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What took you so long?

I had to post a letter.

Well, I'm ready when you are.

The taxi should be about five, ten minutes.

Shall we?

Ooh.

The door was open.

They've never sent anyone that quick before.

No one has sent me.

Do come in.

I'm sorry, we don't actually know each other, do we?

Not yet.

Very nice.

Off to Idlewyld House, are you?

How do you know we're going to Idlewyld House?

You two have it all planned out, don't you?

Our schedule for the day, yes.

Is there something wrong with that?

Leaves no room for the unexpected.

Look, we are in a bit of a rush here, so who are you?

Well, that's what I came here to tell you.

I'm the murderer.

- Sorry? - Sorry?

I'm the murderer.

Is this some kind of joke?

Who've you murdered?

You two ever solve a murder?

I've heard you do all sorts of jobs for all kinds of people.

You call yourselves The Generalists.

Well, that's what it says on the door.

John and George Danes.

Generalists.

I wonder how one could make a career out

of something so vague.

But I've asked around and everybody says you're very good.

Good at what, though?

Surely no one can be good at everything.

Well, we're certainly not.

We're hopeless at things other people are good at.

And you've clearly got the wrong end of the stick.

♪ You misunderstand the nature of The Generalists' remit ♪

♪ Doing everything is not the point at all ♪

♪ Our career path's nomenclature is misleading, I'll admit ♪

♪ We'd be no one in the world's first port of call ♪

♪ If your kitchen taps are leaking ♪

♪ Then a plumber's who you'll ring ♪

♪ From a public place without a fear or qualm ♪

♪ If you can't hear people speaking ♪

♪ Even when you're listening ♪

♪ Have a nurse syringe your ears works like a charm ♪

♪ For an ordinary issue you can find a specialist ♪

♪ But for problems more embarrassing or weird ♪

♪ Once you've wept through every tissue ♪

♪ You'll remember we exist ♪

♪ And be mighty glad The Generalists appeared ♪

♪ Be it summer, be it winter ♪

♪ See your doctor for a splinter ♪

♪ See your dentist for a toothache or a brace ♪

♪ See an expert dietitian ♪

♪ If nutrition is your mission ♪

♪ Or an astronaut to fly to outer space ♪

♪ Be it spring or be it autumn ♪

♪ You'll remember where you bought 'em ♪

♪ And you'll know how to return those shoes ♪

♪ You've realised you hate ♪

♪ But when you think who's this task for ♪

♪ Something you're too scared to ask for ♪

♪ When it's neither this nor that ♪

♪ And you don't want to trust to fate ♪

♪ Well at that point we can offer you ♪

♪ A most attractive rate ♪

♪ To remove the most baroque of complications ♪

♪ From your plate ♪

♪ If you're in two minds and need a third one ♪

♪ To adjudicate a case, well in that event ♪

♪ The Generalists' your mate ♪

♪ There are chaps like you quite willing ♪

♪ To do high-risk things like killing ♪

♪ But imagine if you did it nine to five for rubbish pay ♪

♪ You'd be evil, you'd be scary ♪

♪ And you'd have no chance to vary ♪

♪ Your portfolio just murder, murder every single day ♪

♪ If you'd like a new excursion ♪

♪ An adventure, a diversion ♪

♪ You should think of being a Generalist ♪

♪ A Generalist like me, and me ♪

♪ But in light of what's arisen I've a hefty hunch ♪

♪ That prison is where you'll end up ♪

♪ In due course and where you deserve to be ♪

I doubt you've ever solved a murder.

I suspect you'd like to catch me though?

Well, prepare to be disappointed.

We're going to do things differently, you and I.

I came here to catch you.

Catch us?

Well that doesn't make any sense.

We're not criminals.

Oh, there are many ways to catch a person.

In the net of an obsession or a puzzle

that's impossible to solve.

In the letter we received from Idlewyld House

it doesn't mention anything about murders.

Doesn't surprise me.

I don't know about you, George,

but I'm growing very tired of this.

Either tell us who you are, or leave.

Why don't I do both.

Thanks for the apple.

Dear John and George Danes,

please arrive at Idlewyld House

on the 1st of July at 10 o'clock.

You will be received by Peter Landrigan,

son of Harriet Landrigan, the best-selling romantic

novelist of all time.

As the guardian of Harriet's estate and legacy,

Peter Landrigan has a proposal he wishes to put to you.

This way, gentlemen.

Welcome to Idlewyld House.

I'm Andrew Anderson, director of operations.

- Mr. Anderson. - Mr. Anderson.

Everybody calls me Anders, and you must do the same.

Well, John and George Danes.

Allow me.

Oh, and sorry we're late, we got lost in these grounds.

There's another large building.

Oh yes, I could see how that could be confusing.

That's Pffisham School.

Your host, Peter Landrigan, is in that building

at this very moment.

And running a little late, I'm afraid.

That's a relief, actually.

We're usually a lot more punctual but we got help up with-

With a visitor.

Yes, a visitor.

Its prize-giving day.

Oscar, Peter's 14-year-old son won't have won a prize,

he never does, which means that Clemency,

Peter's wife, will at this moment be berating

the poor headmaster as she always does.

- Oh dear. - Oh dear.

Yes, I'm afraid until school creates a prize

for the student with the most underemployed brain cells,

Oscar won't be winning any awards.

Don't tell Clemency I said that or I'll lose my job.

Laziness, that's Oscar's problem.

Beyond the basics of eating and breathing

he's unwilling to exert himself.

I call it the Idlewyld Curse.

Until they change the name of this house,

every child born here will be either idle-

Or wild.

Exactly.

Take Peter, for example.

He was wild in his youth, as was his mother,

the late great Harriet.

Wildness can be harnessed and channelled

into a powerful creative force,

whereas the idle, like young Oscar, rarely achieve anything.

I don't think you should assume the poor boy

is doomed to failure if he's only 14.

Don't you?

You will once you've met him.

Can I ask you something, Anders?

You seem very indiscreet,

so perhaps you'll give me an honest answer.

Has there been a murder here?

Interesting question.

In the letter of invitation you received,

did it say anything about a murder?

No.

Then where did you get that idea from?

Has there been a murder here?

Officially? No.

But I've never been sure myself.

That's a strange thing to say.

Oh, you think that's strange.

Have you noticed these?

♪ Follow him ♪

♪ Follow me ♪

♪ To the books on a wall ♪

♪ Little worlds behind glass ♪

♪ That make no sense at all ♪

♪ There's a word in a line ♪

♪ There's a page in a frame ♪

♪ There's a story inside ♪

♪ Covered up by a name ♪

♪ And a man tries his best ♪

♪ To unravel it all ♪

♪ Who'll one day tell a story ♪

♪ Of books on a wall ♪

♪ There's a scene in a room ♪

♪ Where a woman will laugh ♪

♪ There's a twist hidden deep ♪

♪ In a long paragraph ♪

♪ There's a chance at the end ♪

♪ There's no hope at the start ♪

♪ Just a tear in an eye ♪

♪ And a tear in her heart ♪

♪ And a man ♪

♪ Stands and looks ♪

♪ And finds nothing at all ♪

♪ In a search for a story ♪

♪ Of books on a wall ♪

♪ Follow him ♪

♪ Follow me ♪

♪ To the books on a wall ♪

♪ Little worlds behind glass ♪

♪ That make no sense at all ♪

Buh bye, cheerio.

Oh.

I thought everybody had gone.

I trust you had an enjoyable afternoon, Mrs. Landrigan.

I have not, Mr. Friend.

Oh.

It's the awards thing again, isn't it?

Or lack of, in Oscar's case sadly.

Well maybe if he tried just a little harder

he might stand a chance.

You're going to have to expel Bethany Voss.

Expel her?

She can't keep winning all the awards like this.

I've been lenient up until now,

but there's simply no other way.

She works very hard and she's our best student.

I mean, why would I expel her?

Do not argue with me!

Having a child who does so well creates the impression

that the teachers are good, which is highly misleading.

You need to start firing people,

the French teacher especially, Mrs. Lapp.

It's okay, Mrs. Lapp,

we were just discussing Oscar's work.

Oh, how delightful, Your Honour.

How many times?

This is a school not a court of law.

Yes, Headmaster.

What about her?

She's hopeless.

All the French Oscar knows he's learned from me.

Rive Gauche, Yves Saint Laurent .

And if I didn't happen to be a perfume designer,

he wouldn't even know that much.

- Mrs. Landrigan- - Also, Oscar finds

his walk to school intolerably tiring.

Oh no, not this again.

Mrs. Landrigan, be reasonable.

We've already moved the school into your lower gardens

because you refuse to drive across town.

We can't move it again.

Yes you can and you will.

