Original subtitles

Who's there?

It's your niece, Sir Hector.

Ha!

Mm.

When's dinner, Sterling? I'm getting peckish.

Would 15 minutes do, sir?

Well, I suppose it'll have to, won't it?

Very good, sir.

Sterling by name, sterling by nature.

His wife can't cook for toffee.

So let's have a look at you.

Uh, well.

I suppose as women go, you're not bad-looking.

Seen 'round the estate, have you?

Yes.

Oh, I will say, you don't chatter on like some.

What do you think of your ancestors?

Bloodthirsty- looking lot of ruffians.

Mad as March hares, most of them.

Some say I am.

What do you think?

Ah. Wise girl.

Who's to know who's sane?

Mind you, the family have known hard times.

Not all beer and skittles, estates and titles.

Now you see 'em, now you don't.

Take him. The first baronet's father.

Queen Elizabeth's favorite. Didn't return the compliment.

Worse, fell for one of her chambermaids.

That put paid to him.

Yes, we seem to have a habit of backing the wrong side.

Held out for Charles I.

Drawn and quartered.

Son switched to Cromwell.

Precipitated the Restoration, if you ask me.

The baronetcy wasn't restored till Blenheim.

And all the credit went to Marlborough!

Ah, but we know better.

Never mind the history books. It's all here.

Malplaquet was won by Drummond!

The nation didn't build him a palace. Typical.

Soldiers, sailors, statesmen.

Man and boy, we've served for centuries.

No money in it.

Estates steadily going to wrack and ruin.

Father, he fought a duel to save them.

Won it too.

The shock killed him.

And there's a moral in that. Look after number one.

Have you, have you ever handled one of these?

Oh, there's nothing to it. See?

Bit of an accident, Sterling.

Have you killed her?

I don't know. Looks like it.

Ah. Must have been loaded.

Still, it'll teach them to come sniffing 'round

before I'm underground.

In late Victorian times

there lived many detectives,

The Rivals of Sherlock Holmes.

The forefinger.

I should like it amputated at the second joint, please.

Amputate. Amputated?

I'm told you are a skillful surgeon.

Perhaps the best in London.

And the cost of the operation is immaterial.

What's the matter with it?

Nothing. I merely want it removed from the second joint.

Why?

Oh, that I can't tell you.

And there's no reason that I should.

You are a surgeon. I want an operation performed.

You must understand, Miss. Miss?

I could give you a name, but it wouldn't be my own.

So, what's the point?

I'm a surgeon, not a tradesman.

And the point is that surgery is a profession

for the relief of suffering, not for willful mutilation.

Aren't you being rather pompous?

If I wish to submit to, to willful mutilation,

as you put it, surely that is my affair.

There is no necessity to remove that finger.

To do so would be quite unethical, not to say criminal.

Shall we say 200 guineas?

I wouldn't do it for 500 guineas.

1,000 then.

I don't think you quite understood.

I will not perform an unnecessary operation.

Money does not come into it.

- It is necessary. - Why?

Won't you take my word for it?

No. Not without some supporting medical evidence.

Such as?

Well, if it were, if it were diseased or...

But it's not. You say so yourself.

Very well.

Suppose I were to come to you with it irreparably damaged.

You would be bound to dress the wound, then, wouldn't you?

Oh, yes, of course.

And make any necessary amputation.

That is purely academic.

You haven't answered my question.

There are people waiting who need my services.

I have neither the time

nor the inclination to discuss hypotheses.

I need to know.

I wish to have nothing further to do with the matter.

Miss Jones?

But you would dress the wound, wouldn't you?

You will excuse me.

Miss Jones, will you kindly see this lady out?

And send the next patient in, please.

- This way. - Well, we shall see.

- Good day to you. - Sir Tobias.

Thank you.

- Oh! - I showed her out.

As I closed the door,

she turned and quite deliberately put her finger-

Yes, all right. All right.

Will you help me to get her

into the consulting room, please?

Thank you.

Can you manage?

Uh, Miss Jones, would you call Professor Van Dusen?

Ask him if he'd be kind enough

to come over here as soon as he can.

Yes, sir.

Good.

