon is.

He's a dirty, double-crossing...

That's enough, Cranton. I won't tolerate bad language.

My sincere apologies.

My feelings got the better of me.

Sticks out like a sore thumb, doesn't it?

You don't know where those emeralds are. Neither do I.

- That's what you say. - Come off it.

All your chaps at Stevenage found was the empty jewel case.

You could have ditched 'em en route.

Oh, yes? In a ditch, I suppose.

Use your loaf, Inspector.

I would never have grassed on Deacon if he hadn't double-crossed me.

But you know as well as I do,

that he pocketed that necklace and passed me the empty case.

Inspector...

how long do you reckon I'll get?

(Distant artillery)

(Nearby explosion)

(Whimpers)

As an old offender, the judge sentenced Cranton to ten years on the Moor.

- Deacon's doing eight at Maidstone. - Eight, sir?

It's not enough in my opinion.

I don't know, Sergeant. It was a first offence for him.

He was a servant, in a position of trust.

And he betrayed his master.

Then he broke faith with his wretched accomplice.

Of the two, I regard Deacon as the more evil.

I must say, I hadn't thought of it like that.

(Whine of shells and explosions)

And the emeralds?

- Were they ever recovered? - No, I'm afraid not.

If anybody knows where they are, Deacon does and he ain't saying.

Poor Lady Wilbraham.

Poor Sir Charles, you mean.

The theft took place on his premises, as I told you.

One of his own servants was involved. The stones weren't insured.

He felt that the responsibility was his

and he insisted on paying Lady Wilbraham their full value.

�60,000.

Good gracious. You mean, she accepted?

I'm afraid so.

It left the family in uncommonly straitened circumstances.

Sir Charles never recovered from the blow.

He died a few months afterwards.

A very distressing story.

Yes, for everyone.

For everyone except the two villains of the piece.

Well, there they are, two rogues

enjoying the relative comforts of Dartmoor and Maidstone Prison, sir.

- For how long is it? - Must be nearly four years now.

They'll miss the whole holocaust.

While we are not only existing in conditions of extreme discomfort,

but are in constant danger of instant extermination.

God willing, not for much longer, old friend.

Justice is blind, if you ask me.

(Shells whistle overhead)

In more ways than one.

Sounds like we're in for another plastering.

- Better get the lads. - Very good, sir.

All right, lads, to your feet.

Major Wimsey!

Major Wimsey, sir!

Major Wimsey!

It's me...

Sergeant Bunter, sir!

Come on, give me a hand, somebody!

Deacon.

I've been watching you all day, Deacon.

Lazy, aren't we, Deacon?

Don't like the open air, do we?

Well, we can soon remedy that.

A word in the governor's ear,

a nice spot of solitary on number-two diet.

Cos that's what you're gonna get!

You filthy bleeding fancy man!

Stop that man!

Cut him off at the road, you two!

You two, over into the woods!

Out of the way. Come on, hurry up now, all of you!

You'll be all right, sir.

It's all right, you're gonna be all right, sir.

He's gonna be all right, isn't he?

(Dogs barking and distant shouts)

Go through them trees there, Freddy.

Come on!

(Pants)

(Man singing approaching)

(Sings drunkenly)

# There's a...

Argh!

(Repeated blows)

(Hums)

# Joshua, Joshua

# Why don't you call and see Mama?

# She'll be pleased to know...

- What is it, Shorty? - That fella in the corner, sarge.

- What about him? - I dunno. He looks a bit funny to me.

No, not funny, Shorty. His leave's about due to run out and he's frightened to go back.

I know the symptoms.

- You all right, soldier? - Yes, I'm fine. Just leave me alone.

Now then, that's no way to talk. Let's see your papers.

- What papers? - Let's have a look.

Leave me alone!

# Come, come, drink port wine with me down at the old Bull and Bush...

Oh, I see, that's the way it is.

Drowning your sorrows, eh? I don't blame you.

Still, you can thank your lucky stars you weren't one with them.

- How do you mean, sarge? - Cambrai, wasn't it, where your lot got it?