If this school is not 200 yards closer to my home

by this time next week, there will be consequences.

Do you hear me, Mr. Friend? Consee-quences!

I'll have Anders move the old stables,

the school can go there.

That will be quite close enough, I expect.

Oscar, Peter.

Ah.

Hello, there.

I'm Peter Landrigan.

Mr. Danes on both accounts, I presume.

- Uh, John. - Uh, George.

Sorry I'm late.

Award ceremonies do drag on somewhat these days.

That's okay, Anders was looking after us.

- Excellent. - Perhaps it'll be more

fitting if Peter explained.

I was showing them the books on the wall.

I take it you've heard of my mother.

Who hasn't heard of Harriet Landrigan?

Her love stories have sold in the billions.

She's only outsold by the "Bible", Agatha Christie,

and who's the other one, Anders?

William Shakespeare is the other one.

That's the chap.

That's very impressive.

Shall I go and prepare some refreshments?

That'll be lovely, Anders. Yes.

Ah, please gentlemen, let me show you some of the grounds.

This book is dedicated

to my devoted fans all over the world.

It is the last book I will publish,

though not the last book I will write.

I wish things could be different.

But they are not.

Dearest Harriet,

I have returned from New York to find a finished copy

of "The Heaviest Heart" on my desk.

It is your best novel yet, for sure,

and an object of great beauty.

But its dedication, which I must admit

I failed to notice at the copyedit stage,

incompetent publisher that I am,

its dedication, Harriet, is most alarming.

Why, on Earth, should you wish to stop publishing your work?

Unless I've misunderstood, you imply that you intend

to write more novels but not publish them.

Please assure me without delay

that this is some sort of joke.

Yours devotedly, Deevo.

Dear Deevo, it is no joke,

and now, I imagine, you will batter away at my defences

until I have no choice but to explain myself to you.

So, let me say emphatically, that I do not wish to explain.

Not to you and not to anybody else.

Yours, Harriet.

Dearest Harriet, I demand to know

the background to this sudden calamitous decision.

The world, and most of all I, cannot live without

your wonderful love stories.

Yours dejected, baffled and determined

to change your mind, Deevo.

So your mother kept writing books

but she refused to publish them.

Or to let anyone read them.

Did she say why?

No and nothing anyone said could persuade

her otherwise, not the piles of begging letters

from fans nor the offer of more money from her publisher.

She refused pointblank.

How odd.

Instead she hand-wrote each novel,

took them to a book binder who would mount and frame them.

You may hand them on the walls-

As if they were works of art, Peter.

But that is all.

They are never to leave Idlewyld House,

- never to be sold. - Never to be sold.

- And never to be read - And never to be

- read by anybody. - By anybody.

But why bother writing novels

that no one could read though?

I really have no idea.

I expect Deevo's the only one who understood,

but he's no longer with us and mother took

it to her grave when she died in an unfortunate accident.

- Sorry for your loss. - Sorry for your loss.

It was many years ago now.

Who was Deevo?

As in Devaux Russell.

Her publisher.

You've never heard of Devaux Russell?

He was the greatest publisher of the 20th century, some say.

Transformed the industry.

Founded the publishing house Russell & Russell.

I'm afraid we haven't heard of the name.

Ah, well, thanks to my mother's books

his company was immensely profitable.

As a sideline he even wrote a few thrillers of his own.

Rather violent for my taste.

Primarily, though, he was a publisher.

So when your mother stopped publishing

it must have had a huge impact.

Indeed.

The firm soon went bankrupt without my mother's annual

contribution to its profits.

Poor Deevo lost everything.

Turned to drinking, gambling, marriage broke down.

At his lowest ebb he was caught spray painting graffiti

on the walls of other publishers' office buildings.

Within five years he'd died of liver failure.

If only he could have got his hands

on the unpublished works.

It could've saved his whole business.

And more significantly, his life.

My father's workshop.

He was an engineer, could repair anything.

No one really asks about him though,

it was always Mother and her books.

I spent many happy hours in here with him

making and repairing things.

Mother was always writing, so uh,

I had plenty of time to run wild.

Ah, Dad used to take me out on this.

Mum would've killed him if she'd known.

Right.

That's the mini tour over, and I expect you could

use that tea now.

The kitchen is back up this way, do mind the steps.

Thank you.

So now that Harriet's dead, aren't you tempted

to smash the glass and see what's inside the books?

Of course I'm tempted.

You know, to find out what she was so determined

that no one should ever read.

Well he could even publish them,

assuming that the contents aren't too controversial.

That would be against my mother's

clearly stated wishes.

When did Devaux Russell die?

Before or after Harriet?

One year before, almost to the day.

My mother died on the 10th of July 2014,

and Deevo died on the 8th of July 2013.

If you don't mind us asking,

how exactly did your mother die?

You mentioned an accident?

Yes, it was indeed a tragic accident.

She fell down the stairs and broke her neck

here at Idlewyld House.

The doctors did everything they could to save her.

I subsequently donated a significant amount of money

to the hospital to show how grateful

I was for their efforts.

Sadly, those efforts were in vain.

It wasn't a tragic accident.

It was murder.

That ought to have been obvious,

but people are so unimaginative.

I'm surprised any crimes ever get solved.

DNA testing is no substitute for logic and intuition.

And don't get me started on scene

of the crime reconstructions.

♪ Most of the witnesses insist ♪

♪ The room is as it was before ♪

♪ They do their best but they persist ♪

♪ In saying only what they saw ♪

♪ And missing what they've always missed ♪

♪ They shut their eyes, they walk around ♪

♪ But nothing seems to spring to mind ♪

♪ How will they know when they have found ♪

♪ Whatever they're supposed to find ♪

♪ Is it a smell, is it a sound ♪

♪ They do not know and cannot guess ♪

♪ What might be meant by evidence ♪

♪ Since none of them would dare confess ♪

♪ Their presence here makes little sense ♪

♪ But they are happy more or less ♪

♪ With things exactly as they are ♪

♪ The first impression is the last ♪

♪ The truth it lies too far away for them to reach ♪

♪ The past is like a disappearing star ♪

♪ The past is like a disappearing star ♪

Hello, you must be the Generalists.

How lovely to meet you.

Ah, my wife, Clemency.

John and George Danes.

At your service.

Tell me, what exactly is a Generalist?

I've never heard of the profession before.

Oh, it's not a profession, it's just us.

We made the job title up.

We're the only ones.

And they come highly recommended.

How terribly exciting.

I do so love anything that's truly unique.

My son, Oscar, is unique. You must meet him.

Oscar!

Tell Clemency what it is you actually do, gents.

Well, all kinds of things.

We didn't really fit into traditional job roles,

or want to go to university or anything like that.

So we do general stuff,

whatever odds and ends people want us to do.

How marvellous, general stuff.

You don't want an apprentice, do you?

I'm sure Oscar could do general stuff,

don't you think, Anders?

I expect Oscar would be as adept at the general

as he is at the specific.

He absolutely would.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I must check the locks.

I don't think I'd like to be a generalist,

it sounds unpredictable.

Well, it is, that's why we love it.

Oh, go on then, give me an example. I'm intrigued.

Okay, well a women offered offered to pay us

to hire a car, a different car each week,

and to park it in a particular spot on her street.

Why?

To annoy a neighbour who thought it was their spot

and vandalised her car for leaving it there.

Well was it a public road?

Yes, he'd even bragged to her that he did it.

So why didn't she just go to the police?

Well she did, and then he denied it

and the police said there was nothing they could do.

Did he vandalise any of the ones you left there?

Not one, but according to our client,

he stared at them out his window for hours on end.

And on one occasion,

- he cried. - He cried.

But our client was happy and paid us

a staggering amount of money.

How fabulous. Do tell me another.

Well, next week we're on a retreat

called Heal Your Inner Child.

We'll have to hold hands with strangers and weep in public.

All because our client, the one whose inner child

needs healing, is too shy to attend himself.

He's paid for a detailed report

of everything that will take place in hopes

that one he can heal his inner child from the

- comfort of his own home. - Comfort of his own home.

That's such an inspiring story.

Gentlemen, would you mind if I created a fragrance

for men and called it "The Generalist".

I hope my husband mentioned in his letter

that I'm a perfume designer.

Uh, why did you ask how my mother died?

Well, before we set off to come here,

a man, a complete stranger, turned up at our house

saying he was the murderer, of whom he didn't say,

nor did he mention his own name.

He only left his card.

All it had on it was Mr. E.

Somehow he knew we were on our way to Idlewyld House.

- A murder? - Here?

Yes.

We thought we might've been invited here

in the hope that we could solve it.

No.

No, there's been no murder here.

It must be a practical joke.

I'd forget all about it if I were you.

Well don't be an idiot, Peter,

who would forget something like that?

