Original subtitles

(Snoring)

(Clock ticking)

(Laughter)

George! My dear old chap!

Oh, good to see you. I say, I'm not late, am I?

Wimsey, what makes you want to belong to this morgue?

Morgue? Oh, I wouldn't call it that. Funeral parlour, to say the very least.

I mean, look at the marble. Look at the furnishings.

Look at the palm, and that chaste bronze nude in the corner.

- Yes, and look at the corpses. - (Chuckles) Dry martini?

- Thank you. Yes. - Evening, Fred. Two dry martinis, please.

Look at that one. He's been snoring away ever since I arrived.

Earl Ormsby? Oh, bless him.

Do you know, I don't believe I've seen him awake for six months.

A particularly relaxing chair, that one, George. You ought to try it sometime.

I come once a year on Armistice Day for Colonel Marchbanks' party,

and that's quite enough.

Besides, I haven't the money to belong to a place like this.

Mmm. Well, your grandfather belongs.

That's different. My revered grandpa hasn't anyone else to go to.

Oh, the Bellona Club - it's company to him.

Warmth and conversation.

He dodders in here at ten every day, collects the morning post in the armchair nearest the fire,

and becomes a part of the furniture till the evening.

But I'm a married man, as you know, Peter.

Comic figure - the married man kept by his wife.

We all have to be kept by somebody, you know. Better one's wife than a person of low character.

Anyway, I wouldn't want to belong to a morgue like this. Look at it.

Corpses everywhere. Do you know what it reminds me of?

That old joke in Punch. "Waiter, take away Lord Whatshisname. He's been dead two days."

Huh? Everyone dead, and nobody notices.

Huh. I'm talking too much, am I?

Too much and too loud.

I don't know why I come to this damn dinner.

Ah, all this Remembrance Day business gets on your nerves, don't it?

It's my belief that most people would chuck all these community hysterics,

if only the beastly newspapers didn't run it for all it's worth.

However, it don't do to say so.

They'd hoof me out. Bung-ho.

I don't want to be reminded of the war.

I wish it had done for me.

Nerves all to pieces. Insides sewn together.

No job. No money.

Might as well have finished me off properly.

- I think perhaps Sheila would have missed you. - Money!

I never thought of money before the war.

I swear, I'd commit any damn crime to get hold of a decent income.

- Oh, I shouldn't... - Sssh!

I'm so sorry.

I shouldn't say that.

Most people are so incompetent, that even a comparative imbecile like me can be a sleuth.

- You detect your friends? - I detect anybody.

So, if you're thinking of putting on a false beard and murdering a millionaire, don't do it.

That disgusting habit you have of smoking your cigarettes to the last millimetre will betray you.

I wonder anyone cares to know you.

Ah, evening, Penberthy. Will you join us?

Oh, thank you, Wimsey. Whisky, I think, please.

Whisky, please, Fred.

And...two more martinis.

I'm so sorry. Do you know George Fentiman?

- Fentiman? Any relation to... - Grandson.

- Indeed? - George was with us at Hill 60,

when young Julian Marchbanks was killed.

His father, the Colonel,

gives a dinner here every year on Armistice Night for Julian's friends.

Those of us, that is, who...

Survived, I think, is the word.

Dr Penberthy is practically the club doctor.

More than half the membership seem to be his patients.

I know your grandfather well. In fact, you could say I've been...

Keeping him alive. Yes, I know.

Since there's a small sum to inherit, don't expect me to be grateful.

(Footsteps) - Ah, here is the Colonel.

Evening, Peter, George, Penberthy. No-one else arrived yet?

Really! Your generation has no idea about punctuality.

Whisky, please, Fred.

I've just been upstairs, having a yarn with one of your patients, Penberthy - old Granger.

Seems to be in a bad sort of way.

- Oh, he'll last the winter. - Miraculous!

You're a miracle-worker, Penberthy.

Look at your grandfather, George.

Must be 90, if he's a day, and Penberthy keeps him going.

- Well, down the hatch. WIMSEY: Cheers.

We're all grateful.

Er...I think I'll go and have a word with the old boy.

Please excuse me. No hurry.

I had no idea that your grandfather, the General, was coming into the club today.

