All language subtitles for Murdoch.Mysteries.S16E03.720p.WEBRip.x264-BAE

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Welcome to the new
Toronto reference library

And let us raise our glasses
to Canada's first

International Convention of Novelists

as we write our city a new and
glorious chapter in the arts.

Ah.

Mr. Kipling?

If you would be so kind
as to do me the honours, sir.

I used to read my boys "the jungle book"

when they were this big.

Put them to sleep every time.

In a good way, of course.

Name?

Thomas Brackenreid.

R-e-i-d.

- Never heard of you.
- I'm not a writer.

This is a private party.

I'm accompanying my good
friend, the great George Crabtree.

- Never heard of him, either!
- Ah! Uh...

Oh, that's the chap over there.

The author of two classic
novels that... Oh!

The titles of which escape me
at the moment.

But I assure you...

Bloody hell.

Oh, come here.

Not the goldmine I was hoping for.

How many autographs so far, sir?

One. I didn't know him, either.

I mistook him for robert service.

I'm feeling a little out
of depth myself.

Nonsense! These are your people.

Get out there, start mingling.

Sir, have you seen who's here?

Henry James, Edith Wharton,
L. Frank Baum.

I'm hardly worthy.

You're an invited guest.

Yeah and, sir, look where
I am on the poster,

right there at the very bottom.

With all the other up-and-comers!

And spelled with a "g".

George Grabtree.

At a novelists' convention!

I am aware of the irony.

Nobody here has the faintest
idea who I am.

Oh! Until now, that is.

Who's that?

Lucy Maud Montgomery.

The writer of "Anne of Green Gardens"?

- Gables.
- Oh. You know her?

Oh, yes, sir. We became well acquainted.

I inspired her main character.

A little girl called Anne?

Sir, an orphan, found in a carpet bag,

wildly imaginative.

That must be her fiancé she's with.

I heard she became engaged.

But I have no doubt, sir,
she'll thank me. Just watch.

For your troubles.

You must've made quite the impression.

Right, that's me for the night. I'm off.

Well, if you're leaving, so am I.

Anyway, how much fun
could we possibly miss?

Right. The tipsy ferret it is, then.

Thank you.

Oh. What have we here?

Sir, Alfred Pope.

One of the writers at the
opening cocktail party last night.

That's the man I mistook for
robert service.

We should have stuck around longer.

You spoke with this man?

Around 9:30.

He seemed well enough at the time.

I must've gotten his final signature.

Do you think that ups the value?

What have you, Mrs. Hart?

It looks like his heart's been
penetrated by a single jab.

He's been dead a few hours at least.

- Who found the body?
- Ah, the cleaner, sir.

She found him this morning.

Apparently the revelry went on
until the early hours.

Someone was sending a message.

Indeed.

Pages from a book.

Sir, I found several books
scattered about the room,

but none of them were missing any pages.

Seems to be some writing
on one side, as well.

Red ink, perhaps?

Not a wise choice if you want
someone to read it.

Right. George,
once Mrs. Hart is finished

with the murder weapon
and the accompanying pages,

please bring them to my office.

We also need to speak with
all of the guests

in order to retrace
Mr. Pope's final steps.

I'm on it.

- Excuse me, constable.
- Oh, lord!

Would you have any idea why
the convention's been postponed?

I'm afraid there's been a murder.

Oh my lord! Who?

Well, we'll make an announcement
once we notify the next of kin.

To think that I was trying
to sneak in here last night.

I was hoping to slip one of them
my stories.

Last night you say?

When?

Around 10.

And were you able to get in?
Were there any doors unlocked?

Ah, they... They were sealed
tight, I'm afraid.

I even tried the windows.

Well, did you notice anything unusual?

Anybody lurking about besides
yourself, I suppose?

I'm afraid not.

Right, well if you remember
anything, anything at all,

I would appreciate you letting me know.

I'm constable George Crabtree.
I'm at station house four.

