All language subtitles for The.Agatha.Christie.Hour.S01E07.The.Mystery.of.the.Blue.Jar.WEB-DL.DDP2.0.H.264-squalor1

- Hard cheese,
m'boy, hard cheese.

- I don't know, Uncle George.

- You need time on
the 19th, m'boy.

That's what you need.

- I seem to get worse
rather than better.

- Oh, bound to happen.

All of us go
through bad patches.

I suppose so.

- How's the legal
stuff coming along?

- Not bad.

Started on Roman law today.

- You don't have to stay
at that hotel, you know.

- I know.

Quite honestly, if a chap
has to swot, Uncle George,

a boring hotel is the
best place to do it.

- How's old
Beersdale these days?

- He still seems to think he'll

make a solicitor
out of me one day.

He's been very kind,
matter of fact.

- Really?

Beersdale?

- Yes.

First thing every morning
when I get into chambers

he takes me through
some of my stuff.

- Well, frankly, I
am not surprised.

- What?

- That your golf's
not all it should be.

- Why?

- Well, I mean, here you are

getting up at the crack of dawn

doing half a dozen
holes before breakfast,

racing off to the city, braving
old Beersdale before coffee,

dashing back here to
finish up with Roman law

and hotel stodge in the evening.

Plain as the nose on my face,
m'boy, you're overdoing it.

- I don't know, my
iron shots are--

- Oh, you're iron shots are
alright, it's your swing.

Straight left arm, follow
through, and don't look up.

Afternoon, Colonel,

Bill.

- Don't you ever feel a bit odd?

- How so?

- This place being
the old family home.

It's all right for me.

I never lived here, but it
must be jolly odd for you

standing here,
propping up the bar

like any old Tom, Dick or Harry.

Oh, I say, I'm sorry.

- Oh, see what you mean.

Old Harry.

No, no, no.

I couldn't bear all
that noblesse oblige
how's-your-father,

could you?

Tenants, rents, good works?

God, no.

I've got a comfy billet,
golf club on my doorstep,

decent claret to
sup in the evening.

Lord of the manor?

Oh no, thank you, Jack.

No, I consider myself
among the most fortunate

portion of humanity.

And, I drink a toast to the man

who gambled away
the family estate

and left me in the enviable
position I find myself today,

my grandfather, Mad Harry.

- Wasn't there some
scandal to do with him?

- I should say!

He confessed to murder
on his deathbed.

- Murder?

- Oh, I forget the whole story.

Some girl mixed
up in it, I think.

- Why Mad Harry?

- Guilt, they say.

Drove him out of his mind.

Oh, good lord, there must
be more cheerful subjects

than my homicidal
grandfather and your golf.

Jenkins?

No, no, sane enough
family on the whole.

My only aberration was in
marrying your Aunt Mags.

- What about cousin Florence?

Wasn't there some dark
secret to do with her too?

- Nothing dark
about it, dear boy.

She eloped with the
local blacksmith.

- Sorry, Major Hartington?

- Oh, hello, Dodds.

You know my nephew
Jack, of course?

- Oh, yes.

How do you do?

What a felicitous encounter.

- Oh?

- My catching you, you know.

- What?

- Yes.

I've just managed to secure
a very fine Izaak Walton

in a superb Riviere binding.

It's quarto, no foxing,
very slight rubbing.

Also a splendid Jorrocks
with full-plate aquatints.

Again, quarto and full calf.

Now, they'll be arriving
within a few days,

so well, perhaps I might
bring them along to you?

- No good.

Joining the wife
in Italy tomorrow.

- Oh well, perhaps I
might leave them for you

to examine at your leisure?

- Yes, yes you could.

Leave them with Mrs Emmett.

- Oh, right, right.

- Don't be put off by her.

She only looks like
Attila the Hun.

- Good afternoon,
Major Hartington.

- Oh, Dr Lavington.

I think I found that JW Dunne
that you were looking for.

Quite a stroke of luck
as a matter of fact.