Oh, he's here every day.

The last trump will find him in that armchair.

Do you know what they used to call him? Old Mossy Face.

When he talks about "the war", he means the Crimea.

Excuse me.

I'll come with you.

I'm afraid something rather unpleasant has happened.

(Laughs maniacally) Take him away!

Take him away! He's been dead two days!

- Now, look here... - So are you!

So am I. We're all dead!

(Sobs) And none of us notice!

All right, old lad. All right, all right, all right.

I'll join you in a moment.

- Poor devil. - Yes...

Known for his imagination, is George.

Unhappy quality.

- Well, Doctor? - He's been dead some time.

Rigor mortis is well established.

It's just beginning to pass off.

I thought this might happen. His heart was very weak.

He could have died at any moment.

Does anybody remember speaking to him today?

I saw him after lunch. Usual damn place, taking up the fire.

I didn't speak. Thought he was asleep.

Well, someone had better tell his people.

Well, Captain Fentiman knows. There's the other grandson.

- Robert? - Oh, he's staying at the club.

Bound to be in later. I'll have a word with him.

After that, there's the old man's sister, Lady Dormer.

She lives round the corner, but they weren't on speaking terms.

Should be told, nevertheless. I'll see to it.

You can't use the telephone by the library. It's out of order.

I wanted to use it this morning. A great notice up.

Disgraceful! I mean, if one can't expect to use a telephone when one...

Hello? It's gone now. I suppose the phone's all right. They might let one know.

Thank you, Wetheridge.

Oh, well, if you don't need my assistance...

- Passing off? What, the rigor? - Yes.

The fire would have helped a bit.

Say, five hours for him to stiffen up and then...

He probably came in at his usual time, sat down and died straightaway.

Say, nine hours altogether.

Anyway, the time of death is unimportant.

He obviously died in his sleep.

I'd better get him moved, I imagine.

One of the upstairs bedrooms will do.

I'll arrange for somebody to lay him out as soon as the rigor's passed completely.

- Have you told Lady Dormer? - Lady Dormer's dead.

Her maid tells me she passed quietly away at half-past ten this morning.

- General Fentiman? - The Mistress's brother.

- He's dead? - This morning.

Suddenly, at his club.

They just telephoned to say.

- I'm sorry. - Well, he didn't look well. Not in himself.

- No, he didn't. - Poorly.

Distinctly poorly.

Thank you, Mason.

Very strange, miss.

Both of them passing away, so close together.

They were old. It's not strange at all.

Will you tell Mrs Mitchum I'll have my dinner up here on a tray?

Langham 0929, please.

Oh, hello. It's Ann.

Ann Dorland.

They just telephoned that the General died this morning.

Suddenly, at his club.

He's dead, Sheila.

I'm afraid I made rather a fool of myself.

- We'll get something? - Yes.

- Enough? - To pay off the debt. Not enough to count.

I meant the debt.

I know you did.

(Gasps)

(Sobs)

I don't think I like going out to work.

Sitting at that damn cash desk all day.

- Dear...dear love. George... - I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

I've been feeling... I've been feeling a bit odd all day.

I've been feeling dashed odd, Sheel.

- Have you taken one of your pills? - No.

I'll get you one.

We'll have some cocoa, and you'll take one of your pills.

Not yet, eh? Hold on a bit.

You're a better prescription for me than anything the quacks can give.

As long as you don't get tired of coping.

SHEILA: I shan't get tired.

And we will get something.

# Lively classical piece

Mr Murbles, my lord.

- Ah! - I'm not disturbing you, Lord Peter?

Good Lord, no! Delighted to see you. Bunter, a glass for Mr Murbles.

- You'll take a glass of sherry? - Well...

It's a Manzanilla from Sanl�car de Barrameda.

Always tastes much better in company. Discerning company, that is.

- I should enjoy a glass of sherry. - Splendid. Sit down.

Thank you.

You know, I once knew a johnny who requested dry Madeira before lunch.

He wasn't asked again. Eight months later, he committed suicide.

I don't say that it was on that account, but he was earmarked for a bad end - what?

Oh, thank you, Bunter. You're quite well, I trust?