George Crabtree, the writer?

Yes, that's right.

- Do I know you?
- No! But I know you.

"Curse of the Pharaohs", "A Man Alone."

I'm a huge fan, sir.

Your words are salve to the soul.

Well, I don't know about that.

I'm Norman Bean. I fancy
myself a bit of a writer, too.

Oh, is that right?

I'm very excited to be in your presence.

I can't help but think that
this is fate.

Would you allow me
to follow you around for a day?

I could help out, if you'd like.

I'd love to delve into the brain
of George Crabtree.

Really?

I beg your pardon. Is this seat taken?

Uh, I suppose not.

I suppose everyone turned away

from the novelists' convention
ended up here.

Indeed.

I heard there may have been a murder.

Ah, it's true, I'm afraid.

My husband's a detective on the case.

A macabre profession, to be sure.

I used to be a city coroner.

That's where we met.

Oh, how ghastly!

And yet perversely fascinating.

Do you miss it?

Uh, I'd be lying if I said I didn't,

but life had
greater adventures in store.

I suppose so.

I didn't quit because of my child,

if that's what you're implying.

Half the trouble in life is caused
by pretending there isn't any.

Well,

I'll have you know,

I'm still very active in
the medical field.

Edith Wharton would not appreciate
you twisting her words like that.

Forgive me.

I have a nasty habit of overstepping.

I guess we have that in common.

Perhaps my name might help
excuse the blunder.

I'm Edith Wharton.

Oh, my.

You are.

My lecture's been postponed.

Any suggestions on what
one might do to while away

a few hours in this town?

Oh!

Mr. Kipling?

Remember me?

I'm on police business this time.

Are you familiar with an Alfred Pope?

Uh, I heard. Terrible.

And I heard that you were
one of the last people

to leave the party.

Did you exchange words with him,
by any chance?

I'll tell you what I know, but
you'll have to buy me a drink.

Although, I doubt very much
you'd be familiar with it.

Try me.

A pisco sour.

Pisco: Lime juice, simple syrup,

egg whites, angostura bitters.

Impressive.

But did you also know that
it was a favourite

of that anti-imperialist
bastard, Mark Twain?

May he rest in peace.

Who do you think I got the recipe from?

Join me for a tipple.

Sir, any luck isolating the red ink?

Not much, I'm afraid.

I've tried a number of different
light settings,

including ultraviolet,
but nothing seems to be working.

I wonder if there's a way
to remove the blood chemically?

Precisely what I was thinking.

However, I will need you
to transcribe the text

from these pages so we can still
identify the book

should the process compromise the ink.

I assumed as much.

I took the liberty while
you were with the inspector.

Oh!

Well, then I need you to track
down Alfred Pope's wife,

let her know I need to speak with her.

Sir, done so and
she's available this afternoon.

Well, very good. Very good.

Then, perhaps you and the
inspector should create a timeline

of Alfred Pope's final interactions.

Uh, well...

George, your efficiency is noted.

How did you find the time?

- Tea is ready, sir.
- Ah! Norman.

Needs one more sugar.

- Very good, sir.
- I've taken an assistant.

I'll take Mrs. Pope's
address now, please.

Right. Right.

For 300 miles in 20 days,
we pushed through sandstorms

and searing heat, our rations waning,

only to emerge at Kandahar
in time to blow Ayub Khan

and his cowardly lancers back
to the Stone Age!

"Take up the white man's burden,

send forth the best ye breed,

bind your sons to exile,

to serve thy captives' need!"

I must say,

it's a pleasure to drink with
a son of the empire.

Uh, well, I do appreciate your respect

for law and order.

And I will keep an ear open.

Whoever took down Pope
must be apprehended.

No one ever said a bad word about him,

may God rest his soul.

Ah...

So, you've brought your book again.

Ah, pretend you didn't see it.

Well, what if I pretended
I did see it and I signed it?

That's what you want, isn't it?

