All language subtitles for The.List.of.Adrian.Messenger.1963.720p.BluRay.x264.[YTS.MX]-English

Get along,
Miss Sixpence.

Damn good hunt.

By the way, congratulations,
sir, getting the brush.

First brush Grandfather's
given away all season.

Envy you, quite green.

I like to see a thruster in the field.
Gingers up the whole hunt.

You earned it.
Thank you, sir.

As I recall, you were in
at the kill when I rode up.

Master's job
to stay with hounds.

Day I can't,
I'll let him there takeover.

Can't, Grandfather, before my voice changes.

Hounds won't obey.

You really off next week, Adrian?
I'm afraid so.

Saw that in theTimes
this morning.

Didn't know you were
a bloomin' celebrity, sir.

Adrian doesn't write his books
for you and you only, Derek.

Sorry, Mother.

A damned silly time
to be going away.

Three good months
of hunting left.

I've yet to find what father
considers a good time to go away.

Everything one wants,
right here.

Where are you off to, Adrian?
America, sir.

What on earth for?

Do you know what
they do out there?

Follow a drag.

Actually.
What's a drag?

An abomination.
What's an abomination?

Oh, something damnable like a...
Like a drag.

Blighters douse a bundle of
rags with some stink or other,

drag it over the ground,
poor damned hounds follow it.

Ruins their noses.

Call that hunting.

But, what's the object?
A sham.

'Bomination.

I had a brother who went to America once.
Canada, actually.

That was before
the first German war.

I'm sure he's
dead by now.

Almost everyone is.

Dinner at 8:00, sir.

Sherry at half-past 7:00.

Extraordinary how
alike they are.

Hmm...

And like Ian.

To me, he's always
standing between them.

Oh, my, I am stiff.

My first hunt of the season,
I can do with a hot tub.

Oh, Anthony.
Hmm?

Give me five minutes,
will you?

Of course, old boy.

If you don't mind my asking,
you're not still MI5, are you?

No. Thoroughly retired.
Pension and all that.

The Minister may ask me to come in every
so often for some trivial assignment.

Oh, well, that won't
interfere with this.

Well, what is "this"?

Well, it's just the most tremendous
favor you could do me, if you would.

Oh, so that's why I was invited
down here for the weekend.

Oh, my dear fellow,
you know how devoted the family is to you.

Go on, old man.

Well, it's... It's rather difficult, really.
You see, it, um...

It involves your doing
something without knowing why.

So, don't hesitate
to say "No."

Ten names,
ten probable occupations, ten addresses.

Scattered all over
the Kingdom.

So? What do I do?

Ask about them.

What do you mean,
"Ask about them?"

Well, just that.

I mean, I don't want their
families bothered by policemen.

I'll... I'll
put it this way.

Are those ten men still
living at those addresses?

I... I think that
should do it.

Suppose they've moved.
Do... Do you want to know where?

If you like.

Well, I'll do this for you, of course.
You knew that in advance.

And I also flatter myself
I know you well enough

to be sure there's a good reason behind it.
Am I right?

Completely.

Let me give you
a suggestion.

I've been
watching you lately,

and underneath that admirably
calm exterior of yours,

you're all wound up.

Why don't you
tell me about it?

No.

No, it's...

It's so preposterous that I can't believe
that my suspicions make any sense.

I'm rather counting on you
to prove that they don't.

Mmm.

When do you need
this information?

Be rather difficult
to collect, you know.

Especially, the way
you want it.

Well, I...

I should be back in England in about
a fortnight. Is that too soon?

Should be about right.

It's no good
theorizing, Anthony.

You'll only come to some
wildly improbable conclusion.

Like what you're
thinking now.

That I've uncovered some communist
or fascist or anarchist conspiracy.

Believe me, there's
nary a conspiracy.

And, anyway, if I'm right about this,
it's a far older sin than politics.

Good evening, sir.
Good evening.

Just one bag, Mr. Messenger?
That's all.

All right. If you'll follow the
staircase up to Passport Control...

Have a pleasant journey.
Thank you very much.

Your ticket, please.

And your passport.

I do hope
I'm not overweight.

I'm afraid
you are. Six pounds.

Oh, dear, I was
afraid of that.

Wasn't I underweight?
Yes, you were.

Average it out.
We're traveling together.

Awhite lie.
How uncommonly polite.

Haven't we met?

I don't think so.

My name's Atlee, the Vicarage,
Plumpton-on-Coot, Herts.

I'm sorry.
My imagination.

Your ticket and
your baggage check.

Mr. Atlee, thank you.

Thank you.
Good night.

Good evening, Mr. Le Borg.

Attention, please.

Anglo-Canadian Airlines Flight
21 for Montreal is now boarding.

ACA Flight 21 for Montreal
is now loading.

Attention please. Will the Reverend Mr.
Atlee please report to Immigration?

Reverend Mr. Atlee please.

Reverend Mr. Atlee,
please report to Passport Control.

ACA Flight 21 for Montreal
is now leaving.

Messenger. Messenger.
Messenger.

Jocelyn got me to tell...

Jocelyn got me to tell...

Jocelyn...

Photograph... Photograph...
George, Emma's...

George, Emma's...

All the brooms...

Clean sweep...

Only one broom left.

Clean sweep...
Clean sweep...

Clean... Clean...

It was sabotage,
pure and simple.

Communication with Shannon
was cut off in mid-sentence.

There was a hell
of an explosion.

You can hear it
for yourself,

if you care to listen to
the recording from Shannon.

I shall with the
greatest interest.

Oh, yes, by all means.

Come in, my dear fellow,
come in.

You forgive me.

You know Sir Robert Carstairs,
don't you, Anthony Gethryn?

How do you do, sir?

These two chaps
I know you know.

Ah, good morning, Pike.
Good morning, Flood.

Just digging into this
ghastly aircraft business.

Sir Robert's
convinced of sabotage.

Actually,
we've got corroborative evidence of a sort.

This chap who was fished out of the
water swears he smelled cordite.

Of course, that could be imagination
on the part of this fellow.

Le Borg. A Frenchman,
by the way. Raoul Le Borg.

Well, I don't know any man better qualified
to identify the smell of cordite.

