All language subtitles for Sister Boniface Mysteries-S01E10

Arriving at Slaughter Abbey

in the Cotswolds,
their home from home

for the next few days,
a bevvy of beauties

from all four corners of the kingdom,

united for the
Miss United Britain contest.

Every gorgeous girl
has their sights set

on being named the
nation's supreme poppet.

First off were this
year's front runners,

Miss Walton-on-Thames,
Diane Green.

Miss Belfast, Clodagh Kilpatrick

is current holder of
the Miss Swimsuit title.

Miss Cardiff, Sally Ann Jones,

oh, she looks happy to be here,

but not as happy as
those photographers.

Last but not least,
Miss Glasgow, Moira McDonald.

This is only her second contest,
begging the question,

where has she been hiding?

There to greet them
was Lesley Canon,

nicknamed the Beauty King
all in the line of duty,

but what man doesn't envy his job?

The lineup of the lovelies,
a dozen pretty hopefuls,

but no hint of
competitive spirit here.

It looks like they're already
becoming firm friends.

I said to him,
you can ask me as many times as-

Do you think she ran it up
at home on a sewing machine?

And what are you
looking for in a contestant?

Well, single, childless,
five six to five nine,

waist, 22 to 24 inches,
hips, 35 to 36,

36 to 37 inch bust,
perfectly shaped legs, no flabby thighs,

good skin, teeth and hair,
chest out, Glasgow,

flaunt what Mother Nature gave you.

I'd ask Mother Nature
for my money back.

I suppose some rivalry is inevitable?

Well,
put a dozen goddesses together,

throw in a golden apple,
what do you think?

Quite.

May I have a few photographs

and perhaps a few words
from the three favourites?

Yeah, be my guest.

So aside from your
ambition to um, ah,

"Further the cause of
international friendship,"

why do you think you'll win?

Take two guesses.

Right.

As an airline stewardess,
I've already travelled the world

and I'm comfortable mixing
with the right sort.

It's not just looks.

Don't write this down, mind,
but I've met ironing boards

with more personality
than some of these.

And how would you
answer the charge,

that it's demeaning to women?

The winner will act as
ambassadress for the nation,

most go on to be
actresses or models,

what's degrading about that?

They're jealous.

I'll tell you what's demeaning,

being tied to a kitchen sink
with a brood of ankle biters,

3,000 pounds buys a woman
a lot of independence.

I can't disagree with that.

Lovely.

That's it, alright, room for everybody.

Come on, girls,

you're on in 48 hours,
you're like spuds in a sack.

Come on, fall in, numerical order.

Let's get the music on please, darling.

Where's Belfast, anyone seen Belfast?

Go and see where she's got to,
will you?

He said numerical order,
but you can't even count to 10?

Alright, come on, girls,
this is a beauty contest,

shoulders back, hips forward.

Her wristwatch stopped
at 9:05 p.m. last night,

so we can assume that's
when she hit the water,

if not time of death.

Right,
did no one notice she was missing?

The contestants had a rest morning,

so no one noticed,
until just before we found her,

she must've fallen in,
apparently she couldn't swim,

which is ironic considering she's,
or was Miss Swimsuit.

Yes, thank you, Mr. Canon,
we can take it from here.

No indication of a sexual motive.

Her clothes are undisturbed
and no sign of fight or flight.

What have you got there?

Hairs caught in the strap,
female I deduce by the length

and black,
so they don't belong to the victim.

Pulled out with force
judging by traces of blood

on the roots.

So is the cause of death drowning?

Moot at this juncture,
can you help me turn her, Sam?

Sam.

Look at that.

Cause of death is a strike
to the medulla oblongata,

one blow will kill you instantly,

it would require some
knowledge of anatomy,

either that or the killer struck lucky.

- So this is murder?
- Oh, I'm afraid so, yes.

Could you have a stab
at the murder weapon?

Oh, yes, very good,

only that it's about
half an inch in diameter,

it made a penetrating
injury between the occipital

and C1 causing radial splits.