- You'd consider it?
- I'll do you one better.

I am winnowing a series
of essays on sea warfare

for an upcoming collection
and I could use

the advice of a war veteran
such as yourself.

I would be honoured, Mr. Kipling.

Call me Rudyard.

Rudyard.

I still can't believe Alfred is dead.

We just booked a trip to Hawaii.

He'd boast of visits to Kilauea
in his books,

but he never actually went.

It was our little secret.

Now he'll never go.

When did you last see your husband?

We went to the cocktail party together.

I felt a little out of place,
so I left around 11.

He offered to take me home,

But I insisted that he stay
and enjoy himself.

Did you notice anything unusual?

Any tension with one
of the writers, perhaps?

No, of course not.

When I left he was telling a joke.

The last thing I heard
was his stupid laugh.

Do you know of anyone who may
have wished your husband harm?

Alfred was respected by his peers.

His books didn't sell well,

so he wasn't in competition with anyone.

It doesn't make any sense.

We... We found pages affixed

to your husband's body.

We've transcribed them.

Do you recognize any of this text?

They're from his upcoming
book, "Killian's Folly."

He'd just been sent a box
of advance copies,

but as far as I know, it's unopened.

It's a thinly veiled assault
on the literary community.

What's more, three of the books
were missing from a box.

He likely distributed them
to his fellow novelists.

And you think if we find them,
we may find our culprit?

Possibly. It also means that everyone,

including Kipling, is a suspect.

Not to mention a skinflint.
He stiffed me on the bill.

Are you sure we're not
overthinking this?

Sir, the book lampoons
the literary community.

It creates caricatures out
of a number of famed authors,

or so George tells me.

There's no such thing as bad press.

- Mrs. Hart. You have news?
- Ah, yes.

I've completed the post-mortem

and I have a smaller timeframe
for Pope's time of death.

He died between midnight and 2:00 am.

Well, that makes sense.
We've established

that the party continued past midnight.

Yet, all the writers
that I checked with,

including Kipling, Lucy Maud
and Edith Wharton,

all say they left the party
well before midnight.

And none of them recall
interacting with Pope,

which I find odd. Anything else?

Actually, yes. I examined the
brown liquid on the victim's shirt

and I found sugars mixed
with some type of alcohol.

Someone must've spilt a drink
on him before doing him in.

That wasn't the only odd finding.

There was also a crusty substance,

which proved to be the proteins
of egg white.

Who would put an egg white in a drink?

Bloody hell. A pisco sour.

Meaning what, exactly?

Meaning I need to go and visit a friend.

As I told old Tommy boy,

I was nowhere near Pope that night.

Then how do you explain the
traces of pisco sour on his shirt?

Right. So, he and I had a bit of a row.

He called my writing
"jingoistic claptrap."

And I responded accordingly.

What time did you last see him?

North of midnight
the events began to blur.

So, it's possible you were with him

at the time he was murdered?

If you're implying
what I think you're implying,

I'd tread lightly.

You lied about your perception
of the victim,

you lied about when you last saw him,

and you lied about your argument.

You seem to have a problem
with facts, Mr. Kipling.

The facts are Alfred Pope
resented my success

And he was a self-entitled chowderhead.

He deserved a pisco sour on his shirt.

He did not deserve to die.
I did not kill him

and he was alive when I left him.

All right.

Can you at least tell me
who was with him at that time?

Yes, I can, in fact.

He was in the rare book room
getting forward

with a certain Lucy Maud Montgomery.

Sir. Any luck?

The blood and the ink have
somehow fused.

No matter how I adjust my
hydrogen peroxide chemical bath,

I can't seem to remove one
without removing the other.

Might be quite effective for
cleaning a stain, though, sir.

- Uh, you asked for me.
- Yes.

Lucy Maud Montgomery
has been placed alone

at the scene with the victim.

I need you to bring her in.

- Is that a problem, George?
- Sir, no.

- Three sugars this time.
- Ah, Norman.