Now there you are.
Exactly.

You know him?
The name struck a chord.

I looked up
some old files.

During the war,

your friend
blew up 31 bridges,

11 power stations,
two marshaling yards and...

Oh, yes,
five ammo dumps.

A thorn, it would seem,
in the side of the German Occupation.

Yes, Seymour, what is it?

We searched the
Clerical Lists, sir.

Not an Atlee
on any of them.

Mmm, we didn't think
there would be.

But a Reverend Mr. Atlee
was prepared to invest

173 pounds, 12 shillings
just to place a bag

onboard that plane.

Any word of unusual amounts of
insurance on any of the passengers?

Uh, not so far, sir.

It wasn't done
for insurance.

There had to be a motive.

Yes, definitely.
Uh... Take a look at this list, will you?

What's it supposed to be?

A cross-section of
Homus Britannicus?

Where did it come from?

Adrian Messenger
gave it to me.

Messenger?

There was a Messenger
on that passenger list.

Same chap.

I was to find out if those names were
still living at those addresses.

That was the way
he phrased it.

So far, I've learned that
six of the ten aren't.

The reason being,
they aren't living at all.

You'll find the dates of
death in this column.

The causes of death
in that one.

All accidental and covering a
period of roughly five years.

The last one, Dr. Devitt,
killed in a lift accident,

four months ago.

I think not.

I think the last one
was 12 hours ago.

It's my feeling that Adrian Messenger's
name belongs on that list too.

Check those other
names, will you?

Why? What connection do you
think Messenger would have

with a farm laborer,
a veterinarian,

a draper's assistant,
a car salesman?

I haven't the foggiest.

But the fact remains that six deaths
by accident out of any ten names

is too high a proportion
for chance.

But those six deaths
cover a period of five years,

and an area which includes
most of the United Kingdom.

If you really think that all these
deaths were tied together...

It would involve a mass
murder plot so preposterous

as to defy belief.

Adrian's own word,
"preposterous."

It was my impression

he thought no one would believe
his theory until he had more...

What
shall I say? Data.

Messenger was
a writer, wasn't he?

Isn't it possible he was letting
his imagination run riot?

He wasn't that
kind of writer.

Let me go
a step further.

Messenger's own death,
most certainly,

could be listed
in the accidental column.

That would be death rate of seven out of
eleven, that's a little more than 63%.

I could bear to know
how much more you'd want

before you took this seriously.

Yes, Pike, what is it?
One quick result, sir.

Ian James Dalkeith, 27 Bolthwell Square,
Edinburgh.

You may remember reading
about a railway accident

in the West Highlands
about two years ago.

One of those little Scottish Branchland
trains ran off the rails, 15 were killed.

Dalkeith was one of them.

72%.

All right, Pike.

All information available
about these deaths.

Who are the three
not heard from yet?

Um, Quincy, Rouse
and Slattery.

"Q," "R," and "S," eh?

Run them down, Pike.
Run them down.

And find out what the devil
links these men together.

There must be some
common denominator.

Very good, sir.
Shall I report to General Gethryn?

Oh, yes. You would anyway.

Oh, and...

Pike, I suppose it's
occurred to you that

if any of the three remaining
men is still living,

we can't be sure that
he isn't responsible

for the removal of the others.
Quite.

Therefore, the one thing we
don't want to do at this time

is show them even the
shadow of a policeman.

We can't have our fox going to ground,
you know.

Don't worry, sir.
We won't show them any shadows.

Any other notions, Gethryn?

Yes. If you have
no objection,

I'd like a word
with Le Borg.

According to the newspapers,
he was the last person to see Adrian alive.

He tried to save his life.

London Clinic, room 327.

No more visitors, please.
I am a weak man now.

I have a headache.

Just take this, please.

There's a lady
for the gentleman.

No visitors.

She says she's a relative
of Mr. Messenger's.

Let her come in,
but let her stay but a moment.

I'll see to that.

You may
come in, milady.

Madame, you will
forgive me if I do not rise.

I'm very sorry about your...

My cousin. He was
very dear to me.

He had no family
of his own.

I see.

I do want you to know how very grateful
I am for your efforts to save Adrian.

That was only in your
newspapers, Madame.

Mr. Messenger
was in the water,

he reached for the raft,
I only helped him aboard.

And alas, he died.

It was just bad fortune that
we were not found in time.

I'm very sorry,
milady, but...

- I'll push the button when I wish anything.
- But you said...

It's all right, Sister.
I'm just leaving.

Lady Bruttenholm, please.

For the first time,
my headache does not ache.

There is a gentleman to see you
and I told him he couldn't.

He asked me
to give you this.

The eyes, they do not focus,
if you will not mind?

"Will Ajax see Polidor?"

Polidor? It is a name
from antiquity.

Open the door. Open the door.
It is my old comrade in arms.

Mr. Gethryn, you can come in.

Thank you.

Well, Jocelyn,
I'm delighted to see you.

Wretched business, this one.
Hello, Anthony.

Oh, this is Ajax, eh? I must say you look
as though you've been through a war.

There is no man
I would rather meet.

You mean you don't
know each other?

Only on the shortwave.

It occurred to me
that you might've had

a belly full of questions
already about Messenger.

He bien, what is it
you wish to know?

What I want to know is everything
Messenger said, in the order he said it,

and whether or not
it seemed to make any sense.

This is important, huh?

Very.
So, okay.

There is a way with my mind that I
can sometimes use about remembering.

You wish me to have a shot?

Please.

He begins to speak.

His words, they are just words.
No sentences.

First he says his name,
many times.

Then he says,

"Jocelyn got me to tell."

Two times he says it,
maybe three.

"Jocelyn got me to tell.
Jocelyn."

Then he says,
"Photograph."

Then there are two names,
"George, Emma's."

Then they run together.

"George, Emma's photograph.
George, Emma's photograph."

Then there was a silence.

Then he shouts something
about brushes, yes.

"Sweep clean,
sweep clean."

"Only one brush left.
Clean, sweep clean."

Then it is as if
he had coughed.

But it was not a cough.

It was the end.
He was dead.

So, you have
written all this.

As best I could, yes.