However, it has left,

an oily residue.

Right, well, we should, um...

Cordon the scene,
draught in uniform to do a search,

make a list of everyone in the
house and collate statements.

Exactly.

Do you mind if I leave you to it,

while I go and break the news?

I mean, it's a tough job,
but someone has to do it.

Um, yes, you might want to, um...

Sir, CC Lowsely needs
to see you urgently.

I, I...

Fine.

We have a political hot potato.

The Miss World competition
is in three months

and the host nation
can't be seen to have

a random beauty queen
killer on the loose.

There's no evidence of that yet, sir.

There are no reports of any intruders,

although we are yet to
speak to the security guard.

Hm, well, that may be,
but la grande fromage

have ordered a press embargo

and the Met are sending an officer

to oversee our investigation.

- Scotland Yard?
- What the hell?

Yes, I thought you'd be pleased.

So, you know the plan?

Roll out the red carpet,
welcome him with open arms,

full cooperation and
I expect nothing less

than maximum effort.

Sir.

And last but not least,

make bloody sure he doesn't
solve the case first, capiche?

Sir.

I will try and extract the materials

from the wound residue,

it may shed some light
on the murder weapon.

The victim was seen
leaving the dinner at 8:35,

it leaves us a murder
window of 13 minutes.

Eight without alibis,
one of the chaperones,

Lesley Canon and six contestants.

Oh, keep your shirt on,
I'm embargoed, remember?

I thought you might
appreciate some background.

Perfect timing, what do you
know about the dead girl?

Brassiere model from Coleraine.

Oh, steady, tiger.

One or three favourites along
with Miss Walton-on-Thames

and Miss Cardiff,
so if you're looking for a motive,

well, their chances of winning

have just increased by a third.

Is a beauty title really
worth killing over?

I'd say so, 3,000 pounds, a sports car

- and entry into Miss World.
- Hm.

You know the words,
a passport to fame and fortune.

Well,
Miss Walton-on-Thames has black hair

and there are...

Two more with black hair
that don't have alibis.

Right,
so tomorrow we take hair samples

and show this plod from Scotland Yard,

that we don't need him.

DCI Clifford Winner,
he's the youngest officer in the Met

to make DCI, his arrest
record is legendary.

Query intruder.

Rustle up some teas, will you, darling?

Don't forget the biscuits.

Thank you, WPC Button.

Did you get a statement

- from the security guard?
- No, not yet,

he was off sick yesterday,
but we'll get one today.

Morning, DI Sam Gillespie.

DCI Clifford Winner.

Mrs. Clam missed you at breakfast.

Egg, if I'm not mistaken?

I came in early to
write up the reports.

In my book, early's on
time, on time is late

and late is unacceptable.

So, should we get on?

Option one, an intruder,
option two, it was an inside job.

We'll be taking hair samples

to try and match those
found on the body.

This was a brutal attack,

this is more than just
tantrums and tiaras.

What we need is a murder weapon.

I'm examining residues
from the wounds

to see if that sheds light, oh,
Sister Boniface,

police scientific advisor and you,
I deduce are DCI Winner?

I was at the Post Office
and you forgot your lunch,

Mrs. Clam would have brought them,

but she has a first day
cover of native songbirds

and is expecting a veritable
stampede of twitchers.

Couldn't you have given
them to the poor and needy?

It seemed uncharitable
to add to their burden.

Well, thank you, Sister.

I'll let you know when and
if I require your services.

Yes, right.

Toodle-oo.

Well,
I heard rumours about the place,

but this takes the Garibaldi.

And then there's option three,

which I'm amazed has escaped you,
this security guard,

who conveniently went AWOL
the day after the murder.

He's a local man, he's not a suspect.

Let me be the judge of that.

I'll leave you to play hairdresser,

- while I go and talk to him.
- Would you like me

- to come with you, sir?
- Good lad.

We may need WPC Button
to come with us.

What do we want her for?

He patrolled the
ground once an hour

and didn't see anyone.

Dog.

Did you see Miss Belfast, Tom?