Thank you. I owe you.

It's... It's funny you say that.

My... My story. I was hoping
that you could read it.

Um, if... when you're not so busy.

Uh, yes. Yes, of course.

Um, I've got some police duty
to attend to right now,

but I'll give this a read
as soon as possible.

Thank you, sir.

Lucy Maud Montgomery.

Oh.

The coat check boy.

Still?

You really don't remember me?

You took my class. We had a moment?

I'm sorry. You must have me
mistaken for someone else.

Now, if you'll excuse me.

Well, actually, Miss Montgomery.

This is not a social call.

Oh.

What were you and Mr. Pope discussing

in the rare book room?

Nothing. I helped him
dry his shirt, that's all.

Mr. Kipling intimated that he may
have been getting forward with you.

You can't possibly be taking
anything Mr. Kipling...

Mr. Kipling is wrong.

Alfred and I were friends, nothing more.

Then why did you lie?

I was afraid my fiancé would
get the same idea as Mr. Kipling.

What did the two of you talk about?

Nothing coherent, anyway.

He was more than a little drunk.

Did he imply that he was
under any sort of threat?

No.

Alfred could be abrasive,
but he was very well respected.

In truth, he was the writer
we all aspired to be.

He lived like a poet,

died like a poet.

He couldn't have conceived of
a more delicious ending

if he wrote it himself.

It was hardly a delicious
ending. He was murdered.

And you were one of the last
people to see him alive.

I... I swear to you, Detective,

there was nothing odd about him
when I left.

Can you at least tell me
who else may have been there?

It's all a little blurry.

But I believe Edith Wharton
was still there.

Ah. No hard feelings, Rudyard?

You were just doing your job.

How's your book?

The essays you were gathering
on sea warfare?

Excellent. Uh, I think
I came up with an opener.

It came to me shortly after I
was brought in for questioning.

- Oh, is that right?
- Hm. Yeah.

Could I see that book of yours?

- I'd just like to jot it down.
- Of course.

Thank you.

Ah, ooh.

Ah!

Yes, yes.

It went a little something like...

This.

Hm.

Now we've never met.

Ha.

Ah!

No hard feelings.

So, Edith Wharton was there?

Although it is possible
Miss Montgomery's memory

of the evening was... compromised.

Sir, that is a phenomenon
I have experienced personally.

And inspector Brackenreid says
Ms. Wharton claims

to have been at her hotel.

Yes, I confirmed as much with
the concierge at The Empress.

Sirs? That's false.

What's false?

I'm embarrassed to admit that

after failing to break into
the cocktail party,

I heard that Edith Wharton was
staying at The Empress.

So, I tipped a bellman to...

To slip her my manuscript.

Well, it's possible
she pretended not to receive it.

Perhaps, but... But the
bellman insisted that... That

not only was she not there,

but that she had never been there.

I... I knocked on her door myself.

So, if she said she left that party

and went straight to her hotel room...

Then Edith Wharton is lying.

Hmm. I would love to go back to France.

It's been far too long.

I don't know why anyone lives
in America at all.

It's... It's all right to visit,

but it's not exactly Europe, is it?

Mm.

William!

Come!

My friend and I got into the wine.

I can see that.

You won't believe who it is.

She's very eager to meet you.

That's why I'm here.

You left me a message at
the station house.

Oh... Oh.

Charmed.

Julia has told me a great deal
about you.

Did she also tell you that I need
to bring you in for questioning?

What?

William, what are you saying?

You're embarrassing me in front
of my friend.

She may be your friend.

But she's also a suspect for murder.

What were you doing between
midnight and 2:00 am last night?

I was sleeping.

Where?

In my hotel.

Hm. We've confirmed with
the hotel bellman

that you never returned last night.

So, where were you really?

You can fix this, Mrs. Wharton.

Just tell us where you were.

I prefer to speak with my attorney.

Fine.

In the meantime,

we have a lovely spot for you
to sit and wait.

