All language subtitles for Campion (1989-1990) 1 Look to the Lady 1

THEME SONG PLAYING...

Albert Campion.
Born, May the 20th, 1900.

Name, known to be a pseudonym.

Education, privileged.

Embarked on adventurous
career, 1929.

Justice neatly executed.

Nothing sordid, deserving
cases preferred. Police no object.

Business address,
17 Bottle Street, Piccadilly, London, W1.

Specialist in fairy stories.

I'll have to ask you to move on.

The Inspector's
due round any minute.

If you'll, uh, accept this, sir.

You'll have visible
means of support.

And I shan't have to take you along.

Thank you, Baker.

This really is extraordinarily
kind of you. I...

Shan't forget it.

Oh, that's all right, sir.
You once gave me £5.

On boat race night, as I recall.

Oh, really?

The Inspector.

Where the devil can I go?

Ebury Square, off Southampton Row.
He never goes there.

♪ If I had a talking picture
of you

♪ I would run it every time
I felt blue

♪ I would sit there in the gloom

♪ Of my lonely little room

♪ And applaud each time
you whispered

♪ I love you ♪

Excuse me, you
dropped something.

Everything sold
except sausage and mash.

There was a bit of stew,
but I'm having that me self.

Is this Hemp's, 32A
Wembley Road, Clerkenwell?

Might be. Who's asking?

I am. Oh, this envelope
came into my possession,

it has my name on one side
and this address on the other.

I see.

You're claiming to be

- Percival St John Wykes... Guyrth.
- Gyrth.

I'm not claiming, I am.

You take the long road.

I don't quite follow you.

- Can you prove it?
- Prove what?

Prove it's your proper handle.

Percival St John what's it?

Well, if you're prepared to
take my tailor's word for it,

my name is on the tab here.

Not much of a fit.

I've lost weight during
the last 18 months.

Pleased to meet you.
My name's Lugg.

I've got another letter for you.

Sit down.
I'll fetch you some supper.

Any use for sauce?

I say, have you heard
of a Mr Albert Campion?

He lives in
number 17 Bottle Street.

Sounds familiar.

Can't say as I place him,
not accurate.

Do you, uh, recommend the sauce?

Quite handy at blocking
out the taste.

You'll be able to take
a taxi when you go.

When I go where?

Bottle Street.

He'll be expecting you.

Taxi!

- Where to, guv?
- Bottle Street, off Piccadilly.

I said Bottle Street,
off Piccadilly.

You're going the wrong way.

And you're driving too fast.

Shut up!

- Mr Gyrth.
- Yes.

- Are you...
- I hope you didn't have

too much trouble getting here.

Do come through.

This is going to sound
frightfully rude but,

who are you?

Albert Campion.

Born May the 20th, 1900.

Justice neatly executed.

Nothing sordid.
Deserving cases preferred.

Police, no object.

Business address, here.

Specialist in fairy stories.

Would you like to
hear a fairy story?

Mr Campion, I'm living
through a fairy story.

I'm given an envelope
with my name on it

directing me to Hemp's Eating
House in Clerkenwell.

I go there, the proprietor gives
me another letter directing me here.

I get in a taxi and a man
tries to shanghai me.

That was my mistake,
my apologies.

Is the balloon part of the plot?

I'd just come from
a gala at the Athenaeum

when Lugg phoned to say
you were on your way.

The balloon is a coincidence.

A green herring.

I think before we proceed
with the fairy story,

you should step into the
blood and gore department.

This way, it's next to
soft furnishings.

Do you take the long
road, Mr Gyrth?

The man at Hemp's said that,
I don't know what it means.

What do you expect me to say?

It's a kind of test. You
passed with first class hon ours.

There. I think you'll find yourself
cured or your money back.

Thank you, Mr Campion.

I told you about myself,
now let me tell you about you.

Full name Percival St John
Wykes Gyrth.

Known to your friends as Val.

Only son and heir to Colonel Sir
Percival Christian St John Gyrth.

Baronet of the tower in the
village of Sanctuary in Suffolk.

Are my spies correct?

- Totally.
- At the risk of being highly personal,

I don't suppose Society Illustrated
circulates very widely on the embankment.

We consider the sporting
life a great luxury.

Aunt Di.

The chalice!

The first time it's
ever been photographed, I believe.

- Are you working for my father?
- No.

- This is sacrilege.
- Now for the fairy story.

