All language subtitles for Jonathan.Creek.S02E01.576p.00.50.38

♪ GLRI ♪

Good morning, it's GLR
Breakfast on 94.9 FM...

Wha...?!

Oh, no!

Don't go back to sleep, you
lazy sowI It's 8 o'clockI

You've got three seconds
before the saucepan lidsI

Oh, yes! All right!

God Almighty!

Miss Magellan? I'm Stephen Claithorne. I
believe you're a collector of mysteries.

What? Look, I'm sorry, I've
only just this second woken up.

We'll get into a tangle if
we play questions and answers

so I'll just begin at the beginning.

If this is some tale about
a missing hymn book...

It's murder, Miss Magellan.

Cold, clinical and calculated.

And it took place last night
at my home in Oxfordshire.

The midday papers will be full of it.

What they won't explain, what no one can,
is how the killer evaporated into thin air...

.. right in front of everyone's eyes.

Some miracles you don't
want to believe in.

I'll get some coffee on.

Are you familiar with the
popular novelist Emma Lazarus,

referred to in publishing
circles as the Queen of Horror?

Did she write those pukey
stories about towns in Arizona

where everyone gets their flesh ripped off
after the Devil has sex with a lawnmower?

My mother-in-law. A lady of rather
florid style and ghoulish imagination.

Traits not shared by her daughter Lorna,
as sweet and sensitive a soul mate...

I never knew Lorna's
father. He died in his 30s.

Her mother remarried
- an American hairstylist named Tom Terici.

They moved to California. We barely
saw them from one year to the next.

Till one morning two weeks ago, we
found ourselves with three guests.

Emma, Tom and this minder
character of theirs...

.. Mr Drucker.

I won't say we got on like a house on fire.
I avoided her company, which wasn't hard.

My parish makes considerable
demands on my time.

Your god is no more a reality than the
tooth fairy we believed in as children.

Excuse me. I have some
work to catch up on.

The only gods that exist are
ourselves! We are the gods of our...

Plus my absence last night of
all nights... All Hallows Eve.

I'd been summoned to the
Bishop's for a pep talk.

Lorna, her mother and stepfather were
returning home from a costume party and dance

about ten miles down the road.

It was just gone midnight.

- How's the migraine?
- Zigging and zagging.

Like a rat's chewing on my optic nerve.

I hope your friends weren't
offended that we left early.

Four hours of dancing skeletons and
I was just about spooked out for the...

- What is it?
- He's still there!

Can you believe the staying power?

It's not enough he's on our tail back home,
he follows you halfway round the world.

That's not a fan, that's a
serious piece of brain damage.

Because he sends me love letters
that tell me I'm a goddess?

The poor wretch is harmless.
What'll he do? Serenade me to death?

Come on. You gonna do the
honours before we all turn in?

Tom... Tom, come on.

Souvenir for the album, hm?

One more for the hell of it.

- Oh!
- It's OK, I've got it.

Check every door and window.
Something's brewin' out there.

Tom?

- Jesus!
- Drop it!

Drop it!

Ahhh!

Bring the car to the door.
Leave the keys in the ignition.

Do it!

Get out and back away!

What in the name of God...?!

OK, put her down!

Put her down!

The killer was trapped.

It was assumed he'd try to buy
his freedom using Lorna as hostage,

but then, once the door had come
down, it all went strangely quiet.

I phoned. There's an armed man inside
with a woman who's unconscious. You armed?

The building was surrounded. There
was no other possible way in or out.

After 15 minutes, fearing the
worst... they re-opened the door...

.. to discover, to
everyone's utter amazement,

the skeleton had gone.

I needn't say what effect this had on
me when I got back around one o'clock.

By any definition of
hell, this had to be it.

Thank God Laura was OK.

Beyond that, the scale
of the atrocity...

Forgive me. I've come here, a perfect
stranger, to burden you with my grief.

On the face of it, the
whole thing's insoluble.

Can a body pass through a solid stone
wall or are we all losing our minds?

Do me a favour! I grew out of vanishing
skeletons before I was in long trousers.

On Hallowe'en, you'd think
they'd do something more original.

He's probably not a even real vicar.
Probably wears rubber underwearI

If he asks you to pray, don't
kneel with your eyes closed!