Would you have operated

if she hadn't injured herself on the premises?

No.

Uh, she's, um, sane, presumably?

Well, she would appear to be so.

Mm.

What do you make of it?

- Hers? - Yes.

Did you happen to see her remove it?

Yes, I did.

Well, she was certainly determined

to have that finger off.

The question is, why?

Uh, one can only conjecture,

if it's a matter of any importance to you.

I have been trapped

into performing an unnecessary operation.

Now, ethically, that's bad enough.

But suppose her motives are criminal.

They will emerge in time.

Yes, during which time-

You will have to curb your imagination.

While you give yours rein and do precisely nothing.

You sent for me.

I'd forgotten how infuriating you can be.

You malign me.

Rather than waste my time in idle speculation,

I apply myself to the facts.

Now, firstly, the lady has recently returned from America.

- From America? - Yes.

Her gloves, hat, handbag, and boots

were all recently purchased there.

All right. All right, I'll give you that.

And what's your second fact?

It's of no consequence, uh, for the moment.

If I didn't know you-

Ah, but you do. May I use your telephone?

Please do.

You are too kind.

Be so good as to put me through

to the offices of the "Daily Recorder," would you?

Yes. Mr. Roderick Varley.

Your reporter friend.

My occasional acquaintance and longtime associate.

I have very few friends.

That I can well understand.

It's a curious irony that those who call upon my services

so frequently resent them,

hardly less than those upon whom they are exercised.

Professor Van Dusen.

If you would take people a little more

into your confidence-

I should only delay myself and not greatly enlighten them.

Ah. Varley.

Now, I'm with Sir Tobias Prescott.

Yes. The surgeon.

At his Harley Square consulting room.

Yes, now, he has a little problem.

It might be to our mutual advantage

to cooperate in solving it.

Can you come 'round?

What?

Well, yours and mine, of course.

Good.

Number 5.

Then I'll see you shortly.

And what form will this cooperation take?

Oh, the usual. His legs and my brain.

May one inquire to what end?

By all means.

But, uh, first I should like to learn

a little more about your patient.

Why don't you ask her?

What did she tell you?

- Nothing. - Precisely.

So if she refused to say anything before the operation,

she's hardly like to do so now it's done.

Upon my soul, Van Dusen,

you can be the most exasperating of men.

Now, do you want me to withdraw from the case?

No.

Then you will kindly allow me to handle it as I see fit.

Oh, very well.

All the same, I do think you might take me a little

into your confidence.

Now don't let me distract you from your duties.

- What? - Your patient.

I think she's coming 'round again.

Who's this?

Professor Van Dusen. I was about to say a friend.

An acquaintance. A sometime colleague of mine.

- Oh. - How are you feeling?

Better, thank you.

I'm sorry to have been such a nuisance,

fainting and everything.

It was the shock, I think.

Yes. What on earth possessed you?

I'm sorry?

Oh, come, come, Miss, Missus, whoever you are.

I refuse to operate.

You promptly mangle yourself

so that I have no alternative but to repair the damage,

thereby doing exactly what you wanted.

Now, the very least you owe me is an explanation.

How can you say such things?

And what is your account?

Well, I consulted you

about the numbness I had experienced in this finger.

You were kind enough to reassure me.

As I left, I was clumsy, and I shut it in your door.

The next thing I knew, I-

I do see it must be most inconvenient for you.

But to accuse me of having done it on purpose,

it's, it's too cruel.

I see. So you're calling me a liar.

One of us must be at fault

for such a horrid misunderstanding to have arisen.

That's a fact.

Why would anyone in their right mind,

least of all, a woman, deliberately

I ask you.

Forgive me. One moment.

Uh, uh.

Now, let me remind you, young lady-

No. Let me remind you.

I have common sense on my side,

and it is your word against mine.

Now, how much do I owe you?

Nothing.

As you wish.

Then perhaps you will be kind enough to call me a cab.

You are in no fit state to travel.

I'm certainly in no fit state to stay here

and be abused by you.

Oh.

Very well.

Here. Drink this.

Drink it.

I wish I knew what you were up to.

Now, stay there. I'll get you a cab.