Once upon a time,
about 50 years ago,

there were six wealthy men.

They were all lovers of
objets d'art

and because they were very wealthy,
they could buy almost anything they wanted

for their various collections.

Almost anything.

There were some things
they couldn't buy.

If they wanted such things,

they had to be stolen.

- Stolen?
- Now,

if you're a very wealthy man,
you don't do your own stealing.

You don't do your own anything.

Otherwise there's very
little point in being wealthy.

They hired the best available
thief to do it for them.

Let's call him George.

George was paid
handsomely for his services.

And if anything went wrong,
George took the consequences.

What is this to do with
your bringing me here?

I've spent the last two weeks
trying to find you

because unless you do
something about it,

the Gyrth Chalice will be
in the private collection

of a particularly illustrious
potentate within a matter of weeks.

You're mad.

Who do you suppose tried
to kidnap you in the taxi?

Why do you imagine there are two
men at present watching my front door?

Well...

Why don't they just march up
the stairs and grab me?

You leave your front door open.

I take the precaution
of living next door to a police station.

I've agreed a joint policy with
my constabulary neighbours.

We oppose any
breaking of the law.

This isn't amusing.

My dear Mr Gyrth, I'm never
more serious than when I'm joking.

Do you know that if the
chalice is lost,

all our family possessions
are forfeit to the Crown?

I know that.

I also know that by warning you,
I am placing myself in opposition

to one of the most powerful
organisations in the world.

By offering you my assistance,
I am endangering my life.

Those chaps out there,
they would kill you?

They would kill anyone.

And they're working for George?

Yes.

Except that George
isn't actually George.

Do you know who he is?

No.

I thought you knew
everything, Mr Campion.

I know the rules
by which they operate.

George is appointed as an
agent in charge of the operation.

He is generally an expert with special
skills or knowledge of the job in hand.

If the said George ends up
arrested, imprisoned or deceased

that is regarded as
the end of the matter.

A line is drawn across the ledger
and the ring leaves well alone.

They look out for someone
else's family album.

Does that mean we have
to kill George?

We have to dispose of George.

But how do we start,
where do we start?

First catch your George.
And where?

You have to go home to
Suffolk, Mr Gyrth.

Home.

You are estranged
from your father.

Yes.

Cut off without even
the proverbial shilling.

I've learned one thing
this last year,

I'm completely
useless on my own.

I couldn't even get a job.

Heir to a great fortune
accepting charity on the street.

That's why I asked you
whether you took the long road.

- Why?
- That's a kind of password among George's friends.

I see.

And if I had given
the right answer,

that would've proved I had already been
recruited by George to steal the chalice.

With your position in the family,
you could easily have been appointed

as George himself.

But your not.

You're on the side
of the righteous.

And tomorrow we'll smuggle you out
of here, by way of a secret passage,

and we'll take the
turnpike to Suffolk.

And we'll seek out George and the
wicked weasels from the wild wood,

and we'll whack 'em, and
whack 'em, and whack 'em.

Last time I come this way

was in a police van.

I got three months, odd.

Joke was on the beat,
though, I was the wrong man.

Clever of you.
Fooling the judge like that.

That alibi was worth
something, I can tell you.

We may be going to house where they
have real servants, you'll have to behave.

I can handle servants.

Up to and including,
grievous bodily harm.

I've got discretion, me.

In both fists.

You should get on well
with my father's butler.

He had a wild youth, I believe,

though his family have
looked after us for years.

What's his moniker?

Does he have a name,
this butler?

He's called Branch.

First name Roger?

Little thin bloke, talks with a
funny accent, sort of provincial.

That's right. Do you know him?

Prince of Parkhurst,
we used to call him.

You are a fantastic pair.

We can take our place in any
company without embarrassment.

We can supply testimonials.

We wrote 'em.

Do you anticipate any
difficulties with your father?

I don't think so.

I could've come... I could have
come back earlier if I'd been sensible.

It all began with...

If it's anything to do with
a woman, you can tell him.

He's been disappointed himself.

Several times.

Go and lose yourself, Lugg.

Don't worry, I'll be
in the public.

I'll leave you to mess about
with your motorist lunch.

Seven a kit, and coffee extra.

It's a liberty.

He was one of the most promising
burglars in the business but,

he can't make the
weight any more.

Hi ho.

Tell me about the woman
in the photograph.

Your aunt.

Aunt Diana, Lady Pethwick.

She's my father's sister.