Right... several intriguing
features. I thought so.

On the basis of striking while the iron's
hot, it's only an hour's drive from your place.

I'm not at my place. I'm at Adam's.

I've had a very late night and I've got
a 50-minute TV special to go through.

Just tell him to bugger off and
stop sniffing the nail polish!

Right. No. That's... great,
then. I'm onto it now.

If anything breaks,
I'll give you a bell.

I use him now and again
to bounce things off.

Bit of a sad character,
actually. Ideas man to a conjuror.

OK.

While I'm in the shower,
if you fancy a nibble...

.. be my guest.

Whatever time did we
get back last night?

Last thing I remember, we were in a club
watching a girl sing selections from Verdi

while two men from the audience
removed her G-string with their teeth.

Thought you'd never shake the old slapper
off. She was all over you like a rash...

Don't judge me too harshly, Jonathan.

That was a lethal brand of tequila
they were serving last night.

HiyaI

Guess what! ATC are on 48-hour
work-to-rule. Both my flights were grounded.

It means we get our weekend
back. Are you pleased?

I'm salivating into a
bucket! Come on up, treasure.

Three hours in that sweat-box at JFK!

No, no!

Just for two seconds, Jonathan.

I...

Adam?

Where are you? Don't
I get a kiss any more?

Sweetheart, my
angel-come-to-earth!

- Who's in there?
- Oh... I'm sorry.

I don't think you've met my creative
consultant Jonathan Creek and... er... Bridget?

Who, I think you were saying,
had to be leaving very shortly.

I preferred this routine
when Marcel Marceau did it.

Who is this person?

Don't be fooled by the scatty exterior.
Her track record is formidable.

Ow!

Lucky there was no paint left in them.

So... if I could just run
back over a couple of things.

Mr Terici, after the murderer
had come in and closed the door...

About 30 seconds before anyone else
went round the back of the building?

So that, if by any trickery, he'd
managed to get out any other way...

He'd have set off sensor lights, which didn't
come on till a police officer ran in front of them.

OK.

Mrs Claithorne...

.. I know how painful this is,

but you definitely remember nothing
after you blacked out on the landing?

Nothing that happened in this
garage? No sounds or images? Smells?

All I remember... was...

Right.

But when he grabbed
you up in the bedroom,

was there anything about this
person, about his body or voice...?

He just...

That's... been very helpful.
I'm really sorry. Thanks.

This place holds too
many horrors. Come on.

I'll go and put the kettle on.

If you want to join us once you've...
completed your investigations.

Where the police dog peed on the floor.

They didn't find anything either.

Miss Magellan, right?

Hal Drucker. Security to Emma Lazarus
for 13 years. Kinda funked it last night.

- No one's to blame...
- I knew the guy was wacko.

Guy, Mr Drucker?

Started a year ago with fan
mail. Three or four a week.

Just signed himself "Your devoted disciple
always". Pretty soon it's getting unhealthy.

The guy's staking out her
home. Just watching and staring.

I try to get near him, he's gone
- like a jackrabbit. Next, he shows up here.

England. I mean, come on, this is sick!

You don't wanna know what this individual
is capable of. Last night, we found out.

Want my opinion of what
turns a man's brain like that?

If we're talking who's to blame
for the murder of Emma Lazarus.

Sick breeds sick, Miss Magellan.

The sooner we face up to that, the sooner
we can pull our society out of the sewer!

The frame's slightly
warped at the top here.

I turned away to go and get a hammer.
That's when he must've come in and...

I felt this sudden raw pain
- like he'd sliced into a nerve.

- Sounds familiar.
- Knocked me out cold.

I didn't even hear the gunshot.

There's no sign of anything in the background,
but, then... it's not always obvious.

- Is it OK if I hang on to these?
- No, it's not OK!

The last pictures of my mother alive
- they don't leave this house.

Sorry, I-I shouldn't have...

To my dying day, I'll be haunted by
a feeling of... irresponsibility...

.. as if somehow, I should have known,
I should've been there to do something.

- He's a happy bunny.
- It's Gary Lobo.

He was helping my
wife with her new book.

I... um... thought
she always wrote alone.

It wasn't a novel this time.

She was working on her autobiography
or, more accurately, autobiographies.

- Say again?
- An account of her many lives.