Is that her?

Right. Off you go, Varley.

Well.

Well, a little cup of coffee wouldn't come amiss.

At first I thought she was traveling towards Bayswater.

But after a while her cab stopped

and then started off in another direction-

I think possibly because she suspected

that she might be followed.

Finally, she seemed to be making towards Chelsea.

It had grown darker and begun to rain

when we went along the King's Road,

turned off towards the river.

She obviously hadn't realized

that I had followed so closely.

And when she stopped at a block of mansion flats,

we were able to drive past and halt on the corner

without attracting any attention.

From the way in which the lady was greeted by the porter,

I thought she could only be a frequent visitor

or, more likely, a resident.

And when the porter paid off her cab

and followed her into the flats,

I thought I might investigate further.

I paid my driver, I have the amount noted down,

and approached the flats.

Fortunately, the, uh, porter was a friendly soul

and offered me the shelter of his umbrella.

We exchanged pleasantries.

I told him I was a journalist

and, uh gave him a large tip.

He was very forthcoming.

A few shrewd questions

elicited that the suspect was a Mrs. John Smith.

Ah. Now there's a rare and unusual name.

She arrived here last Tuesday, today being Friday,

with her husband.

- Her husband? - Oh, yes. She was married.

They rented a furnished apartment for three months.

- At what rent? - 100 pounds a month.

That's not cheap.

No more was the fee she was offering you.

The John Smiths are evidently playing for high stakes.

I was about to leave

when the suspect came down again in the lift.

Now, she'd changed her hat and clothing.

Extraordinary.

How long after she'd entered the block?

Uh, 15 minutes. Certainly no more.

Amazing fortitude under the circumstances.

But do go on.

She went out.

I debated whether to follow but decided against it

because I knew now where to find her if I wanted her.

I further questioned the porter

and discovered, to my surprise,

that Mr. and Mrs. Smith had arrived from America.

However, none of the steamers

that arrived from America last Tuesday

had a Mr. and Mrs. John Smith as passengers.

You amaze me.

After sundry disbursements, of which I have note-

- No doubt. - And, I might add,

a great deal of tenacity and hard work,

I managed to discover

that one of the steamers that arrived last Tuesday

had a certain Mr. and Mrs. Chevedon Morey aboard.

And Mrs. Morey bore a striking resemblance

to the lady posing as Mrs. John Smith.

Right down to the dress

she was wearing when she left here.

And where, exactly, does that get us?

To the fact that we are dealing with a woman

of extraordinary determination.

Mrs. Morey?

Oh, I think we can safely assume

that their name's not Smith.

You say she changed her dress

and came out again shortly after returning home?

Yes.

When she left here, she was so ill and weak from shock

she could hardly stand.

Quite so.

So I think we can also safely assume

that the matter is one of a certain importance to her.

In what way important?

It seems that we're likely to find out

sooner than I anticipated.

In the nature of the case,

I wouldn't have expected any particular developments,

oh, not for some months.

And the final development

should have arisen in America, not here.

Strange.

Does he always talk in riddles?

More or less.

Only to the obtuse.

Now, what is the problem from which we start?

Why was it necessary for her

to go to such lengths to lose that finger?

Good.

And if we admit her sanity, the answer cannot be far to see,

provided we use our brains.

- Well, you've lost me. - And me.

Oh, well, never mind.

Was Mrs. Morey's hand bound up

in precisely the same way when you saw her come out again?

She hardly had time to change the dressing.

Ah, ah, ah, ah. Just the facts.

Yes.

No, come to think of it.

She was wearing a muff.

Oh.

I begin to think that this is a case for Scotland Yard.

Then why don't we call them?

What, and lose an exclusive story?

Now, don't let's be selfish.

Coming from you, that's a trifle excessive.

What it is to inspire affection.

Still, it might be best to learn a little more first.

Hmm. Nine o'clock.

Now, Varley, why don't you call

upon the Moreys in the morning

and see what you can find out about them?

On what pretext?

Oh, I leave it to you.

You can be quite ingenious when you set your mind to it.

Good night to you.

Thank you very much.

And good night.

Is anybody home?

Hello?