She lives in the camp house
on the estate.

Since my mother died, she's
tended to boss the show a bit.

Is she, uh, batty?

Not certifiably.

A keen amateur.

Wears funny clothes
and wanders about at night.

Communing with the stars
and disturbing the game.

And if George were to
approach her...

Oh, she'd scream the place
down, she may be batty but

she'd kill anyone who
tried to steal the chalice.

Good.

Everything all right, sir?

Memorable, quite memorable.

Thank you, sir.

Now, tell me about the
row you had with your father.

I assume Lugg was right,
as usual.

Was it a woman?

Yes.

When I was at Cambridge,
I fell in love with a girl.

I thought I fell in
love with a girl.

I wanted to marry her.

Father didn't approve and
threatened to stop my allowance.

I said I was big enough
to stand on my own feet.

"Go ahead and stop
my allowance," I said.

- And he did.
- Yes.

And the girl found another.

More or less.

How did you know?

A blind, totally speculative
shot in the dark.

I was too proud to admit
that I was wrong.

And since then I've been proving
how useless I am at making a living.

How useless I am at living.

Oh, Lord.

The power of prayer, well,
I never underestimated it.

I'm not praying, I'm hiding.

- From whom?
- A woman.

Generally a sound precaution. I've
had my disappointments as Lugg told you.

Who is she?

Mrs Dick Shannon.

She owns a racing stable
at Heronhowe Heath.

She's one of those damn
women with a personality.

If she spots me, it'll be all over the
county by the middle of the afternoon.

Conceal yourself behind
my fashionable profile.

Val Gyrth!

So you're back, eh?

Made it up with the old man,
have you?

Bring hither the
fatted calf and kill it.

- When did this happen?
- It hasn't quite happened yet.

I've just come down
from the tower.

I'm trying to make your father
sell me two yearlings.

What does he want with
race horses?

He hasn't got the sense
to train properly.

He'll soon be
as batty as your aunt.

If you'll excuse us, we really
do have to be on our way.

Heard you were down and out.

You're looking well.

In the circumstances.

Loathsome woman.

More of an apparition, really.

Never mind your big words. I was working
while you was playing the gentleman.

I've been noticing.

Who do you think
I saw in the bar?

Robertson Hare,
Stanley Baldwin, Aldo us Huxley?

- George Bernard Shaw.
- Natty Johnson

I was warm.

One of the filthiest, dirtiest
lads of little race gang

tuffs I've ever taken
me hat off to.

The Cleaver gang, I believe.

See, you do know him.

Was anyone with him?

That's what I was noticing.
He was talking

to a little arty bloke
with a beard.

Like that Bloomsbury lot what
came to the flat and sat on the floor.

Sent me out for kippers
and chianti.

There isn't an artist quarter in the
scrubs. Bohemia passed him by.

I ain't finished yet.

This artistic cove,
and more like him,

are staying at the Tower of
Sanctuary, friends of Lady Pethwick,

the barman tells me.

Arty cove talking to
Natty Johnson.

Confidential.

That's conspiracy.

Speaking as one who knows.

And will this suit
you, Mr Campion?

Beautiful, Mrs Bullock.

A room with good views.

Young Thomas is on his way to the
tower with a message for your sister.

How is everyone, Bully?

Your father's well.

But looks worried.

Ms Penny, that's lovely.

I can see your mother in her.

And my aunt?

She's had herself photographed

with the thing.

Yes, I know about that,
but, uh, otherwise?

Oh, she's right enough.

Except that's filled the whole
place with a pile of loonies.

Artists?

No, not artists.

I've had artists stay in here.

Quite tidy little
fellows, artists are.

No.

This lot, they're more like
Bolsheviks, I shouldn't wonder.

I'll get you some vittles.

I always thought your story
was incredible but,

now I'm here, with everything
exactly as it always was.

Suddenly your fairy story
sounds just that.

A fairy story.

Look here, Campion, this isn't some
silly theatrical stunt to get me back

into the bosom of the family,
is it?

I give you my word, it isn't.

But you're pleased
to be back, aren't you?

Yes, I am.

Where's Lugg?

I expect he's in the bar.

Noticing.

I brought you
a drop of home brewed.

The stuff the company
sends ain't what it used to be.

- Home brewed?
- Anything that's worth anything is home brewed.

Here's the proof of it.

- Penny.
- Val.

- Hello, dear.
- Hello, sis.