It sounds rather significant to me,

definitely worth remembering.

Anyway, I must go and check on our other guests.

Your other guests?

I'm sure they'd love to meet you later.

The French meanings are missing from this list,

find them in the muddle below.

Oh,.

Well I think this is she plays the drums.

Cool, do the next one.

Everyone ok?

- Are they here? - Yes.

- Who? - The Danes brothers.

Peter's told me all about them,

I'm hoping to persuade them to, uh,

write their memoirs and allow me to publish them.

Why?

They're quite fascinating characters from what I hear,

call themselves The Generalists.

Could be a, uh, a big seller.

Max, if it's a bestseller you want,

I'm not exactly chopped liver, am I?

I've got a tale or two to tell.

Why don't you get your people to contact my people,

set up a lunch I know a lovely bistro,

run it up the drainpipe,

see if the guys on top want a taste.

Fantastic idea, Swithun, yes.

Oscar, what are you doing?

I've got Miss Coggins to do my French homework for me.

Oh, you speak French as well.

I know every language Harriet's books

are translated into.

How else would I check that the publishers

are printing it correctly?

Irene is a guest, Oscar, stop bothering her.

Go and hide your homework in your book in the library,

we'll say we never saw it and we'll pretend

that dreadful Mrs. Lapp never gave it to you.

Can't Anders hide it for me?

Oscar, what sort of attitude is that?

All right, I'll do it myself.

Isn't it rather irresponsible to encourage

your son to hide his homework?

It would be, yes, if he had a French teacher

who played fair.

Instead he has Gwen Lapp who, believe me,

deserves everything she gets.

And all the homework she doesn't get.

Come now, surely she can't be that bad.

Why not?

As an actor I know only too well how revolting

some people can be.

When I won my first one of these...

It's a replica, I find it easier to travel with.

I was filming up the Himalayas,

I was playing a mountaineer, death scene,

this horrible director, horrible weasel of a man.

The light was fading, the sherpas were pleading with us

to make the descent.

And as I got into position to do my closeup,

that's the moment he decides is perfect

to rush across the set and scream,

"Swithun, your cagoule..."-

Come off it.

You actors have it easy.

I'm constantly having to deal with tortured genius authors.

They're the worst of all.

May I remind you, Max, that you're in the home

of the late great Harriet Landrigan.

I wasn't including Harriet, of course.

Irene Coggins, our resident superfan,

knows everything there is to know about the books

and Harriet Landrigan and all the personal trivia.

And?

Let's have a little game, I think it's a starter

for 10 this time, Irene.

It's 1985, April the 10th,

what's Harriet having for breakfast?

Easy, sardines on toast.

- Easy, sardines on toast. - Oh.

Anyone else want to try and catch her out?

I don't suppose you know the answer to the big mystery,

why Harriet stopped publishing the books she wrote?

No I don't and I don't want to.

If Harriet didn't want to tell us,

and she plainly didn't, we shouldn't want to know.

It must remain a mystery in accordance with her wishes.

So what's wrong with this Lapp woman anyway?

What's wrong with her is she doesn't want

to be a French teacher and she keeps telling people.

Well what does she want to be?

An actor, like me, I expect.

Isn't that what everyone wants to be?

Nothing so straightforward, I'm afraid.

She wants to be state attorney

for Pima County, Arizona in America.

Goodness me, that's very specific.

Despite being born in Yorkshire

and having lived all her life in England,

she feels it's her God-given mission,

her calling if you will,

to be a blowhard Arizona prosecutor.

She speaks barely a word of French.

And have you spoken to the headmaster?

Mr. Friend?

Yes.

He's far too tolerant, I'm afraid.

Fond of giving second chances even to

the most delusional teachers.

♪ The Pffisham School's a noble, great ♪

♪ And worthy institution ♪

♪ The headmaster, Mr. Friend is skilled ♪

♪ At conflict resolution ♪

♪ He's devoted to his pupils ♪

♪ And he'll get them prepped for unis ♪

♪ And he'll never mention if their moms ♪

♪ Are narcissistic loonies ♪

♪ On the rare occasions when I storm in ♪

♪ Spoiling for a fight ♪

♪ He says have next term for free ♪

♪ And Mrs Landrigan, you're right ♪

♪ Still I lie awake at night and wonder ♪

♪ Should I cut my losses ♪

♪ Can my heart withstand more prize days ♪

♪ With those egomaniac Vosses ♪

♪ So I make a long long list of schools ♪

♪ Then I think of all their pointless rules ♪

♪ That the head might not let me amend ♪

♪ Then I thank my stars for Mr. Friend ♪

♪ I have to say the most unnerving problem is the teachers ♪

♪ Who I can't help thinking ought to be ♪

♪ Among a school's best features ♪

♪ If you listen, I will tell you ♪

♪ It's not only Mrs. Lapp ♪

♪ There's a brand new woodwork teacher ♪

♪ Who's a most peculiar chap ♪

♪ He can sulk for hours if he's not met ♪

♪ With rapturous applause ♪

♪ Just because his name's Jim Morrison ♪

♪ Like that bloke from The Doors ♪

♪ When the offstead flankies do their checks ♪

♪ The staff presents as sane ♪

♪ The inspectors leave and bonkersness takes over once again ♪

♪ So I make a list and I'm all like yay ♪

♪ But the schools are all so far away ♪

♪ With a five mile drive at each day's end ♪

♪ So I think I'll stick with Mr. Friend ♪

♪ 'Cause he sees my point every time I say ♪

♪ That the boy might do some work one day ♪

♪ But for now it's cool if we just pretend ♪

♪ Every school should have a Mr. Friend ♪

♪ Friend ♪

Genius authors have to be ...

I can't help feeling uneasy about

this little gathering, Anders.

All these people poking their noses

into Harriet's private business.

How many of them know about the missing letters?

Well, you do, apparently.

Max, obviously, and I expect Peter is telling

the Mr. Danes' about them at this very moment.

I hope they're never found.

Harriet's decision to stop publishing her books

is no business of anybody's.

These guests of yours clearly don't understand

anything about what sort of person she was.

And you do, I suppose.

I believe so, yes.

Yet you failed to take into account

something rather basic.

It's her last four books that Harriet didn't

want anyone to read.

- Sorry? - As far as I know,

she never once tried to stop anyone

from reading the letters that she herself

gave to the Publishers' Archive.

And the missing letters were stolen after her death,

therefore it must've been someone else

who didn't want those to come to light, not Harriet.

Oh.

Do you know what drink Harriet drank

immediately before she had the terrible accident

that ended up killing her?

No, I don't.

I do, Earl grey tea with a slice of lemon.

So now you can jolly well shut up!

So, there's your silver lining, really.

Deevo's two sons and nephew restarted the business

and now it's called Russell, Russell & Russell.

- Catchy. - Catchy.

Pompous little twits.

They still publish my mother's back catalogue

apart from the ones on the walls that no one's

allowed to read, of course.

But with Deevo's son, Max, at the helm

as managing director they once again enjoy

a thriving publishing business.

So, where do these missing letters fit in then?

Max visited the firm's archive and found

that several letters had disappeared

from Harriet and Deevo's extensive correspondence.

The ones they'd written to each other

over the course of a particular month had gone missing.

Every last one.

Hang on.

How did you know they were there in the first place?

Hm, maybe Harriet and Deevo didn't write

to each other that month.

Ah, but they did.

There was evidence of a break-in.

Max and I have spoken to the archivist,

she says the target was clearly the Harriet Landrigan

material and the thief took several letters.

Which you believe to hold vital information.

Yes, the letter that she wrote to Deevo

after the ones that were stolen leaves no room for doubt.

Now, she said that she refused

- to keep going back- - I refuse to keep

going back and forth with you.

For some weeks now I have been trying to explain

why I will never again publish another novel.

If you still don't understand, then you never will.

You will simply have to take no for an answer.

My feelings matter as much as your company's profits,

at least to me.

I have told no one my reason apart from you,

I shall leave it to you to decide whether you wish

to share it with the world.

Regards, Harriet.

So the missing letters are Harriet's explanation

of why she was so determined to keep

those last four books behind glass

so that no one could ever read them.

Exactly.

And whoever stole the letters from the archive

didn't want the truth to come to light.

Look, this is all very fascinating stuff, Peter,

but why are we actually here?

If there's been no murder then we can't solve it.

There's no it to solve.

Oh, I have given you a rather

confusing welcome, haven't I?

The reason I invited you here, quite simply gentlemen,

is to make all my houseguests disappear.

Get rid of them.

Would it have not been easier to just not invite

them in the first place?

Ah, they'd of turned up anyway.

They're obsessed with my mother.

Obsessed, I tell you.

And it drives me to despair.