From high priestess of the Aztec
empire through her other existences,

as a courtesan to King
Charles I, a Russian countess,

and a Zulu at Rorke's Drift,
right up to present day.

So what are you telling me? Emma
Lazarus believed in reincarnation?

A field in which Mr Lobo claimed
to have specialist knowledge.

"Through a process of hypno-analysis,
flotation therapy and sensory deprivation,

"I will penetrate the
shell of your conscious mind

"to unlock the soul and all its
secrets that reside within. "

We all look for ways to
explain the unexplainable.

Emma's life, ideology,
hardly met with my approval,

but... wherever she is now,
let's trust she's at peace.

Definitely. Well, I think
I have... everything I need.

I'll tell you what I'm gonna do:
I'll run this past my associate

and be in touch first
thing tomorrow morning.

I'll see myself out.

He steps inside the garage,
drops her, closes the door.

They open the door.
Where the hell's he gone?

Not through nine inches of
Cotswold stone! Or a concrete floor!

Plus you've got sensor lights all the way round,
so if he had got out, he'd have triggered them...

- Let me know if I'm boring you!
- You're not boring me.

Jonathan, we're looking at a scenario for
which there is no conceivable explanation.

There's always an explanation. You've
just got to think round corners.

Don't only see what you're
meant to see. Watch this trick.

A girl selected at
random from the audience,

invited to have a go on the trampoline.

She starts bouncing up and down...

.. higher and higher.

Eventually explodes in a puff of smoke.

Where did she go?

She's not an audience
member, she's a gymnast.

- Oh, great! That's a cheat for a start!
- The whole thing's a cheat!

After she's been up and down a few
times, another tab comes in downstage.

Black velvet to match the backdrop.

Tiny smoke charge set off to mask her
as she disappears behind the drape.

She grabs hold of a bar
and hangs on, as the bar...

.. and the tab... are thrown back up.

Adam Klaus gets a standing ovation.

What's this? The cabinet where
she miraculously reappears?

No, that's my tea. Thank you.

- Tea? Who eats Weetabix for their tea?
- Very effective. You should try it.

Oh, yeah,

I'll bet you're little
Mr Regular, aren't you?

Like clockwork with you, is it?

Every morning on the dot at seven?

Between seven and seven-thirty.

I bet you do, too. Why doesn't that
surprise me for a single second?

- If you've got a problem in that department...
- Who's got a problem?!

It happens when it happens. I
don't have to set my watch by it.

You've got no worries, then.

None whatsoever.

When this photo was taken, it's definitely
her husband Terici inside the costume?

The killer got in through the French
windows. Hit him from behind to switch places.

Hmm.

And I didn't come here for a lecture
on bowel frequency, as it happens.

- But the paint tins were empty.
- What?

The paint tins you knocked off
that shelf were all virtually empty.

You'll be in the
theatre all day tomorrow

in case I want to drop by
after I've paid Mr Lobo a visit?

Right. And don't fall for
any of his phoney sales talk.

- What's that supposed to mean?
- Come on!

It's prime girlie material,
isn't it, reincarnation?

Falls into the same category of
persuasive bollocks as astrology.

He conned Emma Lazarus.
Don't let him con you.

Thanks ever so much!

Do you think I'd swallow all that garbage
about delving back into past lives?

Credit me with a bit of common sense.

As your body drifts deeper...

.. let yourself go deeper.

To the very nucleus of your being.

We're going to increase
the temperatures now.

The waters will dissolve
into a void of darkness,

as slowly you regress...

.. back to the soft, warm
moistness of the womb...

.. beyond the moment of birth.

I won't be spending time in a tank of boiling
hot ink again. I feel like a poached octopus.

I found her novels
disturbing yet compelling.

When she writes of a mutant foetus

that strangles a young girl
with its umbilical cord,

the metaphor is... er...

.. obvious.

To mine the vilest seams of obscenity to
get to the core of the human condition.

And making wads of money selling loads
of tacky books didn't really come into it?

- What the hell is this?!
- Your order, madam. Poached octopus.

Poached oct...?! Have you
gone stark, staring bonkers?!

If there's been a mistake, I'll
return it. You can place another order.

No, all right.

Go on, then. You might as well leave
it now that it's here, I suppose.