An Experiment With Time,
that was the one, wasn't it?

- That chap's
staying in my hotel.

Who is he?

- Dr Lavington.

Interesting cove.

Down here to write
a book or something.

Dodds brought him along for
a sherry a few weeks ago.

Wanted to show him my collected
Blake, don't you know?

Do you know what
he calls himself?

Doctor of the soul.

- Doctor of the soul?

Sounds a bit crackpot to me.

- Now, just a minute, m'boy.

"There are more things in
heaven and earth", what?

Well, I mean, take that
fellow Gandhi for a start,

bow-legged little grasshopper.

Hello, where's our tea?

You know, Mrs Emmett's
really gone to pot

since your aunt
went off to Italy.

- Now,

where was I?

- Dr Lavington.

- Oh yes, Gandhi.

Well now, you may think old
Lavington's a bit odd, m'boy,

but I've had the benefit
of visiting the East.

Now, if you told a sensible man

that Britain might
lose her Indian Empire

to a half-naked fakir
in a pair of bifocals,

whose only possessions
were a Kashmiri shawl

and the clothes he stood up in,

he'd never believe
you, would he?

But, it looks
increasingly likely.

Power of the spirit, m'boy.

Where is our tea?

- Power of the spirit?

- Yes.

Never underestimate it.

In Madras state,
I have seen chaps

walking across 30
foot of red-hot coals

quite slowly and deliberately,

and not only did
they suffer no pain,

but their feet
weren't even scorched.

Power of the spirit, m'boy.

Oh, there you are, Mrs Emmett.

Thank you very much.

- Thanks for the tea, Uncle.

Have a good holiday.

Love to Aunt Mags.

- Hate holidays.

Stupid idea.

Boats and trains and foreigners.

- Oh, thanks for the game.

I'll try to be a bit improved
for you after your trip.

Straight left
arm, folLow through,

and don't look up.

Murder!

Help!

Murder!

- Are you alright?

- Yes, of course.

- You didn't cry out just now?

- No.

Why should I?

- Oh, I see.

Well, where did it come from?

- What?

- A cry!

You must have heard it.

It came from just near here.

- A cry?

- Yes.

- I heard nothing at all.

Are you sure?

- Yes, of course, yes.

It came from somewhere
just near here.

- What sort of cry?

- It was a woman,
screaming blue murder.

- Blue murder?

What is blue murder?

Oh, I think somebody is playing
a joke on you, monsieur.

Felise!

- Oh.

- Excuse me.

My father, he is unwell.

- Good morning, sir.

- Young man?

- Yes, I'm sorry?

- Your coat collar,
turned up at the back.

- What?

I say, thanks awfully, sir.

- Yes, sir?

- Hmm?

Oh.

Oh, I don't know, Agnes.

Porridge and toast,
nothing cooked.

- Righty-oh, sir.

- Evening, sir.

- Evening, Mr
Hubble, pint please.

Do you mind if I...

- No, no, no.

Help yourself.

You looking for
anything in particular?

- What?

No, no.

Really looking to see if
anything happens around here.

- Well, depends what you
mean by "happens" really.

The sale of work
happened last Saturday,

and there's a dance happening

at the church hall this
Saturday, refreshments provided,

but you'll have to
wait until Thursday

for a full-blown fete.

That the sort of thing you mean?

- No, not exactly
what I had in mind.

I mean, look at the
national papers.

Full of news.
- Oh, yes?

- News?

- Well, sport and crime and

scandal.

- Wouldn't get into our local
rag anyway, stuff like that.

Well, not as such.

They try to keep
that sort of thing

out of the Clarion-Argus.

Lowers the tone
of the area, like.

- Yes well, I obviously
chose the right place,

ideal for a holiday.

- Ah, a holiday,

that sacred cow of
our industrial age.

- Well, more of a
working holiday really.

Dr Lavington, isn't it?

- How do you do?

- How do you do?

I'm Hartington.

You know, lots of golf
to offset the revision.