- In excellent health, sir. I'm obliged to you. - Been doing any photography?

A certain amount, sir, but merely of a pictorial description, if I may venture to call it so.

Criminological material has been deficient of late.

Perhaps Mr Murbles has brought us something.

No, no, I don't think so. Sorry to disappoint, Bunter,

but nothing of an undesirable nature is involved.

The fact is, a curious question has arisen

with regard to the sad death of General Fentiman ten days ago at the Bellona Club,

to which, I understand, you were a witness.

If you understand that, you understand more than I.

- No, thank you. - I didn't witness his death.

I witnessed the discovery of his death, which is a very different thing, by a long chalk.

How long a chalk, one wonders.

Does one? Well, perhaps you'd better tell me a little more about your "curious question".

How much do you know of the late General Fentiman's family affairs?

Oh, very little. He was a widower, I understand.

His wife died in early life.

She was never strong, and rendered less so by the military regularity

with which the General required her to perform her maternal functions.

There are two surviving grandsons - Captain George Fentiman...

- George I know. - And Major Robert.

Robert I've met. Regular army. Distressingly hearty and all that.

Yes, he's of the old Fentiman stock.

Poor George inherited a weakly strain from his grandmother, I'm afraid.

- Weakly? - Nervous.

George and I were brother officers, you know, Murbles.

He was very badly gassed, shot up and hung about on the barbed wire,

watching his best friend, Julian Marchbanks, bleed to death not 15 yards away.

He was appallingly shell-shocked,

and suffered a breakdown from which he's not yet recovered.

I too, as I think you know, suffered a nervous breakdown at the end of the war.

Perhaps er...simply to continue would be best.

Let me get you some more sherry.

No, no, no. Thank you.

We were speaking of General Fentiman's family.

He had, in fact, one other surviving relative - a sister.

Yes, I know. She died too, I understand.

At half-past ten on the morning of November the 11th.

And the General - found dead in his usual armchair at the Bellona Club that evening.

But as to when he died, you see, one can't be certain.

There's a matter of a will, I take it.

Very perceptive, Lord Peter. I hope I'm not boring you, by the way.

I'm bearing up, waiting for the point where the money comes in.

There's a steely, legal glitter in your eye, which suggests that the thrill cannot be far off.

Quite. The sister, Lady Dormer,

had not for many years been on speaking terms with her family.

Not, I hasten to say, by her choice. She'd made a most unfortunate marriage.

Unfortunate?

To a man in trade. Button-maker, to be precise.

And to make matters worse, she and he were extremely happy.

Quite unforgivable.

So, the quarrel was never made up?

And her husband, who already had some money and made a great deal more,

was consequently knighted...

And so on and so on. The Fentimans, I take it, had very little money?

One or two minor bequests apart, the General has left a mere �2,000,

which will go to his younger grandson George.

- And Robert knew? - Oh, and approves.

Robert's executor and residuary legatee.

After George has been paid the �2,000, anything left will go to Robert.

- Plain sailing, ain't it? - Lady Dormer left a will.

Aha.

Everything to go to the General, if she were to die before him.

I'm ahead of you, I think.

If she did die first, George gets...

- The 2,000 he would have got, anyway. - And Robert?

The remainder. Something in excess of...half a million pounds.

(Whistles)

The situation is further complicated by the involvement of one other party.

Miss Ann Dorland. A niece.

She lived with Lady Dormer. Has a studio in the house.

She stands to inherit, as well?

In a nutshell, Lord Peter, the position is this.

If Lady Dormer died before the General,

Miss Dorland, as you suggest, does stand to inherit some �12,000.

- George gets his 2,000? - And Robert his half-million.

lf, however, the good lady died after the General,

then a secondary provision of Lady Dormer's will applies.

The bulk of the money, instead of going to Robert...

- ..will go to Miss Dorland? - Exactly.

- Interesting. - A most awkward situation.

Uncommonly awkward.

So, everything depends entirely on when the General actually died?

Precisely. I act for the Fentimans, Miss Dorland has other representations.

What do you want me to do about it?

You're a member of the Bellona Club. You know the persons and places involved.

You're exceptionally well fitted to make the necessary investigations

without...creating a scandal.