But you don't need us,

you can just ask them to leave.

It's your house, where's the problem?

Don't you think I've tried that already?

They're tenacious and Clemency loves holding court.

They follow her around like ducklings.

They turn up and bang on the door

and Clemency orders Anders to let them in.

- So who are they? - Who are they?

- And what do they want? - And what do they want?

Well there's Swithun Kirk, the actor.

Not that talentless poser.

I'm afraid so.

He wants me to sell him the film rights

to Harriet's last published novel,

"The Heaviest Heart" so that he can play its romantic hero.

I've told him no till I'm blue in the face.

Her creative vision for her novels

was fully realised in her books,

she didn't want anyone messing about with them

or doing adaptations.

Then there's that blasted Irene Coggins.

A devoted fan of my mother's, always under my feet,

trying to tell me how best to protect her legacy.

As if she knows more about it than I do.

Laura Taylor, she constantly badgers me

to find the missing letters for some university project

she's engaged in.

And then there's Deevo's son, Max, the publisher.

Let me guess, he'd love for you to let him publish

the last of Harriet's books.

Liberate them from their frames, as he puts it.

Anyone else?

Ah yes, Terence Eastman, an art dealer.

He's not here today but usually he's sniffing around

trying to convince me to broker a deal,

flog the framed books to some pretentious gallery.

So you want us to try and find a way

to get rid of them for you?

I do, permanently.

You mentioned earlier that you now know a murderer,

do you think he'd be interested?

- Have them murdered? - Have them murdered?

I'm just joking.

I just want them gone from my home,

and I'm willing to pay good money to make it happen.

And then, when I'm rid of them,

I don't want to see anyone or do anything

for a jolly long while.

Especially not anything related to being

a famous writer's son.

♪ I dream that there will come a day ♪

♪ I'll open up my diary ♪

♪ And see no meeting, interview ♪

♪ Appointment ♪

♪ Or inquiry ♪

♪ No impossible decisions with 10 minutes to decide in ♪

♪ No queues of people keen to see ♪

♪ The house my mother died in ♪

♪ Just empty rooms ♪

♪ And silence ♪

♪ Peace and quiet for contemplation ♪

♪ No frantic calls ♪

♪ From a festival ♪

♪ That's planned ♪

♪ A celebration ♪

♪ Of my mother's life and work and her enduring legacy ♪

♪ When I'd rather look around flats ♪

♪ With Phil and Kirstie on TV ♪

♪ I'm behind with all my viewing ♪

♪ Like I've not seen "Breaking Bad" yet ♪

♪ Not to single soul has noticed that ♪

♪ I also ♪

♪ Had a dad yet ♪

♪ Or that I'm a separate person who no longer wants to chat ♪

♪ About anti-genre snobbery or anything like that ♪

♪ It's so tiring always smiling ♪

♪ I can feel the inner friction ♪

♪ Every time I claim to care that men ♪

♪ Don't read romantic fiction ♪

♪ Every time I'm told to pose for photos ♪

♪ By a library shelf ♪

♪ How I yearn to board a ship and sail away all by myself ♪

♪ I would rather not do anything ♪

♪ See anyone, go anywhere ♪

♪ Not on any day, even one day out of 10 ♪

♪ I would rather not see even you ♪

♪ Have a single easy thing to do ♪

♪ I would rather not do anything ♪

♪ Or see anyone again ♪

♪ I would rather all my guests would leave ♪

♪ Tell them something that they'll all believe ♪

♪ Say the house will soon run out of oxygen ♪

♪ And a tear of joy will be in my eye ♪

♪ When they pack their bags ♪

♪ And say goodbye ♪

♪ 'Cause I'd rather not do anything ♪

♪ I'd rather not see anyone again ♪

♪ You would rather not do anything ♪

♪ See anyone, go anywhere ♪

♪ Not on any day, even one day out of 10 ♪

♪ He would rather not see even you ♪

♪ Have a single easy thing to do ♪

♪ He would rather not do anything ♪

♪ Or see anyone again ♪

♪ You would rather all your guests would leave ♪

♪ Tell them something that they'll all believe ♪

♪ Say the house will soon run out of oxygen ♪

♪ And a tear of joy will be in my eye ♪

♪ When they pack their bags ♪

♪ And say goodbye ♪

♪ 'Cause I'd rather not do anything ♪

♪ I'd rather not see anyone again ♪

He's dead, Peter.

I mean, not even a tiny bit alive, quite thoroughly dead.

Who?

The actor Swithun Kirk.

He's been murdered.

Inspector Coode.

You need to come to Idlewyld House quickly.

Do you know it?

Yes, I know where it is.

There's been a murder.

Now, there are two generalists here who think

they can solve it but they might need

a bit of help from you boys in blue.

A murder you say?

Yes.

And a general what?

John and George Danes, they solve things,

you know, general stuff.

No, I don't really.

Hang on, who is this?

Clemency.

Last name?

Landrigan.

Oh for goodness sake, surely you've heard of me.

No, I'm afraid I haven't.

The perfume designer.

Well I wouldn't know anything about that.

Just hurry up and do your job, you silly man.

I beg your-

Hello?

There's been a murder at Idlewyld House.

Apparently there's two men there already

who believe they can solve the crime without our help.

Do you wanna hear the best part, Sergeant?

Go on, guv.

They are no sort of detectives, they're not even amateurs.

John and George Danes,

and they call themselves The Generalists.

From the description given to me by Clemency Landrigan,

they sound like tiresome imposters.

We'll soon put them in their place.

Clemency Landrigan the perfume designer?

You've heard of her then?

Yeah.

Well, as I was about to tell her before

she rudely hung up on me, the names of perfume designers

are of no use to me.

It's 'cause you're a bloke, guv.

I am a bloke, well observed, Sergeant.

But that's not what I meant.

I was referring to a rare condition that I suffer from,

I've had it since birth, it's called anosmia.

♪ I've been anosmic all my life ♪

♪ Young sidekick, Sergeant Wilderspin ♪

♪ No gels, no pills, no surgeon's knife ♪

♪ And no pink pepper flavoured gin ♪

♪ Can help me, it's my nose I blame ♪

♪ It's such a sad sad tale to tell ♪

♪ The food I eat all tastes the same ♪

♪ I lack a working sense of smell ♪

♪ I have no sense of smell ♪

♪ Wait, though, before you feel downcast ♪

♪ On my unfortunate behalf ♪

♪ Let me succinctly tell you why I'm often ♪

♪ More inclined to laugh ♪

♪ You've heard I trust that when one sense ♪

♪ Declines or fails, the others thrive ♪

♪ I have become, ladies and gents ♪

♪ The very finest sleuth alive ♪

♪ I'm now the greatest sleuth alive ♪

♪ I arrive at each denouement ♪

♪ And I walk into the room, Mont ♪

♪ And immediately know who, Mont ♪

♪ Is the one that did the deed ♪

♪ Well he yells to hell with you, Mont ♪

♪ I explain what's false and true, Mont ♪

♪ From my expert point of view, Mont ♪

♪ And success is guaranteed ♪

♪ Yes, success is guaranteed ♪

That's all very well, guv,

but what if the culprit's not in the room,

what if they're elsewhere?

♪ Dear oh dear, what can one do, Mont ♪

♪ With a sidekick thick and new, Mont ♪

♪ If his judgment's all askew, Mont ♪

♪ Like young Sergeant Wilderspin ♪

♪ They all know and so should you, Mont ♪

♪ If the scene is the denouement ♪

♪ In a plane, train, boat or room, Mont ♪

♪ That's the scene the culprit's in ♪

♪ It's a scene the culprit's in ♪

♪ He or she might be a rotter ♪

♪ Evil genius, murder plotter ♪

♪ Come denouement time he's gotta ♪

♪ Find himself a comfy chair ♪

♪ In the circle, his accuser ♪

♪ Then reveals why he's the loser ♪

♪ Monstrous fiend or hapless bruiser ♪

♪ He will never be elsewhere ♪

♪ He must never be elsewhere ♪

Guv, shouldn't we be on our way

before The Generalists ruin everything

with their lack of official credentials?

♪ Oh, these Danes will cry boohoo, Mont ♪

♪ We'll show them a thing or two, Mont ♪

♪ They'll be grateful they withdrew, Mont ♪

♪ Let the Generalists begin ♪

♪ To discover that in lieu, Mont ♪

♪ Of the well-trained boys in blue, Mont ♪

♪ They're as useless as a clue, Mont ♪

♪ With no puzzle to be in ♪

♪ They're on their way ♪

♪ Inspector Coode and Sergeant Wilderspin ♪

♪ One's quite naive, the other dude seems to think ♪

♪ He's starring in ♪

♪ A story that plays by the rules ♪

♪ And respects authority ♪

♪ I can't wait for these two fools to meet ♪

♪ All the Landrigans and me ♪

♪ And me ♪

♪ We policemen have one forte ♪

♪ It's to catch those who've been naughty ♪

♪ With the full force of the law te ♪

♪ We make clear it's all their fault ♪

♪ It is always all their fault ♪

♪ I've been anosmic all my life ♪

♪ Young sidekick Sergeant Wilderspin ♪

All your life, guv, you've been anosmic?