Does it help you?

I don't know yet.

Anthony, why are you
asking these questions?

In the hopes of finding
Adrian's murderer.

Murderer?

It was because of Adrian that
the aircraft was blown out of the sky.

But that's impossible.
Adrian didn't have an enemy in the world.

Are you sure of that?

Is there anything you
can tell me about him?

What could there be?
He was one of those rare creatures

with no shadowy corners
in their lives.

He had two passions.
Fox hunting and writing.

One other, his cat.

Clean.

One brush.

George.

Emma.

Hmm...

Brush...

My dear fellow,
come in, come in.

I do not disturb?

Most certainly not.

What the devil are you doing
out of your hospital bed?

I have been thinking.

Splendid, come up and tell me about it,
if you're up to it.

Oh, I do not walk on
my arms, or my ribs.

I have been thinking that I,
too, was blown out of the sky.

And this offends me.

So, I am declaring myself
in on your hunt.

Welcome aboard.

Ah,
this is a big improvement on the room 327.

Whiskey?
By all means.

It begins to make sense?

Well, perhaps.

Thank you.

All one has to do is to put
the words in the proper order.

It's a wheel job, actually.
You could begin anywhere.

It could be, uh,
"Jocelyn got me to tell something."

Or it could be,
"Someone got me to tell something."

Or it could be, "Someone got me
to do something." "Tell Jocelyn."

Or, "Jocelyn got me
to somethings."

Well, we both
saw the same trap.

Trap? Where is this trap?
Phonetics.

You caught on that the "to"
could be T-W-O.

Yeah...

But it could also
be T-O-O. Hmm.

That...

That would give us...

"Got me

"too...

"Tell Jocelyn."

It is a sentence.
It makes sense.

Yes, it does make sense.

You mind if I pick your brains again?
Rather, that trick memory of yours?

I am to go back into
the cruel sea.

Okay, shoot ahead.

No, not quite yet.

Um, what kind of voice came
out ofAdrian Messenger?

What was its pitch?
Its timbre?

Was he gasping?

Did he stammer? In short,
what did he sound like?

It was not deep.
It was perhaps like this.

Messenger.

Messenger.

Messenger.

Good. Now, you listen to me.

Uh...

Messenger. Messenger.

Too deep. A little too
precise in pronunciation.

Ah. Uh...

Messenger. Messenger.

Excellent. Completely A1.

Fine. Now, back you go,
into the drink.

And stop me if you hear me say
anything wrong. Aword, anything, hmm?

Messenger.
Messenger.

Messenger.

Got me too.

Tell Jocelyn.

Got me too.

Tell Jocelyn.

Photograph.

George.

MS.

Photograph George.

MS.

George.

MS.

Well?

It is just as I have
told you. Exactement.

Not quite.

Phonetics again.

What I said was,
"Photograph George."

"MS."

What is this "MS"?

It's an abbreviation
for manuscript.

What he was really
trying to say was

that there's a photograph of George,
whoever George is, in his manuscript.

He bien, let's go.
We will visit the residence of Mr. Messenger.

When you count yourself in,
you really mean in, don't you?

Come on.

Oh, you startled me.
Oh, I'm sorry.

Who are you? I'm Mr. Pythian.
I live in the flat below.

Poor Mr. Messenger's cat was
meowing ever so pitifully.

I thought perhaps
she might be hungry.

I stopped in to feed her.
I promised Mr. Messenger I would.

Oh, she's already had three
big saucers full of warm milk.

Hmm, haven't you, puss?

You're very kind.

Oh, not in the least.
Uh, poor Mr. Messenger.

What a tragic loss.

He was such a polite man.

You know, we only had
a passing acquaintance,

on the stairs, you know.

I'm Mr. Messenger's cousin.

My deepest sympathy.

Tell me now.
What's to become of little puss now?

I'll take her.

Oh. You are a cat lover,
of course.

One knows instantly there's
an immediate affinity.

Two things that are equal to the
third are equal to each other.

Whoever loves cats, etcetera,
etcetera, you get my point.

Quite.

Uh, well, I guess
I'd better be going.

Well, goodnight,
Mr. Pythian.

Ah, goodnight to you.
And goodnight, puss. Hmm?

Thanks again.

Not at all.

Taxi.

Fulham Road.

Why, Jocelyn,
what brings you here?

I promised Adrian to look
after Omar while he was away.

It isMonsieur
Le Borg, isn't it?

The wine speeded
my recovery, Madame.

And the oysters.

More brawn than brains,
if he'll forgive me saying it.

We thought we'd have a look at
that unfinished book ofAdrian's.

In his desk,
center drawer.

Why?

Well, I'm hoping
Adrian can tell us.

Any Georges?

I'm afraid this is going
to take most of the night.

I'll make some coffee.

Come in.

Thank you.

Your husband will not be alarmed
that you are not at home?

My husband's dead.

He was killed in Korea
with the Gloucesters.

And you are a widow
all this time?

Yes.

Appalling.

I beg your pardon.

I am a Frenchman, Madame.

I abhor waste.

I don't understand.

You are a woman
of great beauty.

You should be making
happy some man.

And yourself, too.

Living alone is for the very
young and the very old.

I'm quite happy.
No, Madame, you are not.

You cannot be.

You should be making
fine children.

Well, I have a son.

No protests, Madame.

I speak only
for your own welfare.

Well, thanks very much.

Le Borg? Jocelyn?

Have you found something?

Come and have a look.

This is Page 101.

Page 135, picked at random.

This is Page 174.

Notice anything different
about them?

Well, 174 seems a line or so
shorter than the other two.

Look at the capital letters
on this page.

They're set higher than the
capitals on these other pages.

The typeface is the same,
so it was obviously done on this typewriter.

But, not by
the same typist.

Just because the caps
are raised slightly.

That's not all.

On every other page,

the semi-colon is followed
professionally by one space.

But on this page, all three
semi-colons have no spaces after them.

Why, you mean that
someone broke in here,

calmly removed a page from the
manuscript and retyped it?

With alteration?
Exactly.

Now, Adrian had reached the
point of his arrival in Burma.

Now, this page contains names that
were obviously important to him.