- Ah!

- You see, I'm an
articled clerk.

Got my exams soon.

- I thought you were
working rather too hard.

- Too hard?

Why do you say that?

It shows.

- Does it?

- Well, a certain abstraction
at breakfast this morning.

- Oh, yes.

I thought as a matter of fact
that you were on holiday here.

- No, no, not quite.

It's true I still
practice in Hove

now that I've left
Harley Street,

but those of us lucky
enough not to be involved

in the industrial process,

a change of activity
should be sufficient

to renew the spirit if
you don't overdo it.

No.

I'm here to write a book.

- Uncle George doesn't
like holidays either.

Hope he lasts the course or
he'll get stick from Aunt Mags.

- Ah.

I suppose you're right, though.

For the renewal of the spirit
it's an excellent spot,

peace made manifest.

In terms of dramatic incident,
luckily it's a desert.

Murder!

Help!

Murder!

Mademoiselle!

Mademoiselle.

- Yes?

What is it?

- Oh, mademoiselle, you
heard it this time anyway?

- I've heard nothing,
nothing at all.

- But, just now.

I mean, you must have done.

- Are you all right, monsieur?

- What do you mean, all right?

- Well, are you
feeling all right?

I mean, have you been unwell?

Don't overdo it.

Only young once.

I thought you
were working rather too hard.

Are you feeling
all right, monsieur?

Are you feeling all right?

Murder!

Help!

Murder!

- Thank you.

- More coffee, sir?

Yes,
thank you, Agnes.

- Excuse me, Dr Lavington.

Do you mind if I join
you for a moment?

- I'd be delighted.

Sit down.

- Thank you.

- Well, what can I do for you?

- Just an idea I had.

You know I told you I came
here to swot for my exams?

- Yes, although from the
first moment I saw you

I thought you an unlikely
candidate for a place like this.

- Oh, my uncle
lives not far away.

If I feel like some home
comforts I can always...

Anyway, we both like golf,

and that's how I relax you
see, playing golf with him.

But, he's away for a week or
so, and I was wondering if...

You do play golf, do you?

- Well, to call it "play"
is perhaps an indulgence.

I struggle, but yes,
I know the rules.

I lack the requisite
equipment, however.

- That's no problem.

They have spare
clubs for visitors.

- Well, I thought, I
mean, I just thought

well there I am every morning,

but only if the idea appeals.

- I'd be delighted.

You always manage to
catch the 8:56, don't you?

- Shall we say 7:50?

- Is 7:00 too early for you?

- I shall look forward to it.

As a matter of fact, I've
struck a small difficulty

in the argument in my book.

Perhaps a little
fresh air and exercise

might put my thoughts together,

but I warn you, you
must be prepared

to run out the handsome winner.

- Oh no, really, sir.

- Good second shot of yours.

Right by the green.

- Thanks.

- Do you think
this is all right?

- Yes, I should say so.

Good shot.

Oh, bad luck.

- I think it'll be a good
day when this mist clears.

You're on at the
next hole, what?

Murder!

Help!

Murder!

- You got a four surely, at
the last hole, didn't you?

So, what was all that about?

- I was going to ask
you the same question.

- Were you?

- You're a doctor, aren't you?

- Yes.

- Well, go on, then.

I know very little about you.

The only thing I do know is
that I have recognized in you

all the signs of a man
under considerable stress.

I must confess a fascination
to what that stress could be.

- I can tell you easily enough.

I'm going off my chump.

- Really?

- I tell you, I'm going mad.

- How curious, how very curious.

- Oh, that's what it is, is it?

My God, you doctors.

Oh come,
come, my friend.

To begin with, although I've
taken my medical degrees,

I don't practice
conventional medicine.

- Oh, and what do you practice?

Witchcraft?

- Well, let's just say that
I'm not a doctor of the body,

of the soma.

Or the mind?

- Now, that's much nearer.

Although I like to use "mind"
to describe the mechanical,

the rational aspects of thought.