Beth, this is my brother.
Val, this is Beth Cairey.

- How do you do?
- Hello.

We moved into Tide Hall
soon after you left.

The Caireys' are our neighbours.

Except Beth and I are the only
ones who behave like neighbours.

Lady Pethwick doesn't
like strangers.

Especially if they're Scottish.

And Father doesn't speak
to anyone very much at the moment.

Perhaps he will,
now you're home.

I'm sorry, I should've
introduced you.

I always stand to one side in the
presence of a touching reunion.

Albert Campion,
my sister, Penny.

And Beth Cairey.

- Hello.
- How do you do?

And what do you do, Mr Campion?

I execute justice.

Really?

Is this a part time or
a full time occupation?

Yes. Both of those.

Why don't we talk about it
while we walk up to the tower?

Are you serious?

I think the sooner you
tell your father you're home,

the better.

I suppose so.

And it would help me considerably
in my execution of justice

if I could case the joint.

Strictly from a distance.

I didn't understand
a word of that.

People are always
saying that to me.

Now do you understand?

Yes. Now I understand.

Thank you, Mr Campion. I've
been so worried about the chalice.

- Why?
- Because of Aunt Di.

According to tradition,
she's guardian of the chalice.

Mistress of the cup.

It's all shrouded in mystery
and sounds a bit dotty but,

I'm just saying, having her
photograph taken with it

and letting all those weird
people do drawings of it.

These are the arty types
I've heard about.

There's one man who's done
a whole series of drawings.

That's apart from the
chanting and sandals

and long white nightgowns.

This is near enough.

Not very much
but they call it home.

Yes, we do.

I know.

I'll do my best to keep it nice.

Thank you, Mr Campion.

I must get back to the village.
I left Dr Watson, investigating.

What an extraordinary man.

Where did you find him?

In Bottle Street. Next
door to the police station.

Are you home to stay?

If you'll have me.

Got rid of the nobs, have you?

You are a social handicap.
Do you realise that?

Me?

I don't have to go
touting for knighthoods.

What have you discovered
from your small corner?

We should never have come
here. That's what I've discovered.

It's all hanky-panky,
this place.

Have you experienced any
hanky-panky?

I saw this bald woman.

Not just going, but gone.

Almost hairless.

I asked about her and they
told me she's the local witch.

It's her family business,
witching.

Haunting and cursing.

Goes back for generations.

We are not here on a witch hunt.

There's plenty more
hanky-panky where that come from.

There's an haunted wood.

And a set of gippos live in
it and all. Oh, let's go home.

What have you discovered about
the tower and the Gyrth family?

That's the real reason
I wanna go home.

They've got a secret room
in the east tower

containing a nameless horror.

There's a window but no door.

When the son of the heirs
is 25, his father shows him in.

Shows him the nameless horror

and he's never the same again.

What sort of nameless horror?

If they knew that, it wouldn't
be nameless, would it?

It's bound to be
some sort of monster.

Something you have to
feed with a pump.

You've certainly been
having fun in your quiet way.

I don't call it fun.

Would you like
to hear the truth?

You know me. Truth, I'll
either take it or leave it.

There is, in the east tower, a
room with no visible entrance.

There is a semi-religious
initiation ceremony

when the son of the house is 25.

But get this into your head.

It's nothing to do with us.

Well, I don't want anything to do
with any of it, I just wanna go home.

I can't stand the countryside,
its full of smells and noises.

When's his birthday?

- Who?
- His nibs.

Percival St John...
Fauntleroy, what's it!

Quite soon, I believe.

A good detective should
get that checked up sharp.

I'll check it up, sharp.

Can you hear that?

I can't hear a thing.

What is it?

People.

Being haunted.

Wake up, Mr Campion.

What time is it?

Never mind what time it is,
there's been a murder.

But did you see the look
on her face?

She saw something dreadful, Val.

She died of fright.

She had a bad heart.

She was wandering around in the middle
of the night and she died, that's all.

Come on.

I've spoken to Dr Cobden.

There'll be no
need for an inquest.

Everyone knew about
her heart condition.

Something frightened her.

Old rabbit.

We all warned her about
wandering at night.

Val, perhaps you could get rid
of your aunt's peculiar friends.

I think a quiet funeral,
don't you?

Wednesday, perhaps?

Are you trying to hush
everything up?

I'm trying to observe
a little decorum.

We have to think about
Val's birthday, too.