No.

What did he say?

Well, he may be a Tom,
but he's no peeper,

he'd seen enough and
got on with his rounds.

Take a statement,
preferably in English.

Local dialect, sir,
you get used to it or so I'm told.

Oh, you clearly don't
hail from these parts?

I'm on secondment from
the Bermuda Police.

My placement was supposed
to be at Scotland Yard.

Then how the hell did you end up

in this Godforsaken backwater?

I put it down to a series
of unfortunate events.

Actually, sir, um,

I still hope to get there one day.

Impress me and maybe you will.

Right,
let's see what the Beauty King

has to say for himself.

I sincerely hope I'm not a suspect?

Purely for purposes of elimination.

Did you know Clodagh well?

We'd been competing
together for years.

She was a consummate professional,

never a hair out of place.

I wonder.

Leonardo of Mayfair does mine,

if it's ruined,
there'll be merry hell to pay.

Watch out, greenhorn.

They don't think I should be here.

I was runner up in Miss Glasgow

and she got herself up the duff,
so here am I by default.

Why the sudden urge to
enter a beauty contest?

I reckoned I had more chance
of winning than the Pools.

My dad lost his job

and we've eight mouths
to feed on my wages.

One of the girls at the
factory entered Miss Glasgow

and I thought if she can, why not me?

Why not indeed,
I'll say a prayer for you.

Thanks, Sister,
but I think I probably need a miracle.

Right, that's all of them.

Should we get them back to the lab?

Yes, but first a detour
via the victim's room.

But you've already searched it.

So were you dropped
on the head as a baby?

You think I'd be stupid
enough to have an affair

with one of my contestants?

I imagine you get plenty of offers.

I'm ringmaster training these
girls for a performance,

a bunch of highly strung performers,
I might add,

so I threaten,
I cajole and I advise them.

One step beyond the platonic,
I'd be finished.

Then how do you explain
what the security guard saw?

Why don't you ask
the lady in question?

Come back in the morning.

Please, Mr. Canon, three minutes.

You've got two.

Why would a girl as neat as a pin

leave her drawers in disarray?

What, do you think
someone got here first?

The question is did they find
what they were looking for?

Hello.

It got blown to the back,
so partially burned,

a card judging by the thickness.

Why burn it rather than
throw it in the bin?

Well,
what's written inside may tell us more.

Burnt to a crisp.

Oh, you'd be amazed at
the restorative powers

- of a chloral hydrate bath.
- Hm.

Do you know who did it?

Everyone's saying some
nutter got into the grounds.

We can't speculate on
that at the moment.

Were you friends?

No one could call us
that after Miss Swimsuit,

she tripped me on the catwalk,

flat on my face in front of the judges,

claimed it was an accident,

but everyone knew what she was like.

What was she like?

Well,
let's just say she wouldn't win

a Miss Popularity contest,
not that I'd wish her dead, mind.

Thank you for your frankness.

You're welcome.

You need anything else,
just let me know.

Has anyone said,
you look just like Sean Connery?

What?

So what happened last night?

Just tell them the truth.

I needed to talk to Mr. Canon.

Ah, leave the door open.

- I'm as pretty as them.
- Yeah.

I can smile and walk in a straight line.

So what do you have to do to win?

Come here, turn around.

Here.

It's your hair, dated,
makes you look like Doris Day.

Whereas this year's judges
want Brigitte Bardot.

Go on, get lost,
close the door, will you?

And then what?

Then I went back to my room.

So if there's nothing else,

we've a beauty contest to put on.

Come on.

You believe a word of that?

Hairstyling advice,
I've never heard it called that before.

What, you think they're lying?

I think they had plenty of time

to concoct a story between them

and an affair would topple
the Beauty King's empire.

What about Miss Cardiff?

Doesn't have an alibi.

Certainly no love lost
between her and the victim.

I think I found something, sir.

Sister Boniface thinks
that the killer blow

may have indicated a
knowledge of anatomy.

Lesley Canon's background checks,

he served in the
Royal Army Medical Corps during the war.