What did I tell you?

They can't keep away from the scene of the crime.

What?

You are not obliged to say anything,

but anything you do say will be taken down

and may be used in evidence.

Ah, you see-

I'd shut up if I were you and come along quietly.

Get hold of him, though, just in case.

The door was open, and I-

Now, come on. There's a sensible chap.

Now, let's go and have a nice little chat

about the willful murder of Mrs. John Smith, shall we?

Get him down to the station now.

You're making a terrible mistake, you know?

Professor Van Dusen.

- Doctor- - Mason.

Oh, Dr. Mason.

I wondered what the police were doing outside.

Uh, I was looking for my associate.

Oh, dear, that wouldn't be-

Not unless you employ a lady.

That surprises me.

So soon.

- What? - Oh, nothing. Poor woman.

And of course Varley was coming here earlier.

- Varley, sir? - Mm.

About 30. Tall, with a dark mustache.

Calls himself a journalist.

Most graphic, officer. Well done.

Oh, thank you, sir.

Uh, Sergeant Mallory picked him up

a couple of hours ago, sir.

He picked him up?

Suspicion of murder, sir.

He was found in here with the body.

Varley must have hidden depths I never suspected.

You're taking it devilishly calmly.

Oh, well, you know, I've always felt

that death was fairly final.

I mean, if I were to have hysterics,

it wouldn't help Varley, would it,

much less revive the wretched woman?

I think a certain respect

under the present circumstances would be in order.

Yes.

But, of course, you're more involved than I am, aren't you?

What would you estimate the time of death to have been?

I'm not sure I should tell you.

Oh, come, come. It can't be kept a secret forever.

Where's the harm in divulging it to a fellow professional?

Oh, very well.

I'd put the time of death

at somewhere between 6:00 and 7:00 last evening.

But before 9:00, at all events?

Without question.

And the, um, cause of death?

Well, I will, if I must, go down on bended knee.

Strangulation.

What can I do for you, sir?

Accept my deepest sympathies, sir.

What?

Only the keepers of the nation's conscience

could possibly work in such insalubrious surroundings.

Now, can you tell me

where I can find Detective Sergeant Mallory?

He's interviewing a suspect.

I asked you where he was.

I'm well aware of what he's doing. Ah.

Hey, just a minute! You can't just walk in!

Perfectly all right, Sergeant.

Good morning, Varley. How are you?

He just marched past!

Now, back to your desk. There's a good fellow.

Wait a minute.

Now, you'll be Detective Sergeant Mallory, I take it.

Never mind who I am.

Who the hell do you think you are?

Professor Van Dusen. Augustus Van Dusen.

And what the devil do you mean

by barging in here like this?

Uh, we, uh, we work together.

Oh! So you're in this together, are you?

Uh, yes and no.

Don't you fence with me.

That, my dear sergeant,

would argue a degree of expertise

not compatible with the present circumstances.

Sit down, Varley.

You don't appear to understand the gravity

of the situation.

Oh, indeed?

I repaired to certain premises

on receiving reports of foul play.

And there you found that the victim had passed on.

This is no joking matter.

Murder seldom is, Sergeant.

But your present absurd position could be.

Absurd, is it?

How did your accomplice come to be there?

The door was open.

Give him rope, Varley. Give him rope.

He's near enough to hanging himself.

And how do you account for the fact

that his fingerprints were all over the place?

Fingerprints?

I say. They do move with the times.

I found him bending over a brutally murdered woman.

Sergeant, you must indeed be hard-pressed

to grasp at straws quite so improbably thin.

I'll deal with you later.

You'll deal with me now.

What?

Unless, of course,

you want to face a charge of false arrest.

What's that?

Were you detained, Varley?

In a manner of speaking, yes.

You didn't ask to stay.

- Not exactly, no. - No.

Well, even the police haven't the right

to deprive a man of his liberty

unless they can reasonably suspect him

of having committed a crime or of being about to commit one.

I have already told you the reasons of my suspicion.

And I have just returned from the scene of the crime.

The police doctor sets the time of death

at between 6:00 and 7:00 o'clock last evening.

Well?

Mr. Varley was with me until 9:00.