I shall be in the library.

What is he worried about?

Until yesterday, it was you.

Mr Albert Campion for Mr
Val Gyrth and Ms Penny Gyrth.

Do come in, Mr Campion.

Be that who I think?

Well, who do you think it be?

Aye, it be you!

C749.

A631.

I decided to let myself in.

There's an old lags reunion
going on in the hall.

Forgive the levity. I was
sorry to hear about your aunt.

What happened?

Two of the locals found her
in a clearing, by the woods.

Would it be tasteless of me to
ask if I might see the clearing?

The scene of the discovery.

Not at all. I can show you now.

Oh, I'm sorry, I was forgetting.

I have to turf out
Aunt Diana's Bohemian friends.

I'll show you the clearing.

Thank you.

You'll ask the Bohemians
to go when?

Tomorrow?

Probably.

Mr Campion, last night
I made Val tell me everything.

About you, about the danger
to the chalice.

He told my father, too.

- You can count on our total support.
- Thank you.

That includes mine.

Now my aunt is dead, I'm
legally responsible for the chalice.

Mistress of the cup?

Oh, please don't imagine that
I'm a weak and feeble woman.

I'll try very hard
not to imagine that.

Pharisees Clearing.

It's really just a strip of grass separating
our wood from the Tide Hall property.

Where your friend
Beth lives with her father.

Yes.

"Or in the night,
imagining some fear,

"How easy is a bush
supposed a bear!"

I'm sorry?

My friend Shakespeare and I had
the same thought at the same moment.

Is this place haunted?

The locals believe it is.

By a ghost?

By something much worse.

Do you believe it?

No, of course not.

And where exactly
was Lady Pethwick found?

Over there.

As far as I can gather from Will
Tiffin, the man who found her.

I'm told, on good authority, there's
a witch operating in the high street.

Mrs Munsey?

She didn't leave her card.

Only a wax effigy
and a pack of pins.

In the lady chapel
of the church,

there's a list of witches
put to death in 1624.

Every other name on the sheet
is Munsey.

Does Mrs Munsey live
in the village?

About half a mile outside, in a
sort of hen house, with her son.

They're both simple,
poor things.

I might pay a call.

I've been having trouble getting a
hold of bat's wool and newt's eye.

I've tried Harrods, Fortnum...

Mr Campion,

my aunt died last night.

I'm sorry.

They found her here,
under this tree.

I see.

You'll obviously think me a
fool for mentioning this. But...

Mrs Munsey put a curse on
my Aunt Di at the last full moon.

Why?

I don't know.

My aunt could be rather
overbearing and officious.

She probably annoyed
Mrs Munsey in some way.

Does she curse many people?

And how successful
has she been in the past?

Last night was also a full moon.

When they brought in the body
this morning, I saw her face.

I swear she died of fright.

- And, there's something else.
- Yes?

Will Tiffin told me.

When he found the body here,
she wasn't lying where she'd fallen.

She was lying
stiff and straight.

Her hands folded,
her eyes closed.

Will said she'd been laid out
as a corpse.

Did you sleep well?

Very well, indeed.

Absolutely nothing went bump
in the night.

I suggest you and your
manservant should stay here

until this business is
resolved. Do you agree?

Thank you, Colonel. I agree.

If you'll excuse me.

I nicked this lot
out the Boehmians' traps.

I should explain, my manservant

does tend to steal small items
from visitors' luggage.

Only when his nibs tells me.

Did you cop a look
at the geezer?

- Seedy little bloke with the ginger beard and barney.
- Yes.

- Did you know him?
- Yes, he once worked for me.

He worked for you?

That's why I kept my distance.

His trade name used to be
Arthur Earl.

This lot all come
out of his suitcase.

I only employed him
on an occasional basis.

He's a journalist
copyist. He's in great demand.

He's made a note
of the measurements.

Well,
he's a good craftsman.

In medieval times,
he would have spent his life

ornamenting our
great cathedrals.

And you think he was going
to make a substitute chalice?

I'm sure that was the plan.

Work the switch and bank on
nobody noticing the difference

until the genuine chalice
was out of the country.

That's what he been fixing
with Natty Johnson at the boozer.

They're all minnows,
Natty Johnson, Arthur Earl.

There's no sign of the trout.

A trout called George?

Exactly.

Maybe that's him.

Who?

Funny old trout having a dekko.

I know who that is.

You're asking me, that is
your trout called George.