Did he now?

Yes.

Do some digging into the
Beauty King's army record.

Nice work, sir.

Help me crack this and that
secondment's in the bag.

Something you haven't told me?

Ah, no, it's not what it looks like.

He only offered to put in
a good word, that's all.

Don't tell me we're not
good enough for you.

Of course not, but I did come here

to learn from the cutting
edge of modern policing

and I feel there's
more for me to learn.

I'd better get onto those army records.

I am not being left on my own
to the mercies of Mrs. Clam.

If DCI Winner solves this case,

Felix will be on the first
train back to London.

How long will this take?

Longer with you
ranting at my shoulder.

Cutting edge of modern policing,

I'll give him cutting edge.

What's cutting edge about
ruddy rules and regulations?

We have a match.

Your hairs were found entangled
in the victim's watch,

can you explain how they got there?

I imagine because she attacked me

on the, well, on the day she died.

You know the rules.

Any more silly beggars and
you'll be disqualified,

you got that?

The same goes for the rest of you.

Mr. Canon!

It was you that told.

Are you that scared
that I'm going to win?

Scared of you?

I'm not the one who
needs upholstering.

I haven't finished with you.

Now you've done it!

Pack it in!

Not the face, hey,
I said not the face!

What are you playing at?

All that over bone swimwear?

It reduces the waist and
accentuates the bust.

Everyone bends the rules a little,

but she was a sneaky Betty,

always going through our things
looking for rule breakers.

I wasn't the only one by any means.

Can I go now?

- I've got a rehearsal.
- Hm.

Miss Grimsby's vital
statistics are 38, 25, 36.

About time, garland's going up next.

Miss Grimsby also has
a set of her own teeth,

although you wouldn't know it.

Better, number five, Miss Glasgow.

Bit more of a head toss on the walk,

try it on the stairs as you come up.

Lovely stuff, see,
that makes all the difference,

starting to look like a winner now.

It seems Miss Belfast was a snoop.

Maybe she found something and
decided to turn blackmailer.

Your timing couldn't
be more fortuitous.

Our mysteriously burnt card perhaps.

The chloral hydrate treatment
clarified the letters,

but no,
they're too faint to make out.

If it's either ink or pencil,

infrared photography
may be more efficacious,

that's the bad news.

The good news is I think I've
identified the murder weapon.

Ah-ha!

Oh, yes, Ruth, thank you for coming.

I'm intrigued to know the
reason for my summons.

That makes two of us.

Well, Miss Penny's presence is pertinent

for prop purposes,
the wound residue is a mixture of wax,

naphtha, turpentine, dye,
lanolin and gum Arabic,

- shoe polish.
- Ah.

Black shoe polish, to be precise.

- May I?
- Wha-

Just one will suffice, yes, thank you.

Right.

Well, I'll have you know
those are Claude Chang

and cost 40 guineas.

My entire wardrobe cost less than that.

Yes, that had been noted.

Courtesy of Mr. Button,
pig skin being remarkably similar

in composition to human skin,
observe.

Oh, hell's bells.

Sister, no!

Behold, the murder weapon
has been under our noses

all this time or rather
on someone's foot.

Oh, um, I'll just dab that for you.

As good as new, almost.

Death by stiletto, you angel,

which means that Scotland Yard

have been on the wrong
foot with Lesley Canon.

Yes, very good, yes,
without a leg to stand on.

Though it does rather point
to a female perpetrator.

Hm, the question is

where did they dispose
of the murder weapon?

Oh no, no self-respecting
female would willingly

dispose of a pair of
designer stilettos, nope.

I'd wager she's still wearing them.

Ah, we need to look at all the shoes

of all the girls without alibis.

Initial indications suggest

it may have been used to
wipe the murder weapon,

which apropos has been
identified as a black stiletto.

A shoe, are you sure?

99.8%.

Good work, Sister.

That's a first, albeit a bit late

now I've nabbed our culprit.

This was found yards
from the crime scene.