There's no need to tell me

what I've just told you, Sergeant.

Yeah, sorry, guv.

Now, when we get to Idlewyld House,

please try to be useful and don't just repeat

everything I say.

'Course, 'course, guv.

The police are on their way

and there's more bad news, I'm afraid.

It's your hat and coat, John.

They're ruined.

Swithun was wearing them when he was stabbed.

Both are covered in blood.

Why would he wear my hat and coat?

He's an actor.

Was an actor, I should say.

He loved trying on other people's clothes.

Oh yes, he was forever snatching my scarf

and draping it round his neck.

Where was he stabbed?

It looks as if he was stabbed in the back

with great force.

The knife's blade went right through his heart.

Ew.

Well, you asked.

So, the killer didn't see Kirk's face,

and he stabbed him from behind.

So it was obviously me he intended to kill.

He saw my hat and coat and assumed it was me wearing them.

How would he have known they were yours?

No one saw you wearing them apart from me.

And I definitely didn't kill anybody.

That's where you're wrong, Anders.

I didn't dislike his films that much.

No, I mean about the hat and coat.

Someone else did see me wearing them, a Mr. E.

Who?

Before we set off to come here,

a man arrived at our house saying he was Mr. E,

the murderer, without mentioning any more details.

We thought at first he was mad,

or he was talking about a murder that

he had actually committed.

But there's a third option,

what if he was talking about a murder

he intended to commit in the future.

Right.

The mystery of Mr. E.

Be quiet, Oscar, darling, you're a child.

You shouldn't be hearing conversations

about brutal murders.

Be a good boy and pretend you're not listening.

John, George and I were together

at the time that Kirk was murdered,

so we're in the clear.

Where was everybody else?

Before I heard Clemency scream, I was in the kitchen

making Oscar a sandwich.

Were you?

Yes, ham and pickle.

Oh yeah, more pickle next time.

Well all right, so we know where John, George,

Peter, Oscar and Anders were at the time

of the murder, and the rest of us,

Laura, Max and Irene were in the drawing room with me.

I was telling them about Oscar's school.

That's right, nobody left the room.

So nobody could've killed him.

You're all accounted for, apart from our Mr. E.

How would your Mr. E have got in?

All the windows and doors were closed and locked.

Are you sure?

Absolutely, I check all the locks on the hour every hour.

I insist upon it.

Unless Peter, John and George,

they could've done it together.

You've never liked him, Peter.

Or perhaps Oscar and Anders, they could have done it.

If I were to pick a partner in crime,

it wouldn't be Oscar.

Don't be ridiculous, man.

It could be you, Max.

Yeah, Max, you really didn't want to do

his memoirs, did you?

Yeah, what have you got to say

about that accusing everyone else?

Very funny, Oscar.

Well, we know that it wasn't one of our group, of course,

but then those that weren't part of our group

don't know that.

You're all discounting Mr. E. too easily.

This man came to our house and told us he was the murderer.

It won't be him then, that's too obvious.

It's not obvious at all, we have no idea who he is.

He knew about this place and our visit.

Who actually found the body?

I did.

Oh, perhaps it was Clemency then.

She left the room, stabbed Swithun,

and then found his body.

How dare you.

No, impossible.

She walked over, checked the door to the basement,

and then immediately screamed.

We all saw her the whole time,

hurried over and saw Swithun Kirk laying lifeless

at the bottom of the stairs.

No more free perfume samples for you.

He was annoying, but no one would actually have

the motive to kill him.

And there's this book

- and I think it's- - Oscar, run along

to the library and have a go at that French homework.

I hid it in a book like you told me to.

Great, so off you trot.

But I've forgotten which book.

Oh, do other homework then.

But I want to help solve the mystery of Mr. E.

- And there's this book- - No!

Sorry, darling, but murder isn't something

an innocent young boy should be thinking about.

If you don't want to do homework,

then go and have a snappy chat with your friends

or whatever it is you call it.

Why are parents so annoying?

♪ Do they think it's realistic ♪

♪ To say do your homework, child ♪

♪ I would answer them that no one really cares ♪

♪ Chances are there's a sadistic ♪

♪ Killer here at Idlewyld ♪

♪ Dropping corpses at the bottom of our stairs ♪

♪ A significant distraction ♪

♪ From the chemical reaction ♪

♪ That occurs when hydro-what's-it-called meets lead ♪

♪ I've got Scripture prep for Monday ♪

♪ But I'll have a more well-done day ♪

♪ If I help to catch a murderer instead ♪

♪ Let the conscientious learners ♪

♪ Form strong bonds with Bunsen Burners ♪

♪ And debate Guy Fawkes and other cutlery ♪

♪ If you want to sketch a toucan ♪

♪ From some dull rainforest, you can ♪

♪ But I'd much prefer to solve a mystery ♪

♪ If I never reach Kings College ♪

♪ Where they stuff you full of knowledge ♪

♪ If I never make St John's or Trinity ♪

♪ I'll just head right back to Pffisham ♪

♪ And explain that it's John Grisham ♪

♪ Not John Dalton who I'd really like to be ♪

♪ The dead man's an Oscar-winner ♪

♪ And since Oscar is my name ♪

♪ It's quite natural that it should fall to me ♪

♪ To detect a lurking sinner ♪

♪ And apportion heaps of blame ♪

♪ To the cryptic and nefarious Mr E ♪

♪ A significant distraction ♪

♪ From the chemical reaction ♪

♪ That occurs when hydro-what's-it-called meets lead ♪

♪ I've got Scripture prep for Monday ♪

♪ But I'll have a more well-done day ♪

♪ If I help to catch a murderer instead ♪

♪ Let the conscientious learners ♪

♪ Form strong bonds with Bunsen Burners ♪

♪ And debate Guy Fawkes and other cutlery ♪

♪ If you want to sketch a toucan ♪

♪ From some dull rain-forest, you can ♪

♪ But I'd much prefer to solve a mystery ♪

What about the murder weapon?

Was it there at the scene of the crime?

The basement is full of potential lethal weapons.

There was no sign of a knife

or anything sharp near the body.

Tell me, what made you go and open the door,

and why wasn't Swithun with the rest of you?

What made him leave the room?

He'd gone in search of booze, as usual,

but he'd closed the drawing room door to the hall behind him.

I opened it because, well I didn't think of it till now,

but I heard the front door lock or unlock,

definitely the front door though,

and we weren't expecting anyone else

so I wondered who it was.

That's when I noticed the basement door was adjar.

Well, there he was all crumpled up like a sack of spuds.

You might have heard the murderer leaving.

Goodness me, that's significant, isn't it?

Let's say he took the weapon with him,

closed and locked the doors to make himself scarce.

However, he'd of needed a key.

What?

Come on, George.

Where are you going?

For a walk.

It helps us think.

What about us?

The rest of you stay here together,

see if you can come up with anything useful.

Present a puzzle that's impossible to solve,

therefore we'd become obsessed.

But if he kills one of us on the same day,

there's no time for that.

It doesn't make sense,

why would he want to kill us though?

What's his motive?

Or whose murderer was he trying to imply that he was?

Until Swithun Kirk there was no victim.

Excuse me, Mr. Danes?

Which one?

Either, or both.

And you are?

Laura Taylor, you can call me Prof if you like.

You're a bit young for a professor.

Well, it's a nickname, I'm an undergraduate.

How can we help you?

I don't think Harriet Landrigan fell down

the stairs by accident, I think she was murdered.

What makes you think that?

Well, she obviously had a secret,

one that she wrote about to her publishers

in the letters that were stolen from the archive.

And?

Well, that's it.

I mean, people who have secrets

often get murdered, don't they?

It's hardly proof.

And then there's your Mr. E claiming to be the murderer,

I think it's Harriet's murder he's talking about

and now he's killed Swithun Kirk.

So, Mr. E is a double murderer then.

Maybe.

Again, where's the proof?

You need to find the proof.

Okay, we're just asking.

Why do you care so much?

I need Harriet to have been murdered

or else my whole dissertation's ruined.

Sorry?

I'm arguing that crime writers are more likely

to fall in love whereas romantic novelists

are more likely to get murdered.

Aren't you approaching it the wrong way 'round?

Shouldn't you look for your data and evidence, whatever,

and then formulate a theory?