If I were you, I'd get the parties to come to an agreement.

There are certain er...obstacles.

- Someone being greedy? - Mm.

Well, well, well.

When you were a small boy, Murbles, did you ever go around poking sticks

into peaceful and mysterious-looking ponds, to see what was at the bottom?

Frequently. I was extremely fond of natural history.

I had a remarkable collection of pond fauna.

Did you ever stir up a deuce of a stink in your researches?

Well...

What are you suggesting?

Just a general warning. I'll start tomorrow.

I shall enjoy it.

(Resumes playing)

(Final flourish)

He's a rogue. They're all rogues, regular army.

You can't trust soldiers. They're paid to kill people. No wonder they lie.

I'm not going to compromise. Why should I?

The money belongs to me.

I don't see why I should give away more than �600,000, simply because...

All right.

All right, my darling. Yes.

(Crackling)

# Weeping Willow Lane

# Moonlight through the willow trees

# Love songs sighing on the breeze

# Bringing sweet memories

# While I dream of you

# Wand'ring where the weeping willows grow...

Are you quite sure this suit's all right, Bunter? You know, I hate new clothes.

I want to look approachable, but on no account loud.

- Approachable. - I can't help wondering

if the stripe of invisible green

wouldn't have looked better if it had been a remote purple.

No, my lord. Purple would not be an improvement.

Interesting, yes, but if I may so express myself, decidedly less affable.

Well, I'm sure you're right, Bunter. You always are.

Anyway, it would have been a bore to get it changed now.

Thank you. And I'll take the cane with the foot rule marked on it.

I will go on ahead, and I would like you to follow with the thingumajig in about an hour's time.

I'll have a word with the secretary. I'm perfectly sure it will be all right.

Where is my lens, Bunter?

- Here, my lord. - Oh, thank you.

And the fingerprint powder is in Your Lordship's jacket pocket.

And speaking of matters sartorial,

you know, you haven't got quite the air of devil-may-care seediness

that marks the giants of Fleet Street.

- My lord? - Stick some of your slides into one pocket,

and a few odd lenses and doodahs into the other.

To take photographs without arousing suspicion, you must be a reporter -

from one of the illustrated magazines.

- Oh, I am prepared for it, my lord. - Oh, but you're not, old lad.

Do you mind ruffling your manly locks and spilling some cigarette ash down the lapel?

- Ash? - Yes, right down the lapel.

Then egg on the waistcoat and dandruff on the collar. Use desiccated coconut.

The members of the Bellona Club are advanced in years.

They will see what they expect to see. They will expect to see dandruff.

Very good, my lord.

Boiled egg, my lord?

Fried egg, Bunter.

No, no, my dear Cully. Nor do I want to make a fuss.

Au contraire, as the man said in the Bay of Biscay, when they asked if he'd dined.

A few photographs - that's all I want.

Just to keep the lie of the land under my hawklike optic - what?

So, do you mind pretending he's from the Daily Twaddle or Picture News or something,

while he totters around?

Well, it's all fair and above board, I suppose. Nothing unpleasant?

No, no, no, of course not. Strictest confidence. Any sum up to �50,000.

Your note of hand alone, delivered in a plain van. No references needed.

- Oh, my dear Wimsey... - See, as I said,

there's been a bit of a muddle as to when old Fentiman actually died,

and I've been asked by the family to barge round and ask questions.

You're not the only one. I've had complaints about some dashed lawyer

worming his way in and questioning the members.

Have you, by Jove?

Well, I wonder who that could be.

Not my Mr Murbles, obviously.

Anyway, Bunter, what I want you to do is to just toddle around, taking whatshernames.

- Photographic studies, my lord? - Yeah, that...that's the idea. Yes.

Notably, of the smoking room, both from the entrance

and from the door of the library here, including the telephone cabinet.

Ah, yes. That's another thing.

Complaints about the telephone being out of order. Well, it hasn't been.

Who'd be a club secretary?

My dear fellow, once one starts an investigation, it's mysteries all the way.

And one of the fireplace, Bunter,

showing the old boy's usual chair, a couple of snaps of the hall,

and one of the cloakroom, with the peg he used, and anything else...