And equally, obviously,
one of those names has been deleted.

Now, the question is,
who did Adrian's typing?

Might just remember.

Well, I can tell you that.
It's a name one doesn't forget.

Gwendolynne La Doll.

With a Y, double-N, E.

Mr. Pythian.

The man you're looking for,
I've seen him.

He was in Adrian's flat
when I arrived.

You were alone with this...
This murderer?

It couldn't be.
He was such a mousy-little man.

He said his name
was Pythian.

And it would be.
He said he lived in the flat below.

And he came to feed
Adrian's cat.

Where are you going?

To find your Mr. Pythian.

You won't find him in this building.

I think he got
what he came for.

Then where are we going?

Miss La Doll
lives in the Fulham Road.

Jocelyn, suppose you
describe your Mr. Pythian.

If I can.

Below medium height.
I seemed to tower over him.

Narrow little shoulders,
narrow little head.

Sharp, pointed chin.

Why, that's the man
who took our taxi.

He was not the murderer.

You seem very positive.

I have seen the murderer.

The clergyman who did not
take the plane.

He was taller than madame.

With a square jaw,
a broad face.

Well, there's more than one person involved.
It's a conspiracy.

No, not that.

Adrian was a writer and he
chose his words very carefully.

When he said, "Nary a conspiracy,"
he meant just that.

There's only
one man involved.

One man,
who becomes many men.

Miss La Doll?

Gas.

She's gone.

Poor thing.

One hour lost.

And a woman,
whose only offense

was that she made her
living with a typewriter.

I've pressed the French
gentleman's clothes, sir.

Shall I awaken him?

Mmm, no, let him sleep.

More than I've done.

That sofa has a wild spring, White.
I wish you'd see it's attended to.

Yes, sir.

Come in,
Pike. Come in.

Any luck?
Yes, sir.

As you suggested,

I ran down the military records of
the names on Mr. Messenger's list.

It gave us our common
denominator.

Yes, I know, Burma.

Now, how the devil
did you know that, sir?

Get on with it, man.

Well, doesn't do us
much good, sir.

No two of 'em were
even in the same regiment.

They just happened to be
in the same theater of war.

Hmm.

A hospital, or a brothel.
Something tied 'em together.

Not a hospital, sir.

Major Messenger, for instance,
was never wounded.

I don't quite see him
in a brothel, either.

What about Q, R, and S?

Coming to them, sir.

Quincy took vows, became Brother Quintus,
Order of Saint Botolph.

Crushed under the wheels
of a hay lorry,

which, for no apparent reason,
rolled down a steep hill.

Rouse?

Disappeared about two years ago, sir.
Presumed to be dead.

Mmm-hmm. Slattery?

Well, he's removed from Twickenham, sir.
No forwarding address.

But we found him.

He's set up shop
in Greenwich,

Good man.

One out of eleven.

The sole survivor.

And then there were none.

Unless he himself
is the murderer.

Hey, you.

Off it.

You no like-a da music?

No, I no like-a da music,
and I no like-a your ugly face, neither.

Now off it before
I change it for you.

The police say I can
make-a music in the street.

I said off it.

Yes, mister?

Mr. Slattery about?

Not in.

Where do I find him?
It's important.

What's it about?

Break that guinea's
neck, I will.

I didn't know
you was home, son.

Well, maybe I ain't.

What's this in aid of?

I want to ask you some questions,
about your war service.

Proud to answer, sir.

Did me bit
for King and country.

Lost me barrel and keg
to prove it.

And where was that?

When last seen,
it was floatin' down the Rhine River.

No, I want to know about
when you were in Burma.

Who says I was?

Aren't you James Slattery?

No, I'm his brother Joe.

Oh, well, it's James
I want to see.

Well, that'll take a bit
of doing, that will.

Six foot under, he is.
Ain't he, Ma?

How did he die?
Heart attack.

Keeled over like a canary.

But he did see
service in Burma?

Oh, he had the soft end
of it, Jim did.

Balmy, tropic breezes.

While I'm freezin' me tail off
in la belle France.

He came back unscarred,
and look at me.

Oh, not that
I'm complaining, mind you.

Duty calls and Joe Slattery's
the first to answer.

What was your regiment?

Fifth Wessex, third Battalion,
B Company, Number One platoon.

Lieutenant Petrie commanding till he
caught a packet outside ofAntwerp.

Then Lieutenant Scott
took over.

Did your brother ever talk
about his experiences in Burma?

Jim? Never talked
about nothing.

He spent all his time
workin' the football pools.

Did you ever hear him
mention any of these names?

Braddock? I knew
a Braddock once.

First name Eric.

Come to think of it,
it wasn't Braddock at all, it was Craddock.

Anything else
you'd like to know?

Nothing.
Thank you.

Uh, what's this
all about, anyway?

We're forming a society,
Veterans of the Burma Campaign.

Good day, madam.

As I so aptly said, 11 names,
and then there were none.

That makes it 100%.

They're on to you,
that's what they are.

Oh, stop your natterin',
won't you?

Call it natterin' if you like,
but I say you've had it.

You tried the impossible and you
got away with it. But not no more.

Now I say run.
Run fast and far.

Ah.

How do you feel?
Ashamed.

That I should oversleep.

I am not the man
I used to be.

The years have
taken their toll.

Eight broken ribs and 11 hours in salt
water may've had something to do with it.

In any case, you were spared
a wild goose chase.

No progress?

All present on Messenger's
list have been accounted for.

There are no survivors.

Now we're left with an undecipherable phrase,
"Only one brush left."

What the devil did he mean?

Madame Jocelyn has
returned to the country.

Oh, she was here?
She stopped by.

Oh, I took it upon myself to suggest she
say nothing about yesterday. You approve?

I do indeed.
"One brush left."

You have known her long?

Yes, since she was a child.

Her husband was a good man?

Very good man.

A son survives him?

Yes, young Derek.

Perhaps I shall
buy him a bicycle.

I see. Ajax is a bachelor.

Like Polidor.

Avery good reason
why I'm not married.

She preferred someone else.
Derek's father.

He must have been
a very good man.

But he's dead now,
and you are alive.

My dear fellow,
don't give it another thought.