Don't be silly, you wouldn't

last five minutes in academia.

Look, why don't you wait until we find

the truth in this case and then write

a dissertation about that?

I bet you could get a brilliant book out of it.

You could interview me extensively.

And me.

And him.

Gee thanks, you're too kind.

What's up with her?

Are you okay?

Was it something we said?

No, it's just me, a professor?

I'm just fooling myself, it's never gonna happen.

Well why not?

You can achieve anything if you believe in yourself

and you work at it.

What's the point in kidding myself?

Might as well face the facts.

♪ One more false start ♪

♪ One torn up chart ♪

♪ There's no place left to go ♪

♪ One more dead end ♪

♪ I can't pretend ♪

♪ That next time I'll just know ♪

♪ How to advance, adapt my plans ♪

♪ Or how to solve it when ♪

♪ There's something wrong ♪

♪ There's something again ♪

♪ It's like a rail ♪

♪ Along I sail ♪

♪ Until I hit the wall ♪

♪ It's like a dream ♪

♪ How real they seem ♪

♪ I fly, I freeze and fall ♪

♪ Dreams don't come good, I wish they would ♪

♪ But nine times out of 10 ♪

♪ There's something wrong ♪

♪ There's something wrong again ♪

♪ I must admit your plan to quit ♪

♪ Is one that I applaud ♪

♪ Your urgent need to unsucceed ♪

♪ Is not remotely flawed ♪

♪ Your every move just goes to prove ♪

♪ You lack true acumen ♪

♪ There's something wrong ♪

♪ There's something wrong again ♪

♪ Why do I want to help her try ♪

♪ To make her start anew ♪

♪ Why do I feel as if they're real ♪

♪ The great things she could do ♪

♪ Why do I care ♪

♪ It hurts right here ♪

♪ You might need neurofen ♪

♪ There's something wrong ♪

♪ There's something wrong again ♪

♪ It's such a treat, so nice to meet ♪

♪ A man who knows it all ♪

♪ That cut above, don't fall in love ♪

♪ You've miles and miles to fall ♪

♪ My heart has missed ♪

♪ A generalist ♪

♪ Who'll tell me what to do ♪

♪ There's something wrong ♪

♪ There's something wrong with you ♪

Who, me? Or him?

Oscar.

His mum encourages him to hide his homework in the library.

Maybe I should hide my unfinished dissertation in there too.

I won't tell anyone.

I'm an adult, it's hardly the same thing.

Oh no, old people hide things in there all the time.

Old?

I was only trying to help.

Oscar, what do you mean about old people

hiding things in the library?

Well, I was trying to hide my homework in this book

and there were tonnes of letters in there.

Letters?

Yes, inside the book called "The Mystery of Mr. E",

same as your visitor, right?

Right.

I knew it!

I thought it might have a connection.

Oscar, can we see this book.

Of course.

The police will be cordoning off the area soon.

Laura, can you go back and make sure everyone

stays together for me now please?

Did I say you could call me Laura?

No, but I've managed to do it anyway.

Come on, George.

Ouch.

What do we have here?

That looks a bit, a bit nasty.

- Yeah. - What do you think?

It's a dead body, guv.

So, someone hid the letters in one of Deevo's thrillers.

Good old Deevo.

If it wasn't for him, I'd have nowhere to hide my homework.

And why is that?

He built this library for Harriet as a surprise.

That's a very big gesture.

For what reason?

To celebrate her selling her first 10 million books.

Well, that's 10 million copies,

she obviously didn't write 10 million books.

And when exactly was this?

Before I was born.

Mum and Dad went on holiday with Anders,

when they got back, the library was here full of books.

Oscar, have you read this particular book?

No, CBA.

Sorry?

Can't be arsed.

What about these letters?

No.

Let me guess, CBA.

Well I suppose it is safer that he didn't.

The secret contained in the letters

has already caused at least one murder.

Oscar, when the family and Anders were away,

was it just Deevo here left by himself?

I think so.

So he would've needed access.

Why would the most popular romantic novelist

in the world decide to never publish a book again

even though she kept writing them?

Maybe she didn't keep writing them,

what if it's just blank pages in those frames?

We need to find out.

Oscar, do you fancy turning your hand

to a spot of vandalism?

Like what?

Your grandmother's framed books, the unpublished ones,

we need you to smash the glass and get them out.

I would get grounded like forever.

Really?

I think your mum would let you get away with anything.

Mum would, but Dad wouldn't.

It could hold the key to everything.

Really?

Actually, I think I might know just the person we need.

You're The Generalists?

In general, we say that's true.

John and George Danes, nice to meet you, Officer.

Uh, Inspector Coode.

This is Sergeant Wilderspin.

John, George.

Where's Paul and Ringo?

Sorry, guv, just trying to lighten the mood.

I'm sorry, Inspector, but you've had a wasted trip.

Wasted trip?

I was told there'd been a murder.

The Generalists say we've had a wasted trip, guv.

Well there has indeed been a murder here,

but we have just solved it.

So, the murderer's been detained then?

Oh, uh, no.

Sorry, we forgot about the admin side of things,

that need to happen when the mystery's

actually been solved.

Excuse me?

We don't have the authority to arrest anyone,

we were hoping you two could deal with that part.

They want us to arrest the killer, guv.

I've never heard of a generalist solving a murder before.

Actually, we've solved two murders.

The Generalists reckon they've solved two murders, guv.

I doubt you'd ever even heard of a generalist at all,

well, until you heard about us.

No, I had not.

And I'll admit, that was a state of affairs

that I enjoyed greatly.

Two murders, you say?

So, is there another body?

There was.

Swithun Kirk, over there was not the first victim.

That was Harriet Landrigan in 2014.

We believe she did not fall down the stairs by accident,

she was pushed to her death by a determined killer.

Who!

I'll rip his heart out with my bare hands.

Come on, Irene.

Oh, shut up, Peter.

You have no idea of the agonies I suffer.

I'm a lifelong devoted fan, you're only her son.

Oh now look here!

I've had to put up with you for long enough-

Everybody just shoosh, please,

until I've been apprised of all the facts.

Tell me everything you know, Mr. Danes.

First of all, who is the murderer?

We don't know his name, but we will very soon.

But I can tell you that Harriet Landrigan

and Swithun Kirk were both killed by the same person,

a man who announced himself to us as the murderer.

And his name is?

Let's call him Mr. E, although arguably he lied

about that being his actual name.

What do you mean arguably?

Normally we'd assume someone going by Mr. E

would have E as the first letter of his last name.

Like the art dealer desperate to get his hands

on the books, Peter.

You think Terence Eastman's behind this?

No, he has nothing to do with this.

Our Mr. E's last name begins

with a different letter of the alphabet.

E is the first letter of his first name.

But surely if you know all that,

then you must know who he is.

We sort of know who the killer is, yes.

But not quite.

The Generalists sorta know who the killer is, guv,

but not quite.

I heard them, Sergeant.

As I suspected, their methods appear

to be laughably haphazard.

I didn't get where I am today by sort of knowing

who the killer is.

Do you know what we in the Major Crimes Unit

call sort-of solved crimes?

Tell him, Sergeant.

We call 'em unsolved crimes, don't we, guv?

That's correct.

We call them unsolved.

Give us a minute, Inspector, I'm getting there.

Perhaps Mr. Russell could help me out

with this next part.

Me?

Peter told me that one of the people

running your publishing firm is your cousin,

Deevo Russell's nephew.

Does his first name begin with an E?

No, his name is Frederick, Freddie we call him.

Okay, thank you, Mr. Russell.

Inspector, I can now tell you exactly who the murderer is,

although we still don't know his first name.

So, it's not Frederick Russell then.

Definitely not.

Definitely not Frederick Russell.

Generalists don't think it's Frederick Russell, guv.

I heard him, Sergeant.

I am, in fact, in the room and I have ears

just as you are, just as you do.

Tell us who the killer is then, Mr. Danes,

so that I know whom to arrest.

A man arrived at our house uninvited

saying that he was a murderer.

He then revealed to us that he knew

we were coming to Idlewyld House.

We thought that we may find a murder here

waiting for us to solve it.

When we arrived we were told that nothing

of the sort had actually occurred.

This threw us, at first, until we heard

that Harriet Landrigan had died by accident.

Naturally, we wondered if the supposedly accidental death

of Harriet Landrigan was the murder

that we were meant to solve.

We then discovered that Deevo Russell had died

one year before, almost exactly to the date.

That's what you said, isn't it, Peter?

My mother died on the 10th of July 2014,

Deevo Russell died on the 8th of July 2013.

I don't see how this is relevant.

You also told us you made a donation

to the hospital where they took your mother

because you knew the doctors did all

they could to try and save her.