Oh...never mind.

..anything else that takes your fancy. Just...

to add artistic verisimilitude...

to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative.

- All right, old lad. Off you go. - Very good, my lord.

I'll hang on here for a while, Culyer.

I've left a message asking Dr Penberthy to drop in.

Then I'll have a word with the porter. That sort of thing. All honest work.

Oh, by the way, is George...

I beg your pardon. Is Robert Fentiman still staying in the club?

No, he has rooms in Richmond.

He's been in his grandfather's flat since all this unpleasantness.

He has to look after things, as head of the family.

But he was staying here - Robert, that is - on the night before...

Stuck in town. He stopped over. We see a fair amount of him.

Yes, and so must I. He shall be my next call.

Bunter shall do a photographic study.

- You wanted to see me? - Ah, Penberthy.

Good of you to drop in. Morning and all that. Thank you, Cully.

He's quite different when he's on the detective trail. Positively masterful.

You're after the time of death, I imagine.

- You're very quick. - No, it's clear there's a question.

I had a lawyer fellow round the other day, asking questions, acting for the niece.

- Ann Dorland? - Tried to pin me down.

- Did he succeed? - No.

He seemed to think you can say to a minute when a man died, simply by looking at his teeth.

Still, you can get a general idea.

For instance, I've seen a good few corpses in my life, and do you know what I'd have said?

- Well, I imagine you'll tell me. - (Chuckles)

Well, I would have said the old boy had been dead for at least 24 hours.

Well, you know that he couldn't have been.

But you said yourself rigor mortis was well established, and it usually lasts for 24 hours.

It can do. Sometimes it passes off quickly.

Quick come, quick go, as a rule.

Besides, there was a good fire.

Nevertheless, I agree with you that, in the absence of any other evidence,

I should have put the death... at rather earlier than ten o'clock.

Remind me about the other evidence.

You're not a very good detective, Wimsey.

Everybody knows that the General used to arrive here every morning at ten o'clock.

Yes. You knew the old boy's constitution pretty well, I take it.

Well, he was my patient.

He was very frail. The heart begins to wear out a bit when you're over 90.

He could have died at any moment, and he'd had a bit of a shock.

- Shock? - After seeing his sister the afternoon before.

They must have told you about that, since you seem to know so much about it.

No, nobody told me about that.

She was ill, dying. Asked to see him.

They hadn't spoken to each other for 50 years.

He came to Harley Street afterwards and saw me.

- Go on. - Well, he was excited.

His arteries were strained, his pulse erratic. I told him to go to bed and keep quiet.

- But he came here the next morning? - Too soon, I agree.

I suppose you're perfectly satisfied about all this?

Well, I shouldn't have given a certificate if I hadn't been satisfied. His heart gave out.

Nothing about the body struck you as being odd?

What sort of thing?

You know what I mean as well as I do.

You mean the leg?

I mean the leg.

(Pop of camera flash)

That fellow's got egg on his waistcoat!

And dandruff on his collar. He's a journalist, doing a photographic feature.

The whole country is going to the bloody bow-wows.

I wonder if anybody else noticed the leg.

I doubt it. I did...

but then, I make that sort of thing a hobby of mine.

However, not knowing what it meant, and as you didn't draw attention to it,

I didn't put myself forward.

Well, I wanted to think it over. It seemed to suggest something rather...

Unpleasant? (Chuckles)

If you knew how many times I've heard that word in the last few days!

Once rigor mortis sets in, it stays in.

Then, when it starts to pass off, it usually begins...

With the face and jaw, and not suddenly in one knee joint.

The General's face and jaw were as rigid as wood,

but his right leg swung loose from the knee.

It's extremely puzzling. I can't explain it.

If it had been loosened by somebody after rigor mortis had set in,

it would have remained loose, not stiffened up again.

- What somebody? - Ah, well, that's rather the point, isn't it?

I mean, one can't imagine a waiter finding the old boy stiff as a poker in the best armchair,

giving him a knee jerk and just leaving him there.

One can't imagine anybody, unless...

Yes?

Well, somebody who knew him,

who knew of him, perhaps...

..finding the body and then...

..attempting to make the corpse more seemly,

to help in some way.