So how long had you known
Emma Lazarus? 18 months?

Popping to her place in the States.

- The last time you saw her here was when?
- Monday afternoon.

She came by to discuss the book, we
talked about life, death. Mainly death.

As she left, I said I'd
see her in a week's time.

She just turned... smiled
a rather weak smile,

but said... nothing.

You're going to think it
really odd that I say this...

- Say what?
- I got the weirdest feeling.

She didn't expect to be
alive in a week's time.

Spooky stuff.

You reckon she knew
her days were numbered?

And I reckon she knew who it was
that was planning to kill her.

The police are scouring the country for
this stalker that kept following her around,

but, I don't know, it's too
glaringly obvious for my money.

It gets us no further
with the REAL question.

How did Mr Skeleton Suit
disappear from that garage?

Oh, that's the easy bit.

Oh, give me a break.

You can't have worked that out.
You haven't even been there.

If what you told me is correct, there's
only one way it could've happened.

- The empty paint tins?
- Precisely.

- And you said something about a hacksaw.
- Right.

So?

Well... to get to the
root of this problem...

.. turn your concept of
what happened on its head.

Jonathan.

- Hi. How are you?
- Oh, hi... um...?

- Bridget.
- Bridget, that's right.

You don't remember, do you? You and
me in the bath together yesterday.

Of course. Absolutely. How
are you doing? You all right?

Is Adam in his dressing room?

Through that door.
Just follow the signs.

A story and a half there.

She's got her claws into Adam, but
he doesn't want to know because...

You want a word for it? Try extortion.
She stitched me up, Jonathan.

Give her a bed for the night out of the kindness
of your heart, next, she has you for breakfast.

When you say extortion,
she doesn't want money.

Correct, Jonathan, she does not want money.
It's far more blood-curdling than that.

She wants to sing... in MY show.

Her own spot. 15 minutes
every night. Operatic arias.

- I'm not sure I understand what you're saying.
- Understand this.

A nightclub dancer with less than zero talent
wants me to showcase her work on our tour

or she'll give the papers
details of our one-night stand.

In the absence of photographic evidence,
she's proposing to give them drawings.

You're not serious?!

She's caught a certain essence of you!

- What are you gonna do?
- Pay her off.

She'll have her price. Just
don't bid too high too soon.

Oh, I see. It's down to me
to clear up this mess, is it?

A simple dematerialisation, Jonathan.

I want her out of my life.

£5,000, Bridget.

- What, are you deaf or something?
- 6,000.

I'm not interested.

Nathan, will you leave
that and do your homework!

- He loves anything with revolving blades.
- I'm authorised to go up to £10,000.

I know Adam. If you push him
too far, he'll call your bluff.

You don't get it, do you? I
don't want money. I want a chance.

To get out of the gutter. To
perform the music that I love.

Now, where have those shoes gone?
Where have THEY disappeared to?

Shoes.

- Absolutely right. Where did they go to?
- What?

Nathan, come away from that!

Yes, I'm afraid I've rather
lost the plot on this now.

Who breaks open a coffin in the night
to remove the head of a dead body?

The service will go ahead tomorrow,
but the funeral will now have to wait.

You say we just missed your wife?

I'm afraid she goes visiting
parishioners on a Tuesday afternoon.

Hopefully get her mind off events here. I
think you'll find her at Mr Snetterton's.

- Old chap's 91 and just out of hospital.
- Snetterton?

Yes. See the bungalow
that backs onto our garden?

Mrs Claithorne, I'm sorry if it's
inconvenient to talk to you here...

No, no, do come in.

I hope we're not disturbing Mr Snetterton,
only there were a couple of points...

You won't disturb Mr
Snetterton, I'm afraid.

He passed away a few minutes ago.

Oh, dear.

He was over 90. His heart had been
gradually running out of steam.

Hadn't he just come out of hospital?

Yes. For some other minor operation.
They just kept him in overnight.

- Having a wart removed, it
says here. - I-It's just...

Before he died, there was something
he said about the other night when...

About half-past twelve, he
heard a noise outside the window.

He looked out and saw... a skeleton...

.. climbing over the back
fence into his garden.

He said it ran out onto the road
and then away down towards the river.