You've thrown Edith Wharton in jail?

We're giving her a chance to cool off.

Maybe she'll decide to say
something of substance.

And you agreed to this?

She lied about her alibi.

Well, perhaps she had a good reason?

She was the last person seen
in the company

of a murder victim.

Well, by a woman who was impaired.

She refuses to answer
any of our questions.

What are we supposed to do?

She's as stubborn as a mule!

We're doing all we can.

Well, not quite.

Not exactly your country house
in Lennox.

Edith, I want you to know that
whatever you say to me

will remain between us.

How can I trust you?

You're basically part
of the constabulary.

I'm a woman.

And, even though we just met,
I hope a friend.

You lied about where you were.

That's an unusual decision.

This is a very serious
murder investigation.

I didn't have a choice.

Well, please, help me understand.

I love my husband very much.

Teddy was once a joyous soul
but is no longer.

Marriage can be complicated.

Mine especially, I'm afraid.

Teddy suffers from melancholia.

Living with him is no longer viable.

I needed an outlet.

So, you had an affair.

His name is Morton Fullerton

and he's the foreign correspondent
for the Times of London.

Which is to say that he has
the means to travel discreetly.

It's an open secret,

emphasis on the word "secret".

So, you fear the repercussions.

Hm. The vultures
want their carrion, Julia.

Such is the cost of excelling
in a man's field.

This reminds me of a quote
I read recently

in a magazine excerpt.

"That life is just a perpetual..."

"Piecing together of broken bits."

Indeed.

Apparently, I have far too many of them.

Tell me where your friend is staying

and I promise to keep your secret.

William? Any progress?

Not much.

I've managed to corrupt two pages

and I'm down to my last
piece of evidence.

No matter the formula, I can't
seem to extract enough blood

to reveal the red ink below.

That sounds like quite the undertaking.

It's like changing the tint of the ocean

to see the fish.

Why not change the fish?

Focus on the ink.

The peroxide bond is indeed
weak and unstable.

By switching the H2O2 with 3H60,

you could let the acetone work
on the message itself

with minimal damage.

Julia Ogden,
I have never loved you more!

Well, perhaps this is a very
good time to ask for a favour.

Anything.

Release Edith Wharton.

Except that.

William, she had her reasons
to withhold her alibi.

She won't tell you and
she won't tell the inspector,

but she did tell me and...

I confirmed her claims are legitimate.

I can't just take your word for it.

Well, I understand.

But know this:

if you continue to view her
as a suspect,

you're wasting your time.

_

- Sir?
- Perfect timing, George.

I think I've discovered a way
to read the hidden ink message.

But we may not need it, sir.

I think I know who the killer is.

Look at this.

Liquor, lime and a trace of egg white.

Sniff!

Oh, wait!

Pisco sour.

Sir, this must've been what
Pope was holding

when Kipling threw the drink on him.

That would explain the strange powder

Mrs. Hart mentioned.

George, where did you get this?

Sir, my number one fan:

Norman Bean.

I met Alfred Pope before the party.

He was the only one that
would talk to me.

I managed to slip him my story.

He said that he would read it
right away.

The anticipation was killing me.

So, you weren't sneaking into that party

to give out your story.

You were trying to get it back.

I wanted to see his thoughts, sir.

You expected a response that quickly?

It's a really good story.

At any rate,

you lied about not being able
to get into the party.

Not entirely.

The back exit was indeed locked at 10.

But I neglected to add that

I had come back once more to see
that it was open.

- What time was this?
- Around 1:30.

Somebody had opened the deadbolt

and kept the door ajar
to prevent it from locking.

I couldn't believe my luck.

What did you do then?

I was elated to find that

not only was Alfred there,

but that he was alone.

So I mustered up the courage to...

Ask him what he thought about my story.

He didn't like it.

He read it aloud,

laughing at all the serious parts,

mocking my superhuman zantar character,

who I was dumb enough to think
was destined for greatness.