If we were to meet now,
for the first time,

it might've been
a very different matter.

But there's too much past
for both of us.

I have met her now
for the first time.

My point exactly.

He bien, let us return
to the murder.

Double gay and frisky
for jolly Joe Slattery.

Cheers.

Let's have another, Guv.

Uh...

Forget about that.

Well, Jim?
Are you satisfied now?

Jim?

"Don't you worry, Ma,"
you said.

"Jim Slattery knows
what's what."

What do you know now,
Jim?

Why did he take
his brother's place?

To draw Joe's pension,
of course. The disability.

Him that was well
and strong.

"What use is it to Joe?"
you said.

What use is it
to you now, Jim?

He lied to me.
It cost him his life.

It was the drink.

I always knew
there'd be an accident.

It was no accident.

Your son was murdered.

Maybe.

He made enemies with his
bragging and his bullying.

It was because
of something

that happened
a long time ago in Burma.

If he'd been honest with me,
he'd be alive now and I'd know the murderer.

He can't answer me now,
Mrs. Slattery, but you can.

He was in Burma, wasn't he?
Yes. He was in Burma.

To hear him talk you'd think no
one suffered in the war but him.

Him and his prison camp.
So that was it.

Oh, he suffered horrible.
Had the scars to prove it.

Did he ever talk about
his experiences?

Did he ever mention
any names?

No. He never talked
about anyone but himself.

Not Jim.

Thank you, Mrs. Slattery.

I should have never
taken the guard off him.

The old fool.
He only had himself to blame.

But we should be
grateful to him.

He's given us the one
real common denominator.

Now we need the names of next of kin
of every person on Messenger's list.

You can tackle
the first half.

Le Borg and I will start
with General Pomfret's widow.

It's Mr. Gethryn, madam.

Ah...

Oh.

How do you do?

You, um, telephoned,
didn't you?

I'm Anton Karoudjian.
How do you do?

Um, very good of you
to have us, Mrs. Karoudjian.

This isMonsieur Le Borg.
He was on the plane with Adrian Messenger.

Oh, yes, poor fellow.
What a fearful way to die.

I've read
Mr. Messenger's books.

One can only be enriched by exposure
to the crystal clarity of his prose.

Oh, Tony, please be quiet.

There's no need for you
to impress Mr. Gethryn.

Uh, my husband
served with Mr. Messenger.

My wife refers
to her previous husband,

Sir Francis Pomfret,
OBE, DSM, KB.

He was twice mentioned
in dispatches.

A brilliant officer.
I didn't have the privilege of bearing arms.

During the war years,
Mr. Karoudjian was Swiss.

Oh, Tony, don't
be such a coward.

What was it
you wanted to know?

Sir Francis and Adrian were in
Burma together, weren't they?

Well, it was a special force
that was trained in India.

Later they went into
Burma in '42.

It was a sort of
junior edition

of the Wingate later
and more important operation.

A very bad show.

Oh, why was that?

Oh, well, most of them were killed
and the rest were captured.

Including Adrian
and your husband?

Mmm. Oh, yes.
They had a ghastly time.

They were starved and tortured,
and finally betrayed.

Betrayed? How?

Well, the escape was planned.

Francis said it would have gone through
if it wasn't for a Canadian. A sergeant.

He sold them out for perks and tobacco and,
you know, things like that.

I wonder if you'd happen
to remember his name?

I'm most frightfully sorry,
I'm afraid I don't.

As a matter of fact,
I don't think Francis ever mentioned it.

He always called him
"that bloody Canadian."

Except "bloody" wasn't
exactly the word he used,

if you know what I mean.

Quite. Do you happen to know what
happened to this nameless betrayer?

Oh, yes. Francis
checked that, all right.

"Missing, believed dead,"
was the report.

Francis was awfully upset.
He so wanted to kill the chap himself.

Well, thank you so much,
Mrs. Karoudjian.

You have no idea
how helpful you've been.

A little more champagne?

I think not, thank you.
We must get back to London.

Good day.
Good-bye.

Good-bye.

Ah, Mr. Messenger was
very well-connected.

A great friend
of the Bruttenholms.

The who?
The Bruttenholms.

It is the family name
of the Marquis of Gleneyre.

I have read it
in the Tatler.

"Broome."
What?

If you must bandy names,

I do wish you'd learn
to pronounce them properly.

"Bruttenholm." Broome.

But it is spelled B-R-U-T...
I don't care how it is spelled.

Oh, I do wish
you'd learn to speak English.

You mean you've selected him
as the villain of the piece?

It is inescapable.

Some unknown Canadian,
guilty of some vague act of treason,

in some vague and long-forgotten
operation in Burma.

And you elect him
as a mass murderer,

when, so far as you know,
he didn't even get out of the war alive.

Balderdash.
Quite, but still inescapable.

But hang it, man.
Don't you see?

You've inverted the only possible murder
motive in that set of circumstances.

Certainly men can nurse
a loathing of a traitor,

conspire to murder him.

But it's ridiculous to suppose that
he would endanger his own neck

by setting out to murder
the very men he betrayed.

No use, Gethryn.

Your theory just won't wash.

Is it my turn now?

Well, fire away.

Well...

You went off the scent
with your assumption

that the only motive for the
betrayer killing the betrayed

is fear of his own life.

If it isn't the only one,
name a few more.

I can't. No more than one,
I mean.

Therefore,
it must be the right one.

The motive is fear, of course,
and self-preservation.

But it isn't fear of death.

And what this swine
wants to preserve

isn't merely the continued
capacity to breathe.

So what is it, hmm?

Can't be anything in the past,
because that's over.

Nor in the present,

or he couldn't have afforded
all the time he's taken.

Ergo, it must be
something in the future.

You do follow me, I hope?

I'd be obliged
if you'd tell me where.

Into the veiled land
of things to come.

Now...

What is it the Canadian wants
to protect so desperately?

Since he is guilty of treason,
obviously his neck.

But only in the future,

or he wouldn't have
taken all this time to

still the only voices
that could've identified him.

Therefore, he must be sure he's
going to come into some position

that will thrust him
into the public eye.

Pike,
what's been done about

identifying this Canadian?