So I wonder whether you've actually figured
the whole thing out. While you were in the bath

Oh, no, you'd have had other
things on your mind then.

On the toilet? Seems to be
a productive place for you!

I know! You told me!

It was all Adam's mad idea. You didn't enjoy
being squashed up against her naked body!

- What man would?
- The Weetabix didn't work, then?

- I beg your pardon?
- How many days is it now? Three or four?

Pour the tea.

Anyway, look, come on. I've admitted
defeat. Let's get on with it.

- The bit you enjoy. Treating me like a moron.
- No.

The bit where YOU enjoy making me feel
like I'm treating you like a moron.

You're capable of reasoning it out for yourself
if only you'd stop taking things at face value.

What have we got?

Someone puts on a skeleton costume,
goes upstairs, shoots Emma Lazarus.

Her daughter Lorna is grabbed by
the killer and knocked unconscious.

All this is verified by
our bodyguard, Mr Drucker.

Drucker gets the car out.

He and Terici watch as the skeleton carries
Lorna into the garage and closes the door.

The police arrive and surround the
garage - a solid, stone-walled garage.

No way could anyone possibly get
out. What's our first conclusion?

That he didn't get out.

So when they opened the
garage door, the skeleton...

- Must've still been in there.
- Good.

But it wasn't in there! Where could it go in
an empty room with absolutely no hiding place?

No hiding place except...

The paint tins?

I'm sorry, what level of
surrealism are we operating on here?

This is where you and
everyone else give up.

You're sticking to what's
likely instead of what's logical.

How do you fit a body into paint tins?!
Short of chopping it into bits, it's safe...

What? What are you telling me now?

- How many people walked into that garage?
- Two.

WALKED into that garage.

One. With one over his shoulder.

And how much of the one over
his shoulder did anyone see?

A body in a long black witch's dress,

a white waste-length wig hanging
down so it covered her head.

But we KNOW it was Lorna because she was in
there when they opened... You are jesting.

She was the skeleton? And the
body was some sort of dummy?

To pull off a trick this good...

.. you'd have to go to
a helluva lot of trouble.

Lorna Claithorne and the killer
had to be in on it together.

When she made a break for it and he
knocked her out, all choreographed,

she wasn't unconscious at all.

.. leave the keys in the ignition.

When the key witness, Mr Drucker,
was ordered to go and get the car,

that's when they pulled the switch.

An electronic mouthpiece
distorts the voice.

When the skeleton appears outside
the front door, it's now Lorna inside.

What we thought was Lorna's body is a foam
- rubber shape with her dress, shoes and wig on.

Once the door's closed, the costume
comes off. She puts her own gear back on.

She's got a foam-rubber body and
a skeleton suit to dispose of.

The hacksaw's handy.
She cuts it up into bits.

Hides them all out of sight,

figuring, correctly, that people
are hardly gonna open a paint tin

to look for a murderer.

Next morning, no one's about, the
evidence is removed and disposed of,

leaving nothing behind
but a few rubber crumbs.

They were in it together? Lorna and who?

It's a silly detail, but... I dunno,
but if you actually examine it.

A person comes in from outside,
knocks out Emma Lazarus's husband.

Puts on his costume. He could have put it on
over his clothes, but what about his shoes?

The costume already
has boots built into it.

You couldn't get them on over
your shoes, so where did they go?

Still can't credit it. The way she
manufactured all those tears, all that grief.

How do people do that?
She certainly took me in.

Hmm.

Next question. How the hell do you nail
her? She's obviously a very clever cookie.

Maybe. Maybe not as clever as we think.

- Meaning what?
- That story she spun us this afternoon.

The bloke seeing the killer
run away through his garden.

Obviously complete gobshite
to keep us off the scent.

Old guy had just popped it. We've
only got her word for what he said...

- Except, of course...
- What?

I dunno, it might be worth you giving
that hospital a ring in the morning.

Talk to the doctor who removed his wart.

She sorted out MY problem. Talk about
putting Weetabix out of business.

What about the hospital? Did you get
any joy with Mr Snetterton's wart?

Great. It's just as we thought.

Now, are you sitting down?

I've taken this thing apart, tried to put
it back together and found it won't go.

And I think I've finally worked out why.

Very moving. Shame about
memorial services, I suppose.