So, you killed him.

No.

You were hurt, humiliated.

It would have been understandable
under the circumstances.

- I didn't kill him!
- What did you do, then?

I wanted so much to just
give him a piece of my mind!

But I just snatched my story back

and went out the same door
that I came in.

- That's it?
- Yeah.

You expect me to believe
that you broke into the party,

found the victim alone,

had a humiliating altercation with him

and then simply left,

without a single guest as a witness?

I know it seems a little far-fetched,

but that's exactly what happened.

Allow me to counter with
an alternate story,

one where a man ingratiated
himself with my best constable

in order to get close to a case

because he had murdered a man
out of fury and shame.

- No.
- I'm sorry, Mr. Bean,

but the evidence strongly suggests

that you are guilty of murder.

Well, we finally got our man.

He was playing you all along, bugalugs.

Sir, I feel quite the fool.

There was absolutely nothing
murderous I saw in Norman Bean.

Flattery is a powerful tool
in the devil's arsenal.

Somewhat ironic, isn't it, sirs?

Alfred Pope's death will surely
cause a surge in his book sales.

Mm. Mr. Pope will finally
achieve the success

that has thus far eluded him.

Perhaps not so ironic after all.

"Aloha..."

"Aloha, meine schnecke "?

What the bloody hell does that mean?

We had just booked a trip to Hawaii.

Couldn't have conceived of
a more delicious ending

If he wrote it himself.

It means Mr. Pope
went to extreme measures

to cement his legacy.

"Aloha, meine schnecke ."

Both hello and goodbye,
as I understand it.

He was making apparent
his suicide to you

and to the world in order
to generate sales.

But Alfred never cared about sales.

It doesn't make any sense!

Well, perhaps it was just to you?

Uh, "meine schnecke."

His pet name for me.

The German word for "slug".

He knew how much I hated that word.

He used to tease me with it
all the time.

It always made me laugh.

Somehow it's not working this time.

Your husband found the most
succinct way possible

to tell you that he loved you.

Did he not understand that

I would rather we be free together?

Thank you for
your husband's work-in-progress.

I can see by the notes in the margins

that they match his handwritten notes.

He was always editing in the margins

with his stupid red pen.

I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Pope.

I do hope that you can find some peace.

I'm not sure I know how without Alfred.

- Keep the change.
- Thanks.

It's nice having a bill paid
for a change,

unlike some people.

Ah! There you are.

Thanks.

"If you can talk with crowds
and keep your virtue,

or walk with kings nor lose
the common touch,

if neither foes nor
loving friends can hurt you,

if all men count with you,
but none too much.

If you can fill the unforgiving minute,

with 60 seconds' worth of distance run,

yours is the earth
and everything that's in it,

"and which is more,
you'll be a man, my son!"

Truer words were never spoken,

If I may say so myself.

I don't disagree.

I think it's one of
your most brilliant pieces.

And hot off the presses, too.

If by committing my new poem,
if, to memory

you are trying to grovel back
an autograph,

It's working.

I don't grovel.

I'm here to tell you

that the man of virtue described
in your poem

is not the man that sits before me.

And I'd sooner have the
bartender's autograph than yours.

Oh, and, uh,

I picked up your tab
so you don't stiff him again.

Men of virtue pay their bills, sir.

Son of a gun!

It works.

I cannot believe it.

So, it was a suicide all along?

Yes. The answer was right
under our noses the whole time.

This was a plot development
I never saw coming,

Which just goes to show you
I'm not much of a copper.

Or a writer, for that matter.

Now, on that matter, I'm not so sure.

I read your story, Norman.

It's so full of action and heart
and valour.

I found it nothing short of remarkable.

Are you having me on?

Not at all. I wouldn't change
a single word.

I do think you should
try a pseudonym, however.

Something a little snappier
than Norman Bean.

Norman Bean is a pseudonym, sir.