The Boche overran his entire sector about ten days ago.

His whole unit was wiped out, every man Jack of 'em.

Except for old lucky legs here

who managed to wangle himself a bit of well-earned leave when it mattered most.

Still, don't you worry, old son.

The counterattack is coming any day now.

And when it does, you'll remember your mates then.

It'll be a proper bloodbath for the Boche.

Come on, on your feet, lad.

Do you hear what I say, Watkins?

Do you know what day it is?

No.

It's the 30th April, 1918, that's what it is.

And unit or no unit, your leave expires at 2359 hours tonight.

- Nip outside, Shorty, pronto and get a cab. - Right, sarge.

- Now, look... - I know how you feel, lad.

I know how you feel. None of us wants to go back to that bloody hell on earth over there.

But we're all in the same boat. There's no way round it.

You go absent without leave and every MP in London will be out looking for you.

When they catch you, you'll be for the high jump.

Believe me, they're not fooling these days.

The mood of the top brass is they'd just as soon have you shot as stick you in a glasshouse.

SHORTY: I've got one, sarge.

The last train for the Dover boat leaves in 25 minutes

and you're gonna be on it, so on your feet.

Good lad.

(Pubgoers sing # It's A Long Way To Tipperary)

That's it, up with the old kitbag.

Smarten yourself up a bit.

There you go. What about a soldier's best friend?

What?

- For gawd's sake, see he gets on that train. - Don't worry, sarge.

See you back here. Come on, son.

Come on. At the double!

If that lad doesn't get himself killed right off, then I'm a Dutchman.

Here's to your laughing eyes, girly. and an end to it all, eh?

Dowson, did you see your lord and master?

Six steps, no less.

Most enterprising, my lord, though hardly wise, I would have thought.

Oh, tommyrot. Got to exercise the confounded thing.

My lord...

Dowson, I know all the signs.

You have a problem on your mind.

Not precisely a problem, my lord,

but there is a person here to see your Lordship without appointment.

- What sort of a person? - A military person, my lord.

- Probably that chappy from the War House. - Not an officer, my lord.

Are there such people, Dowson?

Well, really, you amaze me. What is the world coming to?

- All right, Dowson, you'd better show him in. - Your Lordship will see him?

That is the general idea, Dowson.

I'm nearly going off my head with boredom.

Any diversion would be welcome.

(Sings to self)

A Sergeant Bunter to see your Lordship.

Not "a" Sergeant Bunter, Dowson.

The Sergeant Bunter!

He saved my miserable hide.

- Major Wimsey, sir. - Sergeant Bunter.

- Ooh. - Steady on there, sir. Whoops.

- Are you all right? - Yes.

Steady the buffs.

Getting a bit too cocky with myself, what.

Thank you. Lucky you were there.

All right, Dowson, that will be all, thank you.

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

Sorry about your reception earlier.

The poor old boy should have been turned out to grass years ago.

Would have been but for this idiot war.

Come on, Sergeant, take a pew. How did you get that?

No, look, hang on.

Be a good fellow. The whisky's over there.

Pour two very large ones. The occasion demands it.

A nice way for your host to behave, I must say.

And with this gammy leg, once down, can't get up, you understand?

- Soda, sir? - Just a splash, please.

Oh, perfect.

Thank you.

Well, your very best health, Sergeant.

And yours, sir. A pleasure to see you looking so well.

And the same to you.

Mm.

My dear fellow, come on, sit down, sit down. This ain't company office.

A great deal...pleasanter, if I may say so, sir.

Yes, I'm bound to agree.

All right, then, let's hear it. How'd you get to Blighty?

Nothing in the least dramatic, sir. Shrapnel.

- Beastly stuff. Unpredictable. - Quite so, sir. I was one of the lucky ones.

Yes, so was I.

I've got a feeling in my bones that our days of fighting are over and done with.

You think so, sir? The doctor said I'd be fit in three weeks.

And the news from the front is hardly encouraging.

Oh, the dark before the dawn. I think it's all over bar the shouting.

I sincerely hope you're right.

And if I am, what of the future?