Oh, you'll need to do better than that.

And, uh, a third party,

to whom even you will find difficulty

in attributing means and motive, much less opportunity.

Name?

Sir Tobias Prescott. The, um, celebrated surgeon.

Oh. Address?

His consulting rooms are at 5 Harley Square.

We'll check that.

Do it now. He's on the telephone.

Keep an eye on him, Sergeant.

Poor fellow.

We're about to witness the unedifying spectacle

of authority compelled to eat its own words.

- Well, I hope you're right. - Oh, of course I am.

Uh, take a seat, my good man.

He says his name is Van Dusen. Van Dusen.

Oh?

Oh.

Oh.

And you are quite sure that he and Mr. Varley

were with you until after nine o'clock?

Thank you very much, sir.

Yeah, all right, Sergeant. Thank you.

Well, it seems I, uh, owe you an apology, sir.

If you insist.

Aye, well, uh, if you would care

to collect your belongings, sir.

I'd be delighted.

I do have one or two little jobs

I have to be getting on with.

And now, Sergeant,

perhaps you and I could have a quiet word.

I'm not quite clear, sir, how you are concerned.

I was called in by Prescott.

Well, to cut a long story short,

a lady visited him yesterday who declined to give her name,

and she wanted him to amputate a perfectly healthy finger.

- What? - Yes.

Well, when he refused,

she trapped him into doing so by shutting it in the door,

damaging it to such an extent

that he was obliged to amputate it.

A finger off? What on earth for?

That was what Prescott wanted to know.

Now, I sent Varley here to find out who she was,

and he established that she was a Mrs. Chevedon Morey.

- Mrs. Chevedon Morey? - Yes.

I think you will know her better as Mrs. John Smith.

You mean the murdered woman?

Apparently.

My first thought was

that the amputation might be the opening shot

in a fraudulent insurance claim.

But oh, no, no, no.

They were playing for higher stakes than that.

They take an expensive flat.

Money was no object

when she was trying to persuade Prescott to mutilate her.

In fact, so much so that, frankly,

I didn't expect any developments for some time.

But the fact that she promptly got herself murdered

made nonsense of my assumptions.

You arrested the wrong man, but I, too, was at fault.

Well, that's a handsome admission, sir.

No, no, no, no.

I don't like it any better than you do, Sergeant.

But perhaps if we pool our resources,

we can salvage our reputations and solve the crime.

Right. What did you have in mind?

You know, you must have been on pretty thin ice

to haul Varley in on purely circumstantial evidence.

Well, uh, between ourselves,

there were a few, uh, loose ends.

I'm sure.

The night porter swore

that he saw them leave the block late last night.

In fact, he called a cab for them at 11:00 p.m.

After the woman was dead.

More than that, they told him

that they'd been called away on business.

The manager found the body this morning.

By which time a dead woman had returned to a locked flat.

Without anybody seeing her or her husband.

Unlikely, I think.

The porter and the manager, did you believe them?

No reason not to.

They were as shocked as you'd expect them to be

under the circumstances.

But somebody must be lying.

Either that or a number of people

have been very skillfully misled.

- I don't follow you. - No?

Well, two and two make four, Sergeant.

Not sometimes, but always.

But the facts don't tally.

Then the facts, my dear Sergeant, must be wrong.

There's, uh, there's this.

- Hmm? - Here.

Oh.

"The wedding of Mr. and Mrs. Chevedon Morey.

The bride wore." Hmm, charming.

"She was given away by her uncle, Sir Hector Drummond Bt.

Among the guests were"-

Wait a minute.

I seem to remember something about him.

Hmm?

Yes.

Let's see, now. Drummond, Drummond.

Oh, here we are.

Ah, 14th baronet.

Well, unmarried. "Clubs, The Eccentrics.

Address, Drummond Hall, near Fordingbridge, Hampshire.

No telephone."

That's right. It's all coming back to me now.

Yes, he's reckoned to be not quite all there.

He ran for Parliament on some crackpot platform, I remember.

What was it, now?

Oh, yes, Home Rule for the Men of the New Forest.

Oh, how splendid.