I didn't want to risk
embarrassing my family

in case my book was a failure.

Well, what's your real name?

Burroughs.

My name's Ed Burroughs.

Ed Burroughs. That's not bad.

It could use a little souping up.

My proper name is Edgar Rice Burroughs.

I would go with that.

That has some real gravitas to it.

I also think you should consider
changing the name of your hero.

Zantar sounds a bit like a magician.

I also considered Tublat Zan.

That sounds too much like
a creature from outer space.

It's not quite right for
a superhuman man-ape character.

What would you call him?

Well, I would reverse it.

Uh, ape-man?

No, I mean Zantar. I would reverse that.

- Tarzan.
- Yes!

Actually, I was thinking Zartan,
but Tarzan could work.

Tarzan, the ape man.

There we go.

Here, let me buy you a pint.

I owe you that much, at least.

I finally get to draw on your wisdom?

I have a feeling
I'll be drawing on yours, sir.

Murdoch. A moment.

If you've got any of
your adhesive thing-a-majiggy

and could stick this lot
back together...

It's a lost cause, isn't it?

- I'm afraid so.
- Mm.

Oh but be happy with what you have.

You have some big names here.

Including Alfred Pope,

who I think will be worth
more than the others

since it's his final signature.

Especially now
that "Killian's Folly" is set

to become such a big hit.

- Is this it here?
- Yes. Why?

You saw him sign it himself?

I saw him do it with my own eyes.

It's different.

What do you mean?

In Alfred's final aloha to his wife,

the A was written by someone else.

But that's impossible.

Unless...

It was her.

The "aloha" on these pages

matched the notes
in your husband's manuscript.

What I failed to identify
was who wrote them.

I trust you know the direction
I'm heading in.

Haven't the foggiest.

They were both yours, Mrs. Pope.

You were your husband's
unofficial editor,

the person behind the scenes
who would do anything

to ensure he got that bestseller.

Is it against the law
for a wife to help her husband?

It's against the law to murder him.

Were you tired of living in his shadow?

My husband was too flimsy
to cast a shadow.

A shadow implies mass.

Yet, you made it seem as
though his obscurity was a virtue,

that the respect of his peers
was all he needed.

For him, maybe.

But what about me?

I did half the work.

Do you know how many hours
I spent sculpting his words,

just so he...

So we could finally have one bestseller?

So, it was about money.

It was about pride.

"Killian's Folly"
had hit written all over it

And he refused to do the legwork.

He was a serial self-sabotager,

missing meetings, making drunken scenes,

insulting publishers.

He felt that made him a real artist.

You saw things differently.

He promised me trips,

Spain, Ireland and, yes, Hawaii.

He wintered on
Arthur Conan Doyle's yacht

while I stayed home

And ate tinned ham and day-old bread.

What would have made it easier
was to have one bestseller.

Just one.

I needed that, Detective.

I needed that at any cost.

"A man is most dangerous
when he's broken..."

"For he has nothing left to lose."

You did read my book.

Of course I did, fathead.

Twice.

It's really good, George.

I was sure you didn't remember me.

Well, you're cute, but not that bright.

You didn't pick up on my signals
about my fiancé, Ewen.

- Ah.
- He's a minister.

Mm-hmm.

Well, he's not quite comfortable
with my previous dalliances.

I didn't want him to know... that.

I think of you, though. Often.

I think of you, too.

I heard you got married.

I did. Her name is Effie.
You'd like her.

You'd like Ewen, too.

Perhaps one day we can all get together.

Your book is a cracking
good read, by the way.

You've read "Anne of Green Gables"?

Yes, of course! It's lovely.

Uh, the imagery is
so picturesque, so moving.

It should be a moving picture.

No! A series of moving pictures.

Uh, several incarnations

That win the hearts of Canadians
from coast-to-coast.

Well, I've always loved
your wild imagination, George.

Now, you take care of yourself.

And Effie, too.

You too, Lucy Maud.

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