And then when they made matters worse...

..losing their heads.

A very lucid speculation.

So, just let sleeping dogs lie, eh?

Do you know, I find that I hardly ever do that.

By the way, you said at the time that rigor mortis was just passing off when we found the body.

Was that camouflage, or does it still hold good?

The rigor was just beginning to pass off in the face and jaw, as a matter of fact.

It had passed away completely by midnight.

Oh, thank you. That's another fact.

I like facts, and there are remarkably few of them in this case.

Shall we wander?

If you would care to remain where you are, sir, without moving,

a human element in the foreground

lends interest, sir, to a photographic study.

- Bah! - Without movement of any kind, please, sir.

(Pop of camera flash) - Thank you very much, sir. That will do nicely.

- Is that the General's walking stick? - Yes, sir.

- May I see it? - Allow me.

Careful, you see, Woodward, not to touch the handle.

We criminologists have our own little ways.

Yes, I shall require a photograph of this, please, Bunter.

- Of course, my lord. - Now, which were the shoes he wore

on the day of his death?

- These, my lord. - Have they been cleaned since?

Not to say cleaned, my lord. I just wiped them over with a duster.

They weren't very dirty, and somehow I hadn't the heart.

Oh, well, that's...very fortunate.

- Fortunate, my lord? - Fortunate.

Aha! (Chuckles)

Label it, please, Bunter.

- I would like to keep this shoe, if I may. - Yes, sir.

- Better wrap it up. - Paper?

Yesterday's Morning Post. It's on the occasional table in the sitting room.

I'd like to see the clothes he was wearing on that day, if I may.

- Yes... - Just the outer garments. You know.

The hat, suit, overcoat - that sort of thing. Have they been brushed?

- No, my lord. Just shaken out. - That's very fortunate.

(Front door opens) - That'll be Major Fentiman, my lord.

Well, never mind. My man will see to him. Pray, continue with the clothes.

- Who the devil are you? - Er...just wrapping this shoe, sir.

It is yesterday's paper.

You see, we may get a clue from the dust on the clothing.

I mean, suppose we found sawdust.

Then we would know that our man had been visiting a carpenter. Dead leaf- a garden.

Whereas a cobweb might indicate a wine cellar, or even...

Hello?

You don't happen to remember noticing that small tear?

No, my lord.

He could have caught it on a nail. So, it's fresh?

One would suppose so, my lord.

One would...and one does.

- Has anything been removed from the clothes? - No, my lord.

- The pockets have been emptied? - Yes, my lord.

Nothing unusual in 'em?

- (Clears throat) - Ah, Robert Fentiman, I think.

We have met. Peter Wimsey. I'm a friend of your brother's. I won't keep you one moment.

- Unusual, Woodward? - You're a cool customer.

Nothing but what the General always took out with him, my lord.

Handkerchief, keys, money, cigar case.

- Fountain pen? - No, my lord. The General did very little writing.

His hand wasn't very steady.

I was accustomed to write any necessary letters to tradespeople, and so on.

Any other letters he'd write at his club.

Just one final question...

I'm so sorry. You're absolutely right.

Infernally cool of me, barging in here, questioning your man.

- Oh, carry on, please. - Thank you so much.

Now, I would like to know exactly when the General left here the morning he died.

It's not absolutely clear, you see, when he arrived at the club, and if...

- Yes? - That's the snag, you see. He didn't leave.

- I'm not sure I follow you. - We don't know what time he left for the club,

because he didn't spend the night at home.

The night before he died...he wasn't here at all.

- Go on, Woodward. - Well, my lord...

They telephoned that day from Lady Dormer's.

At three in the afternoon, it was.

They telephoned to say Her Ladyship was very ill,

and would General Fentiman please go at once, if he wanted to see her alive?

- Three o'clock? He'd have been at the club. - Exactly, my lord.

And I didn't like to telephone, because... the General was a little hard of hearing,

and he never responded well to machinery.

So, I went to the club myself.

I gave him the message, very careful, like,

breaking it to him gently, as you might say, to avoid excitement.

And what he said...

He gave it consideration. He said...

Very well, Woodward. I will go.

It is certainly my duty to go.