That's Beth's father.

Professor Gardner Cairey.

He isn't a thief.

He's an archaeologist
and a historian.

That don't rule him out.

I've known some
deadly professors in my time.

Mr Lugg, don't you have room
in your heart for a little tolerance?

I leave all that to him.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I promised
the butler I'd give him a helping hand.

With the family silver.

- What do you think?
- About what?

About Professor Cairey?

I think he has
a very charming daughter.

Good!

We've now consulted half
the population of the village

on the cause of death.

What did the public bar
have to say?

Murdered, by gypsies.

The saloon shared that view.

They all spy the devil.
A most horrible beast.

How about drink, and or drugs,
and or bad temper?

You'd have none of those.

Did anyone agree with
the doctor, natural causes?

Not in the public.

Nor in the saloon.

They reckon that doctor's
on the pay of the family.

What is your considered view?

Pick any prize in the store.

No question. The horrible beast.

Gotta be the odds-on favourite.

Visitors.

Tourists on horseback.

Day after the funeral?

Not quite the article. Do you
reckon they're the best of sorts?

Not quite the article.

Albert, can you come
to the rescue?

Someone drowning?

Lugg, pop upstairs and launch
the lifeboat. There's a good chap.

Doesn't make me laugh.
Does it make you laugh?

There's a dreadful woman
called Mrs Dick Shannon outside.

- She's insisting on seeing the chalice!
- Good.

I'd quite like
to look at it, myself.

Oh, Mrs Shannon, this is a
young friend of Val's, Mr Campion.

Mr Albert Campion.

Major King.

And Mr Horace Putnam.

Now, Penny Gyrth,

the guidebook says the chapel's
open to visitors on Thursdays.

It's Thursday today.

And Mr Putnam
leaves the area tomorrow.

The chalice is veiled.

It always is, for 10 days.

For 10 days after a death.

Then unveil it.

It might be quicker
in the long run.

Fetch the keys, Val.

Immediately after a death
occurs in the family

the chalice is veiled.

Is there another key
to unlock the grill?

Of course.

You really are a damn nuisance.

I'm missing a day's racing
for this.

Very impressive.

Do you play this joke
on all your visitors?

I must apologise.

Especially to Mr Putnam.

I'd quite forgotten, the
chalice is away being cleaned.

It seemed an opportune moment.

Perhaps the next time
you're in the area.

Where are the keys kept?

In my desk.

And who knows that?

Just the immediate family.

And me, sir.

Thought I'd better say it,

since you're bound to be
thinking it.

Well, I wouldn't dream
of accusing you!

Can't you send for the Chief
Constable? Isn't he a friend of yours?

I'm not calling in the police.
Or the Chief Constable.

We've got to solve
this ourselves.

Fancy a stroll before bed?

I'm not strolling nowhere.

You may be right.

Can you give me a lift?
It's rather urgent.

Certainly.

Where can we drop you?

Where are you going?

We're having
a girls day out in London.

Perfect. I'll join you.

Forgive me being
personal and direct,

but are you planning to ride
with us all the way to London?

Either that, or take me to
the nearest police station.

What are you talking about?

This suitcase. May I open it?

I seem to have mislaid
my liberty bodice,

and it's been in the family
for centuries.

Don't touch it. Please!

Leave it alone.

This is a gun.

And as soon as I've read the instruction
leaflet, I won't hesitate to use it.

You might have guessed
what's in the case.

No.

No, this definitely isn't
my liberty bodice.

There's a little pub
just outside of Coggeshall.

I'm meeting my associate there.

Are you his associate?

Afraid so, sorry.

It wasn't very difficult,
was it?

It was obvious the chapel
hadn't been burgled.

Ergo, it was opened with a key.

Ergo, it must have been
you two. Or three.

I couldn't see your father or
Branch pulling a stunt like that.

All right, if you
know everything,

tell us where we were
taking the chalice.

At a wild guess, the
Chancery Lane safe deposit.

So, you're going to
point your gun at us

and make us take it home again.

I think we should split up.

Penny, you and I will take the
precious suitcase in your car...

- And we'll ride shotgun.
- You'll what?

Are you prepared
to ride shotgun with me?

Well, I have no idea
what it means.

So yes, I expect so.

What do you expect
to happen?

Probably an armed attack in
broad daylight. Just routine, sir.

You've been conspiring
with Albert behind my back...

Where else could he
possibly conspire?