- Who searched the area?
- Me, sir,

it wasn't there or I'd have seen it.

Captain of the
Ladies Junior Darts Team

without the aid of ocular assistance.

WPC Button is very reliable, sir.

Which raises the possibility,

that it could have been planted.

I prefer the possibility
that you're making excuses

for your officer's cockup.

You realise how much
time you've wasted,

because of your incompetence?

If it was down to me,
this would be a disciplinary matter.

I'll get these back to the lab for tests.

And that, gentlemen,

is why they shouldn't let
women join the police.

See if Miss Glasgow's got
a pair of black stilettos

- and bag it as evidence.
- And also all the shoes

of all the contestants without alibis.

Did I say that?

Until we've heard what
the suspect has to say,

I don't want you wasting
any more of my time

and that's an order.

Silly girl, actually starting
to believe she could win it.

It's not
"Sunday Night at the Palladium," girls,

come on, let's get back inside.

Come on, inside, shoo, let's go.

You were given a direct order.

From CC Lowsley,

"Don't let Scotland Yard
solve the case first."

Perhaps that has
clouded your judgement.

Peggy would never miss that sash,
you know that

and talking of clouded judgement, how-

How about your vested interest

in helping
Scotland Yard solve this case?

Can't you see, he's a man who's
all mouth and no trousers?

He is a man I would emulate.

Ah, and there was I thinking
we made a good team.

I didn't mean.

We do, apart from your blatant
disregard of the rule book.

I don't give a flying fig about the rule.

No, but I do.

Are you gonna grass me up?

Of course not.

Right, well, I'll take these

and we'll see what
Sister Boniface has to say.

I'm afraid traces of shoe
polish and brain tissue

leave no doubt the sash was used

to wipe the murder weapon clean.

It's all a little convenient.

I'll eat my hat, if it wasn't planted.

That would be more digestible
than Mrs. Clam's cooking.

Right, let's see if these
shoes have a tale to tell.

- Lights, please.
- Yeah.

Well, luckily for your digestive tract,

no signs of blood on Miss Glasgow's,

or any of them for that matter,

these girls maintain their
footwear with military precision,

spit and polish,
unfortunately for us.

Well, that's that then.

Well, the polish may
have created a barrier,

I'll scrape it off and see
if it reveals anything.

I'd better get this back.

I can already imagine
the look on his smug face.

Aye, that's mine, but I lost it,

after rehearsal on Wednesday.

One of the others pinched it probably.

Are they in the habit of that?

They are with me.

When did you meet Lesley Canon?

At Miss Glasgow.

Your first competition,

when you came runner up,
pretty impressive.

Are you sure you didn't
get a little leg up

from the contest organiser?

Or should that be a leg over?

He's older than my grandad?

You wouldn't be the
first to shut her eyes

and think of England or in this case,
Miss United Britain.

In your dreams.

Did Miss Belfast found out

and threaten to spill the beans?

That would've been the
end of your competition.

I'd like to see you prove it.

There's no results
from the shoes as yet,

but Sister Boniface has confirmed,

that this was used to
clean the murder weapon.

Looks like we just did.

I'll leave you to charge her at least,

while I deliver the good
news to the Commissioner.

I didn't do it.

Off the record, I believe you.

They can't put me in the jail,
I-I've a family to feed.

I won't let it come to that,
you have my word.

The powers that be
are jumping for joy

at such a timely result.

She hasn't confessed.

She will,

copper's nose,

I can smell guilt and she reeked of it.

I get it, no one likes someone
else stealing their thunder,

but the Met's motto is we lead,
others follow.

Talking of which,
are you set up for that transfer?

Yes, that is to say,
thank you, thank you, sir.

Congratulations,
it's what you always wanted.

I'm on the VIP table tonight, join me

and I'll give you the
low down on my firm.

You can't go, Sarge,

there'll be no one to
organise the systems.

I couldn't stay forever, Peggy.

Look,
I'll write and you can come visit.

You always wanted to
see the Crown Jewels,

we can go sightseeing together.