It's all in hand, sir.
Seymour is at the War Office.

He's searching the records for every
Canadian that was in the operation.

Blessed if I can see
what kind of a future position

he could be concerned about.

It's got to be something
he's sure he's going to get.

Which brings us to the
question of inheritance.

Well, I'll be damned.
Millions or a Dukedom?

Or both, Sir Wilfrid.
Or both.

Pike, get on to the War Office
and see what progress Seymour's making.

- Le Borg?
- Hmm?

What do you call this?
Un balai.

Not in French. In English.

A brush.
A brush for the floor.

Back we go into
the cruel sea, copain.

What the devil
is all this about?

The final pieces begin to fall into shape.
Sir Wilfrid, you'll bear with me, I hope.

You ready?
Now, is okay.

Fine.

Now, you've been in the sea a long time.
Mmm-hmm.

Most of Messenger's talk
is finished,

suddenly he says something else,
something like this,

"Only one broom.
Only one broom."

No, no. This is not precise.
But now I remember.

He was saying,
"All the brooms. Clean sweep.

"Only one broom left."

Congratulations.
And heartfelt thanks.

This is better?
This broom means more than brush?

My dear fellow,
it means everything.

"Broome" is the family name
of the Marquis of Gleneyre.

Gleneyre? But that is
Jocelyn's family.

Quite.
Seymour, sir. He's back.

There's information, sir.

The only Canadian sergeant
in the operation.

"Sergeant George Brougham,
B-R-O-U-G-H-A-M.

"Duke ofAthlone's
Light Infantry.

"Missing, believed dead."

"Had a brother went to America once.
Canada, actually.

"Suppose he's dead by now.
Almost everyone is."

I beg your pardon.

Just remembering something
the Marquis said once.

Gleneyre. That's motive enough
for a dozen murders.

Hundred and seven, to be exact,
if you include the victims

of the airplane crash
and the train wreck.

Now the old Marquis
has his neck...

I shouldn't think
that he was in any danger.

But this chap, whoever he is,
he can't inherit until...

No, but he can afford to wait
for an 80-year-old man to die

in a natural course
of events.

No, it's the real heir
who's in danger.

The boy, of course.

Come on. Come on.
There you go.

Come on. Come on.

Come on. Come on.

There you go.
Come on. Come on.

I say, you startled me.

I want to see the young Lord.

I'm Derek Bruttenholm.

Then she's for you.

For me?
Aye.

A present
from Adrian Messenger.

Adrian? He's dead.

It's from him all the same.

Come on, lad.
Get up on her.

Just grab a handful of mane.

You don't need reins
with Avatar.

She's gypsy-trained.

Come on. Get up on her.

Now, your knees
will turn her.

And your voice will send
her on or make her stop.

Now, remember this, lad.

"Jatogree" means go.
And to hold hard, say,"Til droven."

Jatogree.

Master Derek!
Master Derek!

Well, thank heaven you've arrived.
We were beginning to despair of you.

Father, this is Monsieur Le Borg.
My father-in-law.

I want to thank you
for that business with Adrian.

Ah, it was
dreadful, really.

Who's that hallooing, huh?

Milord! Milord!

Milord. Milord.
Well, Lynch, what is it?

It's Master Derek, sir.
A gypsy man just put him up on a mare.

Gypsy? Where is he?
Well, he's in the stable yard, sir.

But Master Derek's
gone off in the fog.

Why the devil didn't you stop him?
Derek! Derek!

Where are you?

Hold, Avatar.
Til droven!

Derek? Derek?
Are you all right?

Look, Mother,
whatAdrian gave me.

Isn't she a beauty? Her name's Avatar
and she moves or stops on command.

Derek, what are you talking about?
You know thatAdrian's gone.

If you don't want the mare,
I'll take her away.

I've done my part.
Oh, we want her all right.

She took the stable fence with two feet
of daylight beneath her, Grandfather.

Derek, you didn't jump her in
this fog? No, Mother, she jumped me.

I've never ridden
such an animal.

And damned odd,
this whole business.

Adrian just buried.
And this gypsy fellow appearing with a...

When did Mr. Messenger buy the animal?
A year and a day past.

I was to deliver her as soon
as she was gentle and trained.

It's all right, Father.

Adrian and the gypsies were friends.
Remember, he wrote Romany Ways.

You can believe
what this man says.

Four-year-old.
Good bone.

Damned fine animal.

Hard to fault.
Well, here's a fiver for your...

You, uh, hunt, Le Borg?

Alas, the horse
and I are not compatible.

Ah.

Shoot, huh?

The birds don't attack me.
I don't attack them.

Hmm.

Fish?
Pourquoi?

All the fish one wants
are available at the market.

What do you do?
He swims.

Not by choice,
madame.

The rest are mine,
I think.

By George. You're right.
That makes you down three.

I am also a superb
tennis player

and I have
a two handicap at golf.

Uh, good game, I hear.
Never played it myself.

I have an apartment
in Paris, Avenue Foch.

And a small chateau
in the Auvergne.

My dear fellow,
you don't have to give me an accounting.

You are the head
of the family, no?

Well, yes. I suppose I am.

He bien. To continue,
my business is in textiles.

Factories in France
and Switzerland.

My income is not large,
but adequate.

About half a million
new francs.

That is 35,000 of your pounds.

For the rest, I am 43.
In sound health,

except for some
painful ribs.

And I have been
in jail only once.

That was by the Germans.

Your bid, Madame.

I pass.

These are all members
of the hunt?

Oh, no. There are always visitors.
Anyone can ride, you know,

if they pay the fee.

Good morning.
Good morning.

If you don't mind, please.
Certainly.

Thank you. Good hunting.
Thank you very much, sir.

Morning, Mother. Morning, sir.
Sorry you're not riding with us.

I myself am delighted.

I have had all the
broken ribs I care for.

- That's it, Little Gal. Find them.
- Go on then, Little Gal.

That's it, Little Gal.
Go on. Go on. That's it.

Come on.

Come on.

Come on. Come on, boy.

Come on.

Where the devil
did you come from?

I just followed the hounds, Master.
Eh.

You certainly
deserve this.

First time I've been beaten to the
kill in forty years as master.