Peace.

Difficult to imagine, ain't it?

Things won't be the same as they were before, that's for certain.

You know, the funny thing is,

I loathed every minute of those stinking trenches.

The mud, the smell...

the unutterable boredom when you weren't being scared out of your mind.

Just give me a heave up, would you, old lad?

Sorry. Thank you.

Stretch the darn thing.

No, that's... that's not the funny thing.

What I really meant was, do you know, there are things that I am going to miss?

- I know what you mean, sir. - I shall miss our partnership, Sergeant.

It's been a damn good partnership.

Nothing to do with your saving my life.

That's something quite separate in my mind and always will be.

Believe me, sir, it's a matter that's been much in my thoughts.

During those weeks in hospital, I gave it very careful consideration.

- You, too, Sergeant? - Yes, sir.

May I enquire, did you reach any conclusions?

Yes, sir.

In my view, the success of a relationship between two people is based on compatibility.

Quite right, too.

Our backgrounds and upbringing are poles apart,

but our standards are not.

Our characters are at once, sir, opposite and complementary.

In brief, sir, to borrow a phrase from Signore Marconi,

we appear to be on the same wavelength.

By Jove, Sergeant, I never knew such a chappy for whacking the nail over the crumpet.

That's why it's such a confounded pity.

With... With respect, sir...

With or without it, Sergeant, you go on.

Well, the fact is, I...

I didn't come here to enquire about your health.

Or for the very real pleasure of seeing you again.

It was to do with the subject we've just been discussing.

Indeed I came here armed with a very definite proposal.

Now that might sound impertinent or even presumptuous.

I doubt it, Sergeant.

I doubt it very much.

What is your definite proposal?

Well, I'll rephrase that, sir.

- It's a request. - All right, then, a request.

Well, in the event of Mr Dowson retiring from your service, sir,

I would wish to be considered...

..as his replacement.

"Ah, bitter chill it was,

the owl for all his feathers, was a-cold."

"The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass

and silent was the flock in woolly fold."

The Eve Of St Agnes, John Keats.

And very appropriate to this time of year, my lord.

Though not to Piccadilly, Bunter. No owl, no hare, no flock.

They're all waiting for us at Duke's Denver.

Anything in the papers?

The Spanish influenza has reached epidemic proportions, my lord.

And heavy snow is reported in the north and the midlands.

And the Prime Minister in his wireless broadcast to the nation has said...

Yes, I know, I heard him. We must go on, on, on and up, up, up.

To hear that fellow speak, anyone would think

that this country was a hot-air balloon in a high wind.

And the way the government has been failing to steer us,

that is exactly how it must appear to our foreign friends.

However, as it is our inescapable fate to spend yet another New Year's Eve

with my brother at Duke's Denver, Bunter,

I have planned a very cunning route.

Now, then, after St Albans, we shall avoid the main highway,

and stick to the side roads round that away.

Now, I calculate that that should save us about 20 miles and won't take us very much longer.

- Indeed, my lord. - Indeed, Bunter.

And here's a coincidence.

Do you remember me once telling you about the Wilbraham emeralds?

I do indeed, my lord. In circumstances I'm unlikely to forget.

Yes. Well, the scene of the crime was a village in Norfolk -

Fenchurch St Paul. We shall be passing through it.

Will you call on your friend, Sir Henry Thorpe?

My brother's friend, Bunter, not mine. I hardly knew him.

In fact, I've never been in touch with him since.

I've often wondered about those emeralds.

But no, Bunter, duty before curiosity.

We shall not be stopping at Fenchurch St Paul.

(Tyres squeal)

Are you all right, Bunter?

Perfectly, my lord.

Is my lordship unhurt?

Yes, quite, thank you. Sorry about that.

Where do you think we are?

It's very hard to say, my lord.

My map reading went with the light.

And the torch is insufficient.

Damn hump-backed bridge.

Didn't see it.

(Bells pealing)

Ah, blessed bells.

Can't be far from civilisation.

Ah.

I was wrong, Bunter.

We shall be stopping at Fenchurch St Paul.