I'll get your coat, sir, and call a taxi.

Yes. You needn't come with me, Woodward.

I don't quite know how long I shall stay there.

They'll see that I get home quite safely.

WOODWARD: And that was the last time I saw him alive, my lord.

The telephone rang about nine o'clock that night.

It was a gentleman speaking. "Is that Woodward?" he said.

- He asked for you by name? - "General Fentiman wishes me to tell you

not to wait up for him, as he's staying the night with me."

So, I said, "Excuse me, sir. Who is that speaking, please?"

"Mr Oliver," he said. "I'm an old friend of the General's,

and he's staying the night with me, because we have some business to talk over."

So, I said I hoped the General was in good health...

and not...tiring himself.

- Mr Oliver laughed. - Laughed?

Oh, in a good-humoured way, sir, and he said he'd take good care of the General.

And I was just about to ask him where he lived, when he rang off.

There, now. What do you think of that?

Odd...and most unfortunate.

Next day, they telephoned from the club and said...

and told me...

Did the General often stay out at night?

Never, my lord. I can't recollect such a thing.

- And you'd never heard of Mr Oliver? - No, my lord.

- His voice wasn't familiar? - It's very difficult to say, my lord.

I thought at the time it might be one of the gentlemen from the club.

- Do you know anything about the fella? - Oh, I met him.

At least, I think so. Ran across him at some public dinner. Said he knew my grandfather.

I've seen him lunching, you know, at Gatty's.

What's he like?

Tall, thin. Grey hair.

Spectacles. You know the sort of thing. Like all those fellows.

Thank you. A most helpful description.

- Age? - 60s. Might be older.

You know, I've got an idea that he was retired. Lived in some suburb. I can't remember which.

You know, on occasions like this, I think there's a lot to be said for women.

- What? - Well, you say you've met the fella.

You've seen him around. He's a friend of your grandfather's.

And yet you don't know a thing about him!

A woman, given your opportunities, would have discovered his address, occupation;

whether he was married; how many children he had, with names and sexes;

who his favourite author was; what food he liked;

and the name of his dentist, tailor and boot-maker.

So she would. That's why I've never married.

All the same, I think I'd try and remember a little bit more about Mr Oliver, if I were you,

because it could make a difference of half a million pounds to you.

You've looked through your grandfather's address book?

- Yes. No good, though. - Then let's go through the telephone directory.

If he rang you here, we may assume that he's on the telephone himself.

Tell you what I'll do. I'll keep having lunch at Gatty's.

Well, I might see him there again. I'll ask the waiters.

Well, I'd keep off the Bardolino. It's abominable.

Now, Woodward, may we take your fingerprints?

- Fingerprints? - You're not trying to fasten anything on him?

I am not trying to fasten anything on anybody.

I want the General's fingerprints to compare with others I've got at the club.

There's a very excellent set on his walking stick. I want to make sure they're not Woodward's.

Or even yours, for that matter. So, perhaps you wouldn't mind...

What? Oh, very well.

Quite the Scotland Yard touch. How do you do it?

I don't do it. Bunter does it.

Woodward, you are certain you removed nothing from the clothes,

save what was in the pockets?

Positive, my lord.

How very odd.

I'm not sure it isn't the oddest thing about this case. Odder even than Mr Oliver.

What's odd about it?

Oh, just a little thing struck me.

I expected to find something amongst those clothes which ain't there. That's all.

(Door bell)

It's Peter Wimsey.

Well, we've nothing to offer him, and there's no whisky.

Well, I'd better let him in.

George...why has he come?

We'd better find out, hadn't we?

GEORGE: Wimsey! Well, I say, what a surprise!

Well, just popped in, you know, in passing.

Jolly good of you to penetrate to this ghastly hole.

Sheila! Look who's here.

Oh, how nice of you to come round, Lord Peter. Have you had dinner?

- Yes, I have, actually. - Well, do sit down.

Oh, thank you.

- You'd like a whisky, I expect. - No, thanks, old lad.

No, I've had a brandy already. Never mix the grape and the grain.

I...I don't think we have any brandy, have we, George?

- You know damn well we haven't. - No, really, I don't want any more.