Thank you.

What the devil did you
say your name was?

I didn't.
But it's Brougham.

We spell it differently
than you do.

It's B-R-O-U-G-H-A-M,
but it's still "Broome," Uncle.

Bless my soul.
Are you my brother's whelp?

George is my name.

Well, why the devil
didn't you introduce yourself?

Well, I thought
I'd size you up first.

That settles it.
You are a Brougham.

No matter how
you misspell it.

Derek. Derek. Come over here.
Here's a new cousin for you.

I suppose that's
what you'd be.

Canadian branch
of the family.

How do you do, sir?
Hello, Derek.

Come over here
and meet his mother.

Jocelyn, my dear.

This is my brother
Louis' son.

How do you do,
Lady Bruttenholm?

Didn't know he existed till five minutes ago.

Extraordinary, eh?

Welcome to Gleneyre.
Thank you.

This isMonsieur Le Borg.
Enchante.

Where are you staying?

At The Lion.
Very comfortable. Poppycock.

Derek, send one of the grooms down to the
village to pack up your cousin's things.

He'll stay at Gleneyre. Uh, no, no.
Thanks very much, Uncle,

but you really don't have to bother.
Rubbish, my boy. Rubbish.

It's your home, isn't it?
Hi, Gethryn. Come over here.

George Brougham.
Anthony Gethryn.

How do you do, sir?
How do you do?

You chaps should like each other.
Both thrusters.

Ah...

Got left
standing still today.

High Flyer gave me
quite a ride.

Fine animal. Where'd you get him?
Uh, Ireland.

About three weeks ago.
A birthday present from me to me.

Plenty of foot.
Big jumper. Mmm-hmm.

Well, sun's still high.
Time to draw another cover.

Come in. Come in.

I don't intrude?
No, no, not in the slightest. Do come in.

So, the masquerade is over.

And no need
for disguises now.

All that ended when the last
name was struck off the list.

All he's got to do now is to
be his own charming self.

What arrogance.

Making himself welcome
at Gleneyre.

Well, it makes it easier for him
to get at the boy from the inside.

You know, I hate to admit it, but I must
confess to a sneaking admiration for him.

My admiration I can restrain.
Huh.

What is the next move?

That is up to him.

Unfortunately.

I leave you gentlemen
to your port.

What do you do for a living
out there, George?

I ranch, sir.
Are there cowboys?

Wouldn't be a ranch
without them.

How much, uh...
How much land do you have?

Just under
20,000 acres, sir.

But I'm hoping to get another
8,000 before next year.

Twenty thousand?

Well, that's not so much

if you figure 10 acres
to a steer.

What kind of
cattle do you raise?

Uh, White face, sir.
Beef cattle. But I'm

starting a BlackAngus herd.
I hope to pick up a bull while I'm out here.

Do you now? Well, we'll, uh,
ride over to the bull pens in the morning.

You can take your pick.
Oh, thank you very much.

But your breeding might be too
rich for my blood.

What do you mean by that?
Well, it... No, thank you.

It might be more than
I can afford to pay.

My cattle, ain't they?
I can sell them for whatever I please.

Damned government still can't
do anything about that.

By the way,
is my brother still alive?

Oh, no, sir. My father died
a long time ago.

Was that back in '37?
February?

Yes, that's right.
The 16th.

How did you know that?
The foxes barked.

I beg your pardon?

Didn't your father ever tell you
about the Bruttenholm foxes, boy?

- The what?
- Any member of the family dies,

they foregather on the lawn
out there and bark.

Been doing it for
two hundred years.

Damned eerie, hmm?

Mmm.

I'm sorry about your father.

I liked Louis.

Well, if you want me
to fill you in on him,

he nearly lost the 50,000 you gave
him in a three-day poker session

on the train between Halifax and Moose Jaw.
Moose Jaw?

Yes. That's where he became a cowboy
and married the boss's daughter.

That was my mother.
That's where I got the ranch.

How did your father die?

On his way home from Saskatoon,
he fell out of the wagon.

- Wolves got at him.
- Bless my soul.

Yes. I spent the rest of
that winter trailing the pack.

One by one, I shot them
and skinned them out.

Traded their pelts to the
Indians for enough food to go on

until the last wolf
was accounted for.

Indians? Red Indians?

Yes. They adopted me
later into the tribe.

So you can say, Derek,
that you're a blood cousin to an Ojibway.

Were you
in the service?

Well, nothing so exalted as your father.
Sergeant was my top rank.

Did you see action?
Did I see action? I was killed.

- You can't be serious?
- That sounds an interesting story.

Well, not very. I got separated from
my outfit in the western desert.

It was three years
before I got back to Canada.

And when I went
for my discharge,

I found they had me listed
as "Believed dead."

They hated having
to correct their records.

Red tape. Same
all over the world.

By the way, sir...

Out with it, my boy.
What is it?

About that bull.

Now, thanks for your kind offer,
but if I can't afford it, that ends it.

I didn't arrive here
with my hand out.

I know you didn't, my boy.
I know you didn't.

- Monsieur Le Borg?
- Please.

Oh, now I've got it.

I thought your name
was familiar.

Aren't you the man that
survived that airplane crash?

I had great good fortune.

One chance in a million.

Another cousin of mine,
Adrian Messenger, wasn't so lucky.

Yes, the writer.

I've read everything
he wrote.

In a sense, he's responsible
for my being here.

It was his
Memoirs of a Fox Hunter.

Have you read it?
Yes, sir.

Ah, it opened up
a whole new world for me.

According to
the newspapers,

there's a strong possibility
that the crash was no accident.

If there was a bomb, it would have
to have been put there by a madman.

That's the excuse
they usually give for evil.

Hitler was mad, they said.

So he may have been.

But not necessarily.

Evil does exist.
Evil is.

Wait, Derek.
You shoot first.

One diamond.

Heart.

Pass.
Four spades.

I pass.
Pass.

Pass.
Spades.

- Uh, Brougham?
- Hmm?

Are you busy?
No, no. Nothing important.

Just going for a walk.

Come in for a moment, will you?
Sure. Sure.

Sit down, please.
Sit down. Thank you.