The deceased can't be there to hear just how
much she was adored by family and friends.

You intimated you'd made some progress.

- What did you mean...
- Yes...

Can we talk somewhere else? Don't want to
turn this into a national press briefing.

If you've got anything stronger
than Communion wine in there,

have it standing by.

I'm sorry, Mrs Claithorne, we know.

We know you and the
killer planned it together.

That it was YOU in that
costume coming out of the house.

The body was a lump of foam
you cut up and hid away.

What kind of preposterous...?!

It's not easy listening,
Mr Claithorne, I know.

We do have evidence that your
wife has been lying to us.

The old gentleman you visited yesterday
- Mr Snetterton.

You said, before he died,

he talked about a figure in a skeleton
suit running away through his garden.

Are you saying I invented that?

You knew he'd been to hospital
to have a wart removed.

I wonder if you knew which part
of his anatomy that wart was on.

A glance at the letter on the
table might've given you a clue.

It was on his vocal
cords, Mrs Claithorne.

And according to the specialist
I spoke to this morning,

there's no way he
could've got his voice back

to be able to talk to you less
than 24 hours after laser treatment.

He'd... already passed away...

.. before I got there.

I suppose, when I saw you coming
up the path, I just thought...

.. maybe I could... Oh, God forgive me!

Forgive you both?

You and your step-father?

Tell me this is some
baseless fabrication.

No one came through those windows.

No one knocked you out, no
one else put on your costume.

Because it was you that went
upstairs, shot your wife,

and staged this elaborate piece
of theatre with your step-daughter.

Of course, the idea was for...
Lorna to drive away in the car

so she'd eventually be
found on her own in the back.

- When that all went wrong...
- You had to improvise.

The problem was it left us
with a impossible vanishing act,

which was never part of the plan.

In God's name, how could you
conceive anything so monstrous?!

I suspect the answer
to that is, they didn't.

A complex and grisly scenario spawned
by the demonic brains of a vicar's wife

and a part-time hairdresser?

This has more in common with
that bedtime story I was reading.

This entire nasty crime has the classic
stamp of Emma Lazarus all over it.

And, if we're right about that... there's
only one fairly dramatic interpretation

to be placed on what happened.

Which is where we get into a real ethical
nightmare, when we talk about euthanasia.

She had no fear of death, a
stepping stone to another existence.

And Gary Lobo was convinced
she'd seen it coming.

I wonder why.

No one but Lorna and I knew...

.. just how ill she was.

How many months it would be, how much longer
she could go on passing off the bad migraines.

A long, excruciating exit...

.. wasn't Emma's style.

She'd... lived her life in technicolour.

How could her death be anything less
than... gloriously... tastelessly gothic?

Of course, there were considerable
benefits to dressing it all up as a murder.

Life insurance, the advance
on her next three novels.

No, Miss Magellan,

I can't look back with
any pride on what we did.

To say that every last
detail was her invention,

that she wore down our objections with
the force of her titanic personality...

.. is no defence at all.

I simply thank God that
her suffering's over.

Well, pick the ethical
bones out of that one.

Sorry, my spiritual equanimity seems to have
deserted me for some unfathomable reason.

Oh, Stephen...

.. I don't know... Oh, help me!

May I respectfully ask a question?

To what possibly end was the atrocity of
the night before last committed? And by whom?

What do we think?

A final perverse act of "love"

by someone who couldn't bear
never to set eyes on her again?

You were the one who said it,
Mr Drucker. Sick breeds sick.

Excuse me, sir, can I just take
your luggage for take-off? Sir?

Your luggage.

Just put it in here, sir.

Thank you.

Never mind your next book,
I can smell movie rights.

If you're looking for names, I can put
you in touch with Hollywood's finest.

I've had enough of Californian
culture for a bit, thanks.

Oh, you arrogant little witch!

Not here. She can't do this to me.

- Jonathan?
- I went as high as you said, then doubled it.

She won't be bought. You're
gonna have to put her in the show.

She'll kill me. Either way, I'm dead.

One second.

What did you say?

Just that she'd been used.
That all men are bastards.

It would do her singing career no good to
be associated with such an odious slime-ball.

She'd be better screwing you for every
penny and the cheque would be in the post.

Do you know what I love about her,
Jonathan? She's such a terrific liar!