Miserable fire - I'm sorry.

I do wish you'd tell that char of yours to fill the scuttle properly.

Well, she doesn't like being spoken to. I'm always afraid she'll give warning.

And I'm generally gone before she gets here.

You don't need to tell Wimsey you work - he knows.

Don't be so silly, George.

Why is it that men are always so cowardly about speaking to servants? Now, George...

(Sharply) It's a woman's job to speak to them.

Well, I'm really rather lucky in that respect.

I have an extraordinarily faithful and intelligent man, who looks after me like a mother.

Is that the man who takes photographs for you when you're on a crime hunt?

(Chuckles) Yes. He's retired into photographic life this evening, in fact.

I've more or less been ordered out of the flat.

Well, I'm sorry you're driven to seek asylum in our poverty-stricken hovel.

You needn't answer that.

There is no answer.

You are investigating something at the moment?

I have been asked to look into this business of your grandfather's death.

- Look into it? - That's why I'm here.

You make it sound as if...

Surely, there's no question of...foul play?

- Foul play! - Oh, don't keep getting at me, George.

- Who's getting at you? - Please...

- (Angrily) I'm not getting at you! (Clattering)

I can't be in company nowadays, without her saying I'm getting at her!

To look into the time that he died.

(Ornament shatters)

(Door slams)

Having one of his bad fits?

- Yes. - I'm sorry. Look, I...

I didn't really mean fits.

Well, they are fits.

Rages. It's a form of epilepsy, they think.

- Do they give him anything for it? - Pills, but he doesn't always take them.

The old man's death - is that bothering him?

- The money. - Ah.

Well, there's not much money, I'm afraid. Not for him.

�2,000.

I know it must seem a lot.

We've been desperate.

When the old man died, we thought we'd get something,

but they won't pay out until things are settled.

WIMSEY: Debts?

Much?

Three years ago,

it didn't look as if George would ever be able to hold down a job again.

I borrowed �350 to set up a teashop in Kensington.

How much do you owe now?

1500.

We had to pay 60 per cent interest on the money, you see,

and we got behind.

I think the shop would have failed, even without having to pay the interest.

Give me the name and address of the people concerned. They won't bother you any more.

You never spoke to Lady Dormer about this?

Oh, no. George wouldn't have much to do with her.

She was so rich, you see - he didn't want her to think that he was just after her money.

And then he didn't like that niece of hers - the companion.

Ann Dorland? Why not?

She's one of those ugly, modern, Chelsea women, he says.

Hardly seems enough.

She paints things.

Green prostitutes, he says, with no clothes on.

I'm not allowed to know her.

George says a man can't get a decent job these days,

with all these hard-faced, cigarette-smoking females all over the place,

pretending to be businesswomen.

George is rather old-fashioned, in some ways.

George is a fool.

But a sick fool.

Don't worry too much.

- Goodbye. - Thank you, Lord Peter.

As I said before, I strongly advise your client to settle.

But she won't settle. The Dorland woman won't settle.

- Well, perhaps she knows something. - What can she know that we don't?

After all, Lord Peter, there are only 37 minutes in question. His sister died at 10:37.

And whatever one thinks about the rigor mortis passing off so quickly,

we know that General Fentiman didn't arrive in the club until 10am. We know that.

- But do we? - What?

We know he usually arrived at 10am,

but on the morning of November the 11th, nobody actually saw him arrive.

There was a new hall porter on duty. He didn't know him.

- And the cloakroom attendant, Bunter? - Saw the General's hat and coat on his peg,

but didn't see the General put them there.

And most interesting of all...the missing poppy.

- Do I follow you? - No, but you shall.

I've seen the clothes that the General was wearing on that day.

I've spoken to his man, and I know what was and what was not removed from those clothes.

And on the morning of Armistice Day, when every member of the club wore a poppy,

gallant, true-blue General Fentiman did not.

Though he had walked to the club through streets filled with patriotic poppy-sellers.

Don't you find that interesting?

It seems that he spent the night before his death in the company of an old friend, a Mr Oliver.

But nobody knows, you see, Murbles, where the mysterious Mr Oliver lives,

or what he looks like.

So, I think we'd better find him. Don't you?