Come along, I'm sure
they're expecting us.

- Shouldn't you slow down?
- Why?

I want to give the chap
a run for his money.

Which chap?

That one.

Hang on tight!

Where is it?

I'm sorry, I don't wish to
subscribe. I'm not a music lover.

There's nothing in the front.

This case weighs a tonne.

Er, don't take that! It's
got our sandwiches in it.

Come on, we should copy it.

Right. Scarper.

Well, I think that went
rather well, don't you?

Oh, my Lord.

There, there.

Having a spot of bother,
governor?

Seems to be
clearing up nicely, ta.

Is this the missus?

Yeah, this is the old lady.

Have you got the doings?

I should say so.

Lemon time's over.

Time for the second half.

How many of the gangsters
did you identify?

Well, Natty Johnson put a gun to
my head. But we knew about him.

The one who took the suitcase
was Fingers Hawkins,

a known associate of a man called
Sanderson, also known as Horace Putnam.

The chap who was so keen
to see the chalice yesterday.

So, we know a lot of the names.

And here are yet more names
to confuse you.

When we get to London, we're going
to visit Mr Melchizadek of Old gate.

Are we?

We could visit Mr Old gate at
Melchizadek, but London's nearer.

Tell me, Val, how far back
does the chalice date?

Oh, impossible to say.
It's certainly pre-conquest.

It's over 1,000 years old.

So it's worth going to
a bit of trouble.

He may call me
Christopher Twelve trees.

But since Campion's a pseudonym,
anyway, try not to let it confuse you.

If you'll come in
to my office, Mr Twelve trees,

we'll not be
overheard or interrupted.

Well now, you wish me
to make a copy, perhaps.

Perhaps of
a very famous chalice.

Taking the long road, perhaps.

No.

I have too many clients
to follow any road but my own.

Thank Heaven for that.

This is going to be a delightful
experience for me, Mr Gyrth.

In the last 200 years, we've been
privileged to handle many treasures.

But, even so this...

This...

...is a memorable occasion.

Pre-conquest.
Over 1,000 years old.

Mmm-hmm.

A-ha.

It's exquisite.

The workmanship's magnificent.

But it's not medieval.

- Not medieval?
- Hang on a bit.

But I don't understand!

I wonder, if you would allow
me to ask for a second opinion.

Quite by chance, I happen
to have in the next room

one of the most famous experts
on this subject in the world.

What do you think?

You may rely on his discretion
as you would upon mine.

Good.

Campion, is this
another fairy story?

Probably.

But they usually have
happy endings.

But how can you
guarantee that...

Professor Gardner Cairey.

Mr Gyrth,
Mr Christopher Twelve trees.

The design is Renaissance.

The workmanship much later.

I'd say about 150 years old.

If you'll permit me, I think
I can prove that to you.

Mmm-hmm.

I-M.

Israel Melchizadek.

1772.

1772?

This was made by
my great, great grandfather.

He invariably signed every piece
that he made, although, at times,

it was necessary for him
to do so

where it would not be seen
by the casual observer.

But this is what we have always
believed to be the Gyrth Chalice!

Therefore, it is what the
world believes to be the Gyrth Chalice.

And we must hang on to it
like a pair of bull pups.

The truth is, Val, I had my
doubts about the chalice,

from the moment I saw
that photograph.

Therefore, I consulted my
old friend, Professor Cairey.

Your old friend?

I rarely tell lies, but...

I'm sometimes a bit picky
with the truth.

I told Albert my theory.

What you have there, is what
might be called a mock chalice.

Historically speaking, there's
never been a shortage of marauders

in the land to the
south of Hadrian's Wall.

The real Chalice
has always been kept

in the background, hidden away,

while the show-piece
took its place

to appease nosy Parkers and the
thieves, and Thursday sightseers.

Well, if this is a mock chalice,

why don't we just
let the thieves have it,

get your man to make a replica
and forget the whole business?

Because, the thieves will
discover it isn't the real thing.

Just as we have.

They can afford
the best professional advice.

Or, at least, the second best
professional advice.

They will want the real thing.

But where is the real Chalice?

As an outsider, I would suggest

that the point will be made quite
clear to you on your 25th birthday.

Oh, the room in the East tower.

I would further suggest,
that the real Chalice,

which is made of
English red gold,

and is probably little bigger
than a man's cupped hand,

has a very terrible
and effective guardian.

Oh, my God!

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