- Oh, yes, the soul.

Uncle George told me,
doctor of the soul.

- I hear the disparagement
in your voice,

but what is a man to do?

I've explained why I
don't use the word "mind".

"Psyche" has been appropriated

by followers of the
Viennese school.

"Brain" is a description
only of the physical organ.

No, "soul" suits me
since it's a word

which transcends religions
and philosophies,

but you may call
it what you like

provided that the
word you choose

denotes that principle
of consciousness,
of self-awareness,

which is deemed to be
independent of this bone house,

the body.

- All right.

- Now, shall I tell you what
struck me as being curious?

- Go ahead.

- Just how such a
well-balanced normal young man

of yourself could
suffer from the delusion

that he was going
out of his mind.

- Well, I am.

I've got a screw loose.

- Forgive me for saying
so, but I don't believe it.

- Look, I suffer from delusions!

- No sorry, can't
be done, not you.

- I tell you, I hear things
that nobody else hears!

- Well, that's quite different.

- Sorry, beg your pardon?

- That's different.

That may not necessarily
be a delusion.

- What?

- It could as easily be evidence

of a sense refined
beyond the ordinary.

- I don't understand.

- One man in a thousand can
see the moons of Jupiter,

but until Galileo
made a telescope,

nobody believed they were there.

Certain men can smell water
in a desert miles away.

Dogs can hear sounds well
beyond human hearing.

The sense of touch in some
blind people is so refined

that it enables them to perceive

the color of
objects they handle.

I could go on.

- Yes, but--

- All I'm saying is we do
not call the possessors

of these refined
instruments mad.

- What do we call them?

- Must you go to the city today?

- Old Beersdale promised
to take me through torts.

I'm quite bad at torts.

- Then breakfast is a necessity.

Get changed.

I'll meet you downstairs
in 10 minutes.

Then we can decide
whether you have grounds

for believing you're going mad,

and we can decide whether or
not to lock you up afterwards.

- And, there it is.

I think I've told
you everything.

What I can't understand

is why this morning
it should come

at nearly half past seven,
almost five minutes late.

- Yes, that is odd.

What's the time by your watch?

- 8:25.

- Well, that's
simple enough, then.

Your watch is fast.

Mine says 8:22.

That's a very interesting
and valuable point.

In fact, it's vital.

- In what way?

- Well, an obvious explanation
would go something like this.

On the first morning you
did hear some such a cry,

possibly a silly joke
on somebody's part.

Then on subsequent
mornings at the same time

you merely suggested to
yourself that you heard it.

- Yes.

- But that explanation
wouldn't work,

because if it was a
case of autosuggestion

you would have had
to have heard the cry

when you knew or thought you
knew that it was 25 past.

- So, where does that leave us?

- The only theory I believe
fits the fact so far

is that the cry locates itself

very precisely in
time and space,

the place being in the
vicinity of the cottage,

the time being 25 past.

- Excuse me.

- Oh, thank you.

- Thank you.

- Yes, but why me?

I don't believe in ghosts.

All that spook stuff,
spirits rapping and so on.

As far as I'm concerned
it's a load of rubbish.

Why should I hear
the damn thing?

- It's a curious fact that
many of the best mediums

are made from
confirmed skeptics.

It isn't by any means the case

that those who are interested
in occult phenomena

are those who experience
manifestations of it.

- Yes, but what
are we going to do?

- Well, you're going
to struggle with torts,

at which you are quite bad.

If you hurry you'll manage
to catch your train.

- I'll meet you in the
Dragon's Head at six.

- Yes.

Look, just one thing.

- What's that?

- Well, the girl.

- What about her?

- I'm sure she's, well,
all right, you know.

- You didn't tell
me she was pretty.

Cheer up.

If I'm not mistaken,

the mystery started
well before her time.

- You mean, you actually
went to the cottage?

You spoke to her?

- Yes, and you
were quite correct.

The young lady is
most attractive.