Also true.

From this, ladies and gentlemen, we have deduced

that Harriet Landrigan did not die immediately

after falling down those stairs.

Well, if she did, then why would she need all those doctors?

She would've been taken to a morgue, not a hospital.

Exactly.

So if Harriet died on the 10th of July,

when did she have her so-called accident?

A few days earlier, perhaps, maybe the 8th of July, Peter.

Yes. Yes, it was.

What a coincidence.

Or let's say Mr. E perhaps violently pushed

her down the stairs on the anniversary

of Deevo Russell's death.

Who could get into the house without anyone noticing,

perhaps someone with a key.

What?

Have I missed anything important?

Where were you at the time of the murder, sir?

Me?

Oh, he's accounted for, Inspector.

I was just telling everyone how Oscar's

been helping us piece things together in this case.

Oh, he's done something useful at last.

I'll break out the special biscuits, shall I?

It seems Deevo went off the rails

after Harriet told him he couldn't publish

any more of her books, so someone close to him

might have decided to blame her

for his death and punish her.

And what better day than the first anniversary

of his passing?

Who would care so passionately about avenging

Deevo Russell's death that they may commit murder though?

His son Max, it must be him.

I've always thought there's something very funny

about Max, I'm sure I'm not the only one.

Irene, I was in the room with you

when Swithun was stabbed, remember?

- Mr. Danes- - Max is innocent.

Thank you.

I, on the other hand, do have a guilty conscience

and need to get something off my chest.

Ooh, how thrilling.

I took Harriet Landrigan's unpublished books

out the frames and had a quick skim read of them.

You did what!

This is outrageous!

We had an expert helper on the case

who has already put them back to their original condition

with museum-grade glass, no damage was done.

John, that was very naughty of you.

Harriet really didn't want anyone to read those books.

Were they terribly scandalous and offensive?

No, they're quite inoffensive

and ordinary romantic almost.

How dare you!

Nothing Harriet wrote was ordinary.

My point is there's nothing in any of the books

that offers anything secret or private.

This led us to wonder why was she so adamant

that they must never be published.

And more importantly, who suffered as a result

of her peculiar choice?

Only Deevo really.

Sure, her fans must have been disappointed,

but Deevo's the one who lost everything.

Maybe that's all Harriet wanted, for Deevo to suffer,

to make it all about him.

Correct.

It was Oscar, you see, who led us to the book

in the library called "The Mystery of Mr. E".

It's a thriller written and published by Deevo Russell.

That's important, Inspector, write that down.

Inside the book we found the missing letters

from the Russell, Russell & Russell archive.

A month's correspondence between Harriet Landrigan

and Deevo Russell.

If I may share the contents.

- "Dear Deevo, - Dear Deevo,

all right then.

If you insist on knowing why I shall never again

give you one of my books to publish, I shall tell you.

You have yourself recently written a book,

you're now a writer as well as a publisher.

No doubt in your heart of hearts

you are a writer first and foremost.

I wish you every success in your new career

churning out these who-done-it yarns

and trust you will require no further explanation.

You should be able to work out the rest for yourself.

Regards, Harriet.

Dear Harriet, apologies,

but I seem to be missing something here.

What is my writing and publishing a novel

got to do with your books?

Nothing could affect my commitment to you and your work.

Please let me assure you that I remain

as devoted to your novels and to you

as I have always been.

Dear Deevo, no devoted publisher

would compel his most valued author

to accept a fellow author,

some might even say a rival author,

as her main ally and advocate in her writing endeavours.

Any credible publisher would know that when

he utters the words 'my books' his authors expect him

to be referring to their books,

which he loves as if they were his own.

He believes in them, nurtures them,

shares them with the world.

As soon as the words 'my books' take on

a different meaning for him,

the books he has written, not the ones he publishes,

then that publisher has, I'm afraid,

lost the right to call himself devoted.

I hope this clarifies things for you.

Harriet, my dear,

what on earth are you talking about?

This is quite mad.

Please tell me you're not threatening to move

to another publisher.

Yours anxiously, Deevo.

No, you needn't worry.

There will be no need for a new publisher.

I have just finished my latest work

and no one will ever read it.

Not even you.

I shall continue to write, of course,

writing is my greatest joy,

but I shall never again publish a single word.

Regards, Harriet.

Dear Harriet,

you're making a tragedy out of something

that needn't be a problem at all!

I can't live without you or your books

and I don't believe you can live without me.

This will also affect Russell & Russell as a business

and my livelihood.

I'm begging you to change your mind.

Yours desperately, Deevo.

♪ You seem to imagine that changing my mind ♪

♪ Would leave me with nothing to miss ♪

♪ But if I stay here thinking you've robbed me blind ♪

♪ And wondering how it's come to this ♪

♪ I'll still be stuck playing ♪

♪ An unasked for part ♪

♪ And taking up too hard a space in your heart ♪

♪ And it might sound foolish ♪

♪ And it might sound strange ♪

♪ But I wanted nothing to change ♪

♪ I'll never forget when you came to my door ♪

♪ You told me that I was the dream ♪

♪ I'd not met a young talent like you before ♪

♪ We were an unbeatable team ♪

♪ Then you started playing a game of your own ♪

♪ And out of the blue came your claim to the throne ♪

♪ And it might sound foolish ♪

♪ And it might sound strange ♪

♪ But I wanted nothing to change ♪

♪ I've no happy ending to offer you now ♪

♪ Though I'll try to hope you succeed ♪

♪ In all your endeavours if you will allow ♪

♪ That from now on you'll never read ♪

♪ The stories I write that are so pure and free ♪

♪ Designed to be pleasing to no one but me ♪

♪ I'm proud to be foolish ♪

♪ And glad to be strange ♪

♪ And I now want nothing to change ♪

♪ For so many years ♪

♪ You've been my shining star ♪

♪ How could you have failed to believe ♪

♪ How can it be true ♪

♪ That you've moved up too far ♪

♪ A prize I can't hope to retrieve ♪

♪ It's you who inspired me ♪

♪ To dare to be more ♪

♪ You were the dear reader I wrote my words for ♪

♪ And it might sound foolish ♪

♪ And it might sound strange ♪

♪ But I thought that nothing would change ♪

♪ And it might sound foolish ♪

♪ And it might sound strange ♪

♪ But I wanted nothing to change ♪

So it seems Harriet couldn't forgive Deevo

for becoming a writer.

She saw it as a betrayal of her and her books.

Well I can understand that,

it's a huge conflict of interest.

He was hardly a rival author.

He was crime and she was romance.

I suppose there's only room for one person

to be number one in the overall book charts.

Yes, that's right.

So it appears Harriet showed her disproval

in the only way she could,

by putting all of her future work beyond his reach.

Why didn't she just find a new publisher?

We believe preventing him from publishing

her future books wasn't enough.

She also wanted him to never be able to read them.

And to know that by publishing and writing

his own novels he'd be deprived of all of hers.

We think she wanted him to believe

he'd done a terrible thing.

Then forgive me, Peter, but she must have been

a silly, vain and selfish woman.

Piffle!

Take that back immediately.

Come on, Irene.

It was a vindictive overreaction.

Have I missed something?

Have we been told yet who the murderer is?

No, we haven't, guv, unless I've missed something.

Oh, get on with it.

Not all of us are fascinated by literary gossip,

nor by the emotional intricacies

of the author/publisher relationship.

Well I am a little bit, guv.

Who is the murderer?

Where is the murderer?

We're getting there, Inspector.

Max, when you restarted the family firm

after your father died,

it wasn't Russell & Russell anymore, was it?

It was Russell, Russell & Russell.

That's right.

So there's you, and there's your cousin, Freddie.

Deevo's two sons and his nephew.

Tell me, what's the name of the third member

of the Russell family currently running the firm?

Your brother.

I bet you everything we own his first name

begins with an E.

What are you saying?

Who else but a close relative of Deevo Russell

would blame Harriet Landrigan for his death

and may have a first name that begins with an E?

No, not Edmund.

He wouldn't do something like that.

Edmund, so we were right.

Deevo built the library while the residents

of Idlewyld House were on holiday.

So you must have left him a key.

Is that right, Peter?

Temporarily, yes.

In fact, we had a spare made but I assumed

he'd given it to you when we returned.

Well I assumed he'd given it to you or Anders.

You know what they say about assuming things.

We thought to ourselves what if this key

was still in his possession when he died

and one of his sons may have found it?

Remember, Clemency Landrigan heard the front door

being locked when the murderer left the house

after having killed Swithun Kirk.

Realistically, how could the killer be anyone

other than the Russell brother whose first name

begins with an E?

Max, you were the only guest who knew

John and George would be here, weren't you?