Uh, oh, it should be in here.

Have a look.

Ah, here it is.

That's right, yes.

He had to withdraw his candidature

for breaking up his opponents' election meeting.

Ha, he drove a pack of foxhounds

through the assembly hall at Salisbury.

Oh, yes, and that just about died down

when he had to retire from the bench

for dispensing summary justice.

Apparently he produced a shotgun in court

and peppered some wretched poacher

that had been brought before him.

A trifle eccentric.

He was a rotten shot, luckily for all concerned.

Hmm.

Well, perhaps I'd better take a change of armor.

You're not going down there. What for?

I go where the scent leads me, Varley.

Yes, but he doesn't sound the sort of chap

that would exactly welcome strangers.

Well, someone's got to tell him his niece is dead.

Yes?

My card.

I am acquainted with Sir Hector's niece.

Oh, dear.

I would be grateful

if Sir Hector could spare me a few moments of his time.

One moment, sir.

Oh, dear.

I'm sorry about this, sir.

Have you dined?

Yes, thank you.

I thought a little reading matter

might help you to while away the time, sir.

All this won't get you very far, you know?

Oh?

A gentleman of the press is aware that I called here.

When I don't return, he'll, he'll institute inquiries.

Unfortunately, the matter is out of my hands, sir.

But I'll see what I can do.

Yes. I'd be obliged.

Morning tea at eight o'clock, sir. Will that do?

Admirably.

With milk and sugar, sir?

Please.

I regret the newspapers do not appear

before midmorning, sir.

I suppose you realize that you're working for a madman?

All too well, sir. But it comes and goes.

The wife and I have been with the family for many years.

It would be a great wrench to seek a new position,

and they are hard to find.

Besides, Sir Hector can be very charming.

Yes, I'll take your word for that.

Thank you, sir.

May I bid you good night.

Ah! Listen to this, Sterling.

"And the 10th baronet replied,

'If you think I'm gaga, you should see the monarch.'"

George III, you see!

No respecter of persons.

The Drummonds never have been.

There's another gentleman to see you, sir.

Varley? Varley?

Who's he?

A gentleman of the press, sir.

Gentleman? That's no occupation for gentlemen.

Journalists. Muckrakers, the lot of them.

He's asking for Professor Van Dusen, sir.

Never heard of him. Get rid of the fellow.

Would that be wise, sir?

When snoopers come,

they come not single spies, but in battalions,

to misquote the Bard, you mean?

Oh, very well.

Stick him in the dungeon.

I hardly think we want

the Commissioners in Lunacy calling again, sir.

I should think not.

As daft a lot as ever I saw.

Perhaps we might stick them in the dungeon, too, what?

Might become a trifle overcrowded, sir.

Oh, very well.

Set a couple more places. Send him in.

And fetch that other fellow up too.

Might as well get quit of the pair of them.

- Very good, sir. - Ah.

I don't know about an Englishman's castle

Can't even read in peace without hordes of strangers

trooping in and out during mealtime.

Good morning, sir. I trust you slept well.

Tolerably.

If you would care to step this way, sir.

I'm happy to report,

Sir Hector is more his usual self this morning, sir.

I'm relieved to hear it.

He's expecting you to breakfast with him in the library.

You and your reporter friend, sir.

Sir Hector is too hospitable.

Ah. You all right?

Why shouldn't he be?

I'll have you know that a lot of care

when into building that place.

Ah. We haven't met before, have we?

No.

- Drummond. - Van Dusen.

I understand you two know each other.

Well, that's all right, then.

Will that be all, sir?

Yes, yes, yes, yes.

Now, in the first place, Sir Hector-

Breakfast? I've had mine.

Eggs underdone. Bacon overdone.

Toast burnt. Tea like nothing on earth.

Still, the woman does her best.

We shall make the most of it.

Here about my niece, aren't you?

Well, it was bound to come up, I suppose.

Well, in a nutshell, this is what happened.

She asked herself to stay.

Now, when was it? Let me see.

Must be two or three years ago now.

Didn't welcome the idea.

I couldn't very well refuse,

seeing as how she's going to inherit.

- Sir Hector- - You eat.