No, no. Over here.
Something I want you to look at.

Hmm. What are these?

Pages that Adrian Messenger was
working on from his manuscript

at the time of his death.
Oh.

Yes. Wonderful stuff.
Just finished reading it.

Memoirs of
an Infantry Officer.

I'd love to read it.

Do you notice anything
different about any of them?

Well, this one's shorter
than the others.

I mean, a line or two
less typing.

There is no reason for it.

As it isn't the end of a paragraph.
That's what struck me, too.

Well, the typist probably
just made a mistake.

That isn't all. Look here.
Look there. There.

Huh?

On every other page,

a semi-colon is followed, as it should be,
by one space. On this page, there are none.

What difference can that possibly make?
Perhaps none.

Perhaps a great deal.

The typeface is the same,
so it was done on the same typewriter.

But these variations mean that it
was typed by a different hand.

Well, Messenger himself probably
wanted to change something so he...

Adrian didn't know
how to type.

Oh.

Well, I don't
mean to be dense,

but what does it matter if a page
in a manuscript gets changed?

Wouldn't mean
anything to me.

If it weren't for Le Borg's
insistence that he smelled cordite

before that plane
conked out.

Cordite?
That would mean a bomb.

Mmm...
And a bomb would mean a target.

I'm wondering if it could
have been Messenger.

What the devil
are you talking about?

Now who'd want to kill a writer?

And such a good writer.
I don't know.

But the page
with the variations

had to do with his
experiences in Burma.

Had a very rough go out there.
Prison camp. All that sort of thing.

I'm going to turn this over to the Yard.
See what they can make of it.

Shouldn't be too difficult for
them to get a list together

of the chaps who were with
him in the prison camp.

One of them might shed some light.

What's the matter?

Well, you've got more nerve than I'd have.
How do you mean?

Well, I can't see myself going to
the Royal Canadian Mounted Police

with anything like that.
Boy, they'd laugh in my face.

Yes, a possibility.

I'll have
a shot at it anyway.

I think when I go
down town on Wednesday.

I can't thank you enough for your help.
I haven't done anything.

But you have. You've given me a
chance to put my ideas into words.

Sort of a dress rehearsal.

Well, if you want a listener, I'm your man.

For once,
he spoke the truth.

Evil does exist.

And he is evil.

As Holy Word says,
"Born of evil."

And now,

you have made yourself
the target.

He can't afford to have me
go back to London

and launch a lot of
questions about Burma.

Have you learned
any more about him?

Yes. Pike phoned through.

His dossier
came from Canada.

After the war,

he became an actor.

Touring companies
in the western provinces.

About five years ago,
his mother died and he inherited a ranch.

A few hundred acres.

Which he promptly
sold for $40,000,

which has carried him
up to this very moment.

He will move swiftly now.

Mr. George Brougham,
please.

Sorry, sir, he's gone for a walk.
Any message?

Yes. This is Arthur Henderson
calling. His attorney.

Mr. Arthur Henderson
calling.

I'm in London just for
the night at the Ritz.

Tell him it's very
important I see him.

Ranch business.

At the Ritz.

I'll leave a message, sir.
Thank you.

No, no. That won't do
any good.

I have to see him personally.
Get some papers signed.

He'll just have to
come into town.

I'm leaving for home in the morning.
Thanks a lot.

You'll hurry back,
of course?

You'll miss tomorrow's hunt,
but there'll be another on Saturday.

I'll be here. I wouldn't
miss it for the world.

Oh, Gethryn, how do you
like High Flyer?

Well enough
to let you name his price.

He's not for sale. But if you want
a good ride, you use him tomorrow.

That's very
good of you.

See that he stays out in front.
I'll keep my eye on him.

I promise to be
on top of the hunt.

Goodbye.
Goodbye to you.

Look to your hearts.
What has the fox ever done to you?

I protest this cruel
and inhumane activity.

Search your souls.
Don't you know the animals are your friends?

Are you the Master?
I am, madam.

Then call off this wretched business.
What harm has the fox ever done to you?

Why do you persecute him?

Madam, the fox and I know
more of life than you do.

It is man's nature to hunt. It is the
fox's to be hunted. Good morning, madam.

Propaganda.
Vicious propaganda.

Read what Oscar Wilde says.

"The unspeakable
after the uneatable."

That's what these
so-called gentry are.

The unspeakable.
Can she be the murderer?

And you so-called ladies of
the hunt... Any one of them can be.

- Which?
- Where are your fine, high instincts?

The fox you kill
may be a vixen.

Any vixen can be a mother.
Think of those motherless vermin,

not knowing what
foxhole to call home.

Which?

I did not
see the fox.

One usually doesn't.
The hounds follow the fox's scent.

Avatar's going well,
Derek, huh?

Damn it, Gethryn.
Keep your distance.

Where the devil do you
think you're going?

I'm going ahead,
Master.

You stay behind or I'll
bloody well send you home.

Sorry, Master.

Come on!

What happened?
What's wrong with the hounds?

Jim.

They seem
to have lost the scent.

Jim.

I've never seen this
happen before.

Good man.

Queer.
The scent was so good.

- Fox gone to ground?
- No fox.

We've been
following a drag.

A drag? At Gleneyre?

Unheard of.
Ruin the hunt's reputation.

What the devil
do you mean, Master?

Homicide, Lord Ashton.
And well-conceived, too.

There is the murder weapon.

I was supposed to be
impaled upon it.

Would've been too,
but for this old fellow.

Jim and I took him out this
morning before dawn, on a leash.

He picked up the scent,

pulled Jim over
the very ground we've covered.

Come on. Bellman here.

The oldest detective of them all.
He'll pick up the scent

of whoever laid the drag.

All right, George.
Come forward.

Get that ferocious beast
away from me.

Stop that
damn fellow.

Hold, Avatar. Til droven.

Derek. Tim.
Let's get the hounds back to kennels.

Jim,
see to Mr. Brougham.

Listen, Grandfather.

The Bruttenholm foxes.

Extraordinary.

Thought the next time they barked,
it'd be for me.

Hold it. Stop.

That's the end
of the picture.

But it's not the end
of the mystery.

Ladies and gentlemen,
the end.