Yes, yes, I was hoping to persuade you

to write your memoirs, case notes of The Generalists

or some such, a fabulous title, don't you think?

So if you were the only one that knew we were coming here

and were clearly excited about a prospective book,

you may have mentioned it to your brother

and business partner Edmund Russell?

I expect I did, yes.

So Mr. E knew we were coming here.

It has to be him.

Well done, John and George Danes.

The Generalists.

And your little band of sleuths.

Edmund, why are you here?

Sorry, Max old boy, they're quite right.

I am Edmund Russell, also known as Mr. E.

And I am indeed the murderer.

You killed my mother.

If only I had a knife I'd stab you to death!

Be my guest.

Don't!

- Drop the knife! - No, Peter!

No!

Here you go, guv.

Just as I thought, a knife.

If anyone wants to use it, feel free.

Death would probably be preferable to years in prison.

Knife.

So, we were right about your identity then.

Mr. E is Edmund Russell.

However, I really don't understand your motive.

Yes you do, Mr. Danes.

You've just explained it to them.

Strong desire to avenge the death

of tragically deceased father, et cetera.

I understand that part, but why would you introduce

yourself to us as the guilty party

and reveal that you knew we were coming here.

Obviously that would make us suspect you.

And then you killed Swithun Kirk thinking he was John

because you feared we were onto you.

But the person putting us onto you was you.

Oh dear, you really don't get it, do you?

How disappointing.

I think he wanted to get caught.

Clever boy.

I witnessed what Harriet's decision did to my father.

She knew more than anyone how to use words like weapons.

And so I watched helpless as my father fell into despair.

My mother left because of his drinking.

His business went to ruin.

Our home was repossessed.

A kind and proud man, who just wanted to be free

to express his own creativity.

He lost everything, destroyed by a cruel,

manipulative, petty minded narcissist.

Oh, how dare you.

You didn't have to kill her.

My father would still be alive today

if it wasn't for that selfish monster.

Can't you all see that?

He was my father too.

But you've always been so weak, Max.

Look at you, still fawning around the Landrigans

like a loyal puppy.

I only ever wanted to finish what our father started,

to publish Harriet Landrigan's books

and share them with the world.

Without the murder.

Maybe you shoulda talked more to your brother, sir.

Not at all.

I wanted revenge.

And I wanted to get away with killing her.

And I did.

I was pleased with myself for awhile.

I stole the most revealing letters from the company archive.

Anyone who read the poison words Harriet wrote to my father

and knew about his tragic decline would've worked out

that somebody close to him

had a powerful motive for revenge.

Or murder.

Exactly.

So, I made those words disappear to cover my tracks.

So why contrive all this now when you'd gotten away

with it all this time?

The strangest thing happened.

It started to bother me that my great achievement,

a successful murder, had gone unnoticed.

If years pass and one gets no credit

for one's ingenuity, well, it's pretty galling.

What kind of sick individual are you?

Eventually I thought to myself,

what if I were to turn it into a game?

Find a likely opponent and set them a challenge.

Tell them only that I'd murdered someone,

no more than that.

I did not kill Swithun Kirk thinking he was you, Mr. Danes,

his posture's quite different from yours.

I'd have never mixed you up.

I killed him because I knew you weren't going to catch me

unless I provided further clues.

By committing a second murder under your nose

I gave you a crucial clue;

that the killer must have a key to Idlewyld House.

You were immediately convinced that the second murder

was committed to cover up the first,

when in fact the opposite was true.

The second murder was committed because without it

you'd of believed the tragic accident line.

So Swithun Kirk dressing up in my hat and coat

was a stroke of luck for you.

Yes.

Stand by your beds, you honourable lot!

No, I'm not feeling that today, Swithun.

What can you bring me?

Ooh loose and jaunty, I like it.

A top.

Cagoule, no, I know I shouldn't.

It's tempting.

Matching blazer.

And perfect, now all we need is a walk.

I'm strolling down the boulevard in Paris, oh yes.

I'm probably at a cafe with all my chums.

I let myself into the house intending

to kill a random guest, possibly Anders,

just to make sure you were in no doubt

that there was a killer here to be caught.

Lunch I will have, I think-

Who are you?

I'm new here, sir.

Are you?

How may I assist you?

Actually, they've been hiding the booze from me,

so if you could help me locate some, that would be good.

Well, we keep our best vintage in the basement, sir.

Really?

Well let's go and have a look, shall we?

Where's the light?

When I saw Mr. Kirk dressed in your clothes,

I thought how perfect, I knew you'd assume

I was trying to kill either one of you,

and that you would thereafter be convinced

that an attempt to cover up a murder was under way.

Right, well, that's more than enough for me.

Come on, Mr. E, the murderer.

Double murderer.

Now I'm doomed to live in a confined space,

just like one of Harriet Landrigan's last four novels.

Except I haven't been framed.

I say, that was rather good, wasn't it?

And now the final award, for those of you still here,

the Outstanding Achievement Award goes to Oscar Landrigan

for services to justice.

Well done, Oscar.

Can I do my speech?

No, no, it's not the BAFTA's I'm afraid.

Off you pop, there's a good chap.

Nice one, Oscar.

Outstanding Achievement Award for services to justice.

Peter, at last.

Well done, Oscar.

Do you think the Vosses saw?

I think they left in rather a hurry.

Yes, I should think the whole town saw,

or at least heard your reaction, Mrs. Landrigan.

Everyone, you're all welcome to come

and celebrate with us back at Idlewyld House.

Anders has made sandwiches.

Salz Garcon esta impostur!

Your son, he never hands in his homework,

he doesn't deserve that award.

How dare you!

Sorry, what homework, Miss?

Please don't make a scene Gwen.

Objection, your honour.

Overruled.

Let's let the Landrigans have their moment, shall we?

Are we still on for dinner?

Depends how many of her sandwiches

you shove down your gob.

Dear John and George Danes, please accept payment

for advising Peter Landrigan on how to rid himself

of his unwanted guests.

As a result, Irene Coggins is busy translating

the recovered letters into every language,

which she will then take on tour.

Max Russell is enjoying great success

with Swithun Kirk's diaries.

"One Man & His Cagoule" is selling well

up the Himalayas apparently.

I believe John is very much in touch with Laura Taylor,

so I won't go into that.

The section of floor where Swithun met his demise

was bought by Terence Eastman,

who then sold it as Modern Art

for a figure that has enabled him to retire.

Following Oscar's assistance

with solving the mystery of Mr. E

I understand he's interested in becoming

your apprentice at some point.

Mr. Morrison, the woodwork teacher,

has offered to give him a reference.

I shall miss his presence terribly at the estate

as you can imagine.

Peter Landrigan and all of us at Idlewyld House

send our sincere thanks and best wishes to the Generalists.

♪ One day he'll arrive ♪

♪ He'll be at your door ♪

♪ And you'll ask him ♪

♪ What's his name ♪

♪ Can your heart survive ♪

♪ You'll know for sure ♪

♪ But you'll have to play his game ♪

♪ And it's a lonely place ♪

♪ Without his face ♪

♪ And it's an empty sound ♪

♪ When he's not around ♪

♪ And I'm the greatest fan ♪

♪ Of the mystery man ♪

♪ Won't you say you love me ♪

♪ Mr. E ♪

♪ Where the books are made ♪

♪ And the stories sold ♪

♪ That was where he dreamed his plan ♪

♪ If he never strayed ♪

♪ He'd grow wise and old ♪

♪ But he's not that ♪

♪ Kind of man ♪

♪ And it's a lonely place ♪

♪ Without his face ♪

♪ And it's an empty sound ♪

♪ When he's not around ♪

♪ And I'm the greatest fan ♪

♪ Of the mystery man ♪

♪ Won't you say you love me ♪

♪ Mr. E ♪

♪ Will you notice me tomorrow ♪

♪ Oh, did you notice me today ♪

♪ To win your love ♪

♪ I would beg, steal or borrow ♪

♪ No one else has ever made me feel this way ♪

♪ If I had the power ♪

♪ I would set you free ♪

♪ I don't think you'd kill again ♪

♪ Surely half an hour ♪

♪ Of true love from me ♪

♪ Would cure all murderous men ♪

♪ And it's a lonely place ♪

♪ Ooh ooh ooh ♪

♪ And it's an empty sound ♪

♪ Ooh ooh ooh ♪

♪ I am your greatest fan ♪

♪ Ooh ooh ooh ♪

♪ Won't you say you love me ♪

♪ And it's a lonely place ♪

♪ Without his face ♪

♪ And it's an empty sound ♪

♪ When he's not around ♪

♪ And I'm the greatest fan ♪

♪ Of the mystery man ♪

♪ Won't you say you love me ♪

♪ Mr. E ♪