I'll do the talking.

Lose my train of thought.

It's apt to wander at the best of times.

Now, where was I? Ah!

Anyway, she came down here to have a look around.

Damn cheek.

She might at least have waited till I was dead

or, at any rate, dying.

Well, there you are.

Well, I showed her the family portraits.

Told her a little bit about the family history.

You know, she didn't utter.

Best thing about her, I thought.

Most women screech like peahens.

As a matter of fact, I quite warmed to her.

So I showed her some of the family weapons,

the idea being that she should learn to look after herself.

Nobody else does, do they?

I asked her if she'd ever handled

one of these, and damn-

Huh. Must have loaded the damn thing again.

Well, no harm done.

Makes a change.

Oh, last time, stupid girl got her finger in the way.

Blew the top of it clean off. Blood all over the place.

You thought I'd killed her, didn't you, Sterling?

- Yes, sir. - Not a bit of it.

Ruined the carpet, though.

And you say that this was three years ago?

Oh, thereabouts.

I persuaded the family doctor to hush the matter up, sir.

It was a nasty accident. Most distressing.

But Sir Hector's niece was not seriously harmed.

Are you sure this was three years ago?

Are you calling me a liar?

Journalist gentleman, indeed.

I at least must be sure about this.

It was three years ago, sir.

Thank you. Varley?

We will no longer trespass on your hospitality.

- Good day. - Good morning.

Extraordinary couple of fellows. What was it all about?

I really couldn't say, sir.

Oh, well, good riddance to the pair of them.

Had I better take charge of that, sir?

Hmm?

We might not be so fortunate

should you happen to forget you loaded it a third time, sir.

Just as you like.

The likeness is uncanny.

Sergeant, you not only got hold of the wrong suspect.

You also got hold of the wrong victim.

But her left forefinger's been amputated.

Yes. And by a skillful surgeon.

Well, then.

But the wound is perfectly healed.

That operation was performed some years ago.

And she's not my patient.

And she's not Mrs. Morey.

The resemblance between the murdered woman and Mrs. Morey

was sufficiently remarkable to deceive a lot of people.

- Including me. - Yes.

Which is what, of course, the Moreys counted on.

- Why? - Oh, dear.

Collaboration is uphill work.

We were discussing why a perfectly sane woman

should deliberately want to mutilate herself.

An insurance claim?

- An impersonation! - Good.

With the object of defrauding someone similarly mutilated.

You see?

Our time together has not been entirely wasted.

Now, supposing Mrs. Morey and her husband

did conspire in such a fraud.

But sacrificing a finger

to match her identity with the rightful claimant

would be a steep price to pay.

Not if the stakes were high enough.

My trouble was that I could hardly prevent a crime

which was still merely in contemplation.

Well, no, you couldn't, could you?

Or if you could have done,

I wouldn't have a case of murder on my hands.

One step at a time, Sergeant. One step at a time.

Remember, we all thought the murdered woman was Mrs. Morey.

Now, I got Varley here to investigate her background,

and it transpired that she was the niece

of Sir Hector Drummond, Baronet.

A wealthy bachelor. Old and without issue.

And mad as a hatter, moreover.

He was capable of anything.

Do you know he damn near killed us?

Yes, we won't weary you with an account of our adventures.

The fact is he once shot his niece.

Three years ago, to be exact.

He didn't kill her.

More by luck than good judgment, I imagine.

But the shot removed the lady's left forefinger.

More to the point,

the victim of this bizarre incident was not Mrs. Morey,

but the real heiress.

Another niece.

Her first cousin, in fact,

which, of course, accounts for the extraordinary resemblance

and the comings and goings that so baffled us.

This cousin, what was her name?

Miss Evelyn Rossmore,

who, I discover, has been missing from her rooms

for the last two days.

But how did she come to be murdered here?

She was invited here by the Moreys,

who made their proposition to her,

demonstrating that Mrs. Morey could be mistaken for her.

But why on earth did Miss Rossmore

come back here again?

To refuse their demands.

A refusal which precipitated their original plan.

What original plan?

The eventual murder of Miss Rossmore.

I believe they never intended the murder to take place here,

nor anything like so soon.