My dad went to London once,

didn't see a single smile all day.

Yeah, Gillespie.

I'll be right there.

Where are you going?

Just security for tonight.

Automatic disqualification
and the end of her career

as a beauty queen.

You have answered my prayers, Sister

or at least half a prayer.

It won't be enough for Winner,
we need some hard evidence.

Now there's nothing under the polish,

but fact,
if this is the murder weapon,

then Locard's principle will prevail

and there will be an exchange.

- Lights.
- Yeah.

Infuriating.

I never called it a principle, you know,

or used the word, exchange.

Well, it seems to have caught
on and as a catchphrase,

you'll have to admit,
it does have a certain ring to it.

What has?

Monsieur Trace is
shy and microscopic

and though he likes
to conceal himself,

eventually he must emerge
blinking into the light.

Try beneath the leather.

Roger that.

Roger what?

So, you have read my tract?

You could say it's my second "Bible."

Are you talking to yourself again?

I was not sure about my volume five.

Do you think I started
to repeat myself?

Well, you did go on a bit,
but personally I enjoyed it.

Lights.

Bingo!

Got her.

And we are live from the
grounds of Slaughter Abbey,

where in one hour,
11 eye-riveting glamorettes

will vie to become
Miss United Britain.

And with the enviable task
of selecting the winners,

this year's judges, actor Rex Cooper!

Racing driver, Harry Gumble

and comedian, Terry Pepper.

Terry's got something to laugh about.

But before the eye-popping
bevvy of beauties,

we have live music from
the Bello Brothers.

Could I have a word, please?

It's mine, but one of the
others must've taken it.

There were plenty didn't
like her apart from me.

You were in the exercise room
between eight and nine p.m.

The route back took you
passed the swimming pool.

You're saying I killed
her over a stupid contest.

That's the game,
you win some, you lose some,

there's always a next time.

Not for you,

Clodagh's snooping reaped
dividends on this occasion,

enough to get you disqualified for life.

It's burnt, you can't read that.

No, but we can read
an infrared photograph

"From Carys."

Happy birthday, Mummy.

I didn't mean to kill her.

Whose been a naughty girl?

What are you gonna snitch on me for?

I'll give you,
the kid didn't ruin your figure.

Nice card,

Mum.

I was only 15 when I had her.

She was so beautiful
and she was mine,

I just couldn't give her up.

You'd have done the
same thing in my shoes.

Hardly, unlike you,
I'm still freshly packaged.

I'm begging you, don't say anything,

not for me, but for her,
her name's Carys and she-

I couldn't give a monkey's
for your little mistake.

You're finished.

Once they find out,
you'll be Miss Nobody.

An unlucky blow indeed.

You wiped your shoe on
Miss Glasgow's sash.

I found it by the pool.

So you planted it,
surely that was risky?

I heard you talking.

Burnt to a crisp.

You'd be amazed

at the restorative powers
of a chloral hydrate bath.

Do you know who did it?

You knew we were getting close,

so you framed an innocent
woman for murder.

It was her or Carys,

what chance would she have
with a mother in prison?

All I wanted was for her to
have a better future than mine,

for her to be able
to succeed without,

without taking her clothes
off and getting leered at.

I did it for my daughter.

Sally Ann Jones, I'm arresting you

for the murder of Clodagh Kilpatrick.

You do not have to say anything,
but anything you do say

may be written down
and given in evidence.

And you couldn't ask for a
field of shapelier fillies,

than those coming
under starters orders

for this year's Miss United Britain stakes,

a veritable cornucopia of beauties.

And for the moment all
the men in the audience

have been waiting for,

the best of the peaches
from the beaches,

it's the Swimwear Round.

Now for the facts and figures.

Airline stewardess,
Miss Walton-on-Thames,

36, 24, 36.

Certainly the hostess with the mostest.

Miss Newcastle is a
bookkeeper from South Shields,

who would think it,
brains and beauty.

And from the look on
the judges' faces,

they can put two and two together.

Number two,
Miss Cardiff, Sally Ann Jo,

sorry, that's number five,
Miss Glasgow, Moira McDonald,

37, 24, 35.

Five feet 10 of Caledonian cutie.

Miss Weston-super-Mare
is a secretary,

she can take down my
dictation anytime.

You'd better have a good explanation

or you'll be spending the
remainder of your career

directing traffic.

She confessed.

Well done, Inspector.

I had a feeling that you'd
score a last minute goal.

I'm not sure what you've
been led to believe,

but I was fully appraised at
all stages of the investigation

and your men were acting
under my instructions,

as DS Livingstone can confirm.

I'm sure I can count
on you to back me up.

That's not necessary,
DCI Winner is correct.

I'll tell you about it later, sir.

Oh, I can't wait.

I'm glad you see things my way,
because we're off tonight.

Tonight, I thought
this would take weeks?

Big job just landed
and they need manpower.

So give you half an hour
to pack up your things

and I'll see you at the station.

Yes, sir.

I suppose this is goodbye.

Merely adieu.

Now you will come back and visit us?

Of course, Sister and I'll
wear gloves at crime scenes

and I will send Peggy a
postcard from all of the sights

and I will telephone before nine.

Scotland Yard are lucky to have you.

I will never forget Great Slaughter.

I can say hand on heart,

this has been an
education and a privilege.

Right, you'd better go and
break the news to Mrs. Clam.

There's a conversation I don't envy.

There's no need for
you to come, Mrs. Clam.

Nonsense, someone
had to see you off.

You don't get fresh
game where you're going.

- Thank you.
- Sandwiches for the journey,

I made your favourite,

at least I couldn't
remember what it was,

so I made egg and cress.

Thank you, Miss Thimble.

- No sharing.
- Thank you, Tom.

Oh, bye, Sarge.

Oh, if you're still on
for the Crown Jewels,

I reckon I can brave a trip to London.

You don't let her out
of your sight, mind,

she'd be an innocent dove
amongst a flock of vultures.

Aye.

Two innocent doves.

I will write.

You'll do more than that, I hope.

There's always a room
for you at the Sea View.

- Are we off then?
- Oh, right, yeah.

Bye, Sarge.

- Up that Smoke there.
- Thank you, sir.

- Goodbye.
- Take care of yourself.

Bye.

Bright lad like you deserves better

than a bunch of amateur yokels.

They're good people

and they welcomed me,
when I was a stranger.

Your DI's a maverick
sheriff in a one-horse town

and don't get me started on the nun.

Actually sir, even though our
methods may be unorthodox,

we do have the highest
cleanup rate in the county.

We?
Sounds like you've gone native.

Looks like I'm getting you
out not a moment too soon.

What are you waiting for?
Chop chop.

And now we resume live
from Miss United Britain,

where our seven remaining
eye-riveting glamorettes

await the judges' decision.

In reverse order, third place,

Miss Birmingham.

In second place,

Miss Newcastle.

And the winner of this year's
Miss United Britain is,

Miss Glasgow.

Well, one prayer at
least has been answered.

The comfort of having a
friend may be taken away,

but not that of having had one.

To Felix,
a fine officer and an even finer friend.

- Hear, hear.
- Sorely missed.

- Hear, hear!
- To Felix.

- Dr. Livingstone.
- To Felix.

- To Felix.
- Aye.

To Felix.

The usual, please George.

You forget something?

Apart from my integrity?

Ah, I understood.

DCI Winner would
not have understood.

He's not someone I can look up
to, nevermind call a friend.

You mean?

He's staying!

Who is?

Sergeant Livingstone
has come to his senses.

Oh, welcome home, Sarge.

Mistress Mumsy!

So, what do you say then, lad?

Ah, thank you, Tom.

Yeah!

You do realise you just volunteered

to be next year's Mistress Flumsy?

Yes, she or rather,
he leads the annual Mummers Parade

in town, while being
flagellated with twigs.

Oh, but don't worry,
the flagellation's purely symbolic.

It's a great honour.

Hold the front page.

I think he's pleased.