I still don't follow.

I'm doing my best to explain.

Mr. Morey must have thought

he was doing pretty well for himself

marrying into the Drummond family.

Agreed?

But Mrs. Morey wasn't going to get

any of the money.

Imagine what a disappointment

that must have been to him.

Especially when he found out

that his wife's cousin was going to inherit the lot.

Exactly.

Well, this is a surprise.

Yes, isn't it?

It must be, what, nearly 20 years

since we saw each other last.

- Surely not. - Perhaps not quite 20.

Not far off, then.

You had your hair in pigtails, I remember.

Yes. We were children.

And a fearful little tomboy you were too.

- Oh, never. - Yes, I was.

And yet here you are, married and everything.

And here you are.

Yes.

You know, when you opened the door just now,

I really thought I was looking at my reflection in the mirror.

I'm glad you think so.

- Glad? - Yes.

What an odd thing to say. Why glad?

It makes our task so much easier.

Well, I don't understand.

We have a proposition to put to you.

Proposition?

Uncle Hector.

That old madman?

Mad or not,

I understand he's left you all he has.

Well.

Is it fair?

That's not for me to say.

There, I'm afraid, we must disagree.

Then don't talk to me about it. Talk to Uncle Hector.

And risk getting our heads blown off?

No, thank you.

Do you mean you want to dispossess me?

Oh, if, I say "if," we wanted to do that,

believe me, there are easier ways.

- Oh? - Oh, indeed.

Just be thankful that I'm not greedy.

On my lady wife's account, that is.

- What do you want? - A fair share.

And if I refuse?

You yourself have remarked

on the extraordinary resemblance

between you and your cousin.

You would use it to contest the will?

- Yes. - Reluctantly.

Oh, you'd never succeed.

Perhaps not.

But think of the expense, the tedium, the law's delays,

and the ever-present chance that justice might not be done.

Why put it to the test?

You might lose everything.

Why risk it when you could settle out of court?

For what?

1/3 of the estate, shall we say?

Miss Rossmore refused to be intimidated.

All this is still guesswork.

But well substantiated by the facts.

Mrs. Morey, a young and beautiful woman,

had volunteered a disfiguring and acutely painful operation.

Now, was it just to convince Miss Rossmore

that they could endanger her inheritance?

Oh, no. It had to be more than that.

And they staked their all upon it.

I have only returned

to say that I have thought more about your proposition,

and I reject it utterly.

You thought we were bluffing, didn't you?

Well.

What do you say to that, then?

Say?

I'll tell you what I'll say.

I'm going straight from here to tell it to the police.

Why should you have everything,

when our mothers were sisters?

It's not as if we were asking for all that much.

There's enough for everyone.

Just give us what is rightfully ours!

I'll give you nothing, except a good, long term in jail.

You come here. You threaten me.

You, why, by the time I finish with you-

No! Let me go!

Stop it!

You fool.

Why did you do it here?

And I'll stake my reputation.

That's what happened.

Well, it seems pretty plausible.

And they panicked.

And I suppose by now they're on their way back to America.

We shall see.

And perhaps a little sooner than you think.

Ah.

What the...

You fool!

Gently, gently. You're both in this together.

There's no possible point

in trying to shift the blame on one another.

Mr. and Mrs. Chevedon Morey,

you are not obliged to say anything,

but anything you do say will be taken down

and may be used in evidence.

A daunting rigmarole.

But all the same,

I strongly advise you to cooperate with the sergeant.

After all, it might help your wife.

You see, Mr. Morey, you were not a logical man.

You panicked twice.

Once when you ran away, once when you came back again.

You knew the woman was dead.

How could she possibly send you a telegram, I ask you?

All right. Take them away.

One thing still beats me.

Only one?

What on earth possessed them to come back here?

Oh, that.

Well, as soon as I saw how the land lay,

I got Varley here to telegraph

the steamships leaving for America.

There were only two.

Signed in the name of Miss Rossmore.

You see, gentlemen, two and two can only make four.

And now I'm sure you could both do

with a little liquid refreshment.

Let us share a hansom to my club, shall we?

Splendid idea.