But, the visit was not

the most informative
period of my day,

although I did
establish two things.

- Yes?

- That Mademoiselle Marchaud,
that's her name incidentally,

she's French, comes from
Tours, Felise Marchaud.

Her father's very ill.

- Oh, yes, I know, I heard him.

- I established that the cottage

possesses a reputation locally

and Mademoiselle Marchaud
is frightened of something

that's not merely her
father's impending death.

- What is she frightened of?

- I don't know.

I couldn't interrogate
the poor girl.

After leaving then I
went to the bookseller.

- Mr Dodds?

- Yes, luckily he's a
something of a local historian

or I might have
taken days over it.

- Over what?

- Over the history of
one of your family.

Sir Harry Hartington,
Mad Sir Harry,

as I gather he's
known hereabouts.

- Yes.

- What do you know about him?

- He's supposed to have
confessed to murder.

Some girl or something.

Uncle George was
rather vague, you know?

- He did confess on his
deathbed that 30 years before

he had murdered his mistress.

Same again?

Please.

Yes, I'll
bring it over to you, sir.

- He murdered his mistress?

What else did you find out?

Nothing much immediately,
merely the outline of the story.

There was a hint that the girl

was either being
paid by Sir Harry

or that she had been
blackmailing him

shortly before she disappeared.

Anyway, she seems
to have had money.

And, one fine day she vanished
off the face of the earth.

There were a lot of
woods around here then,

foresters, charcoal burners.

Anyway, the woods were searched
for days with no result.

She was never seen
or heard of again

until your grandfather's
confession.

Thank you, Mr Hubble.

- So, we know nothing else?

- Oh yes, we do and
this is incredible.

She was last seen in the
place where she lived

which was the
Marchauds' cottage!

- Excuse me, sir.

Sorry to interrupt.

I wouldn't normally do it
for the world, naturally.

- What's up, Agnes?

- There's this young person
who wishes to speak to you.

She's a foreign person.

Calls herself

Fleas Marsha!

Honestly.

Anyway, it's urgent, she says.

- Where is she?

- I put her in the lounge,

so you can speak to
her confidential.

- Right, I'll come at once.

- I'll just put these
books in my room

and collect my pipe,
if you don't mind.

You go and make
the girl at home.

- Mademoiselle.

- Monsieur.

- May I offer you something?

A glass of sherry?

Coffee, perhaps?

- Thank you, no, monsieur.

I must not stay long.

My father--

- Of course.

Thank you, Agnes.

- I owe you an
apology, monsieur.

- No, I'm sure you don't.

- Oh yes, I do.

I doubted you and
now I'm repaid.

I've also heard the voice.

The cry!

- Oh, thank God.

You know Dr
Lavington, don't you?

Mademoiselle.

- Yes, but I didn't know--

- It's all right, I've told
Dr Lavington all about it.

- About--

- About what I heard,
about what we heard.

- Yes, I've heard it too.

- May I ask when, mademoiselle?

- This morning.

I was in the garden.

It was nearly half past seven.

I looked for you.

- I didn't play this morning.

- What did the voice say?

- "Murder!

"Help!

"Murder!"

- That's it.

You see, Doctor?

- Go on, mademoiselle.

- Must I?

- I want you to
tell me everything.

- Well, at first I did not,

how do you say?

Put it together with the dream,

but all day I've thought--

- The dream?

What dream?

- It's difficult to explain.

I dream, and yet I do not dream.

The first time I do not remember
waking, but I was awake.

There was great fear.

In my nostrils was a
smell, a strong smell,

like a bonfire
after a rainstorm.

I got up, searched the house,
and there had been no fire.

The next time it
was a true dream.

I am in the cottage.

Again there is the smell,

but now I'm dreaming the smell.

A girl dressed in old-fashioned
clothes stands before me.

At first I see only her face.

There is beauty there,

but much pain.

Much pain.

Then I see that she's
holding out towards me

a tall

jar?

- Jar?

Yes.

- I look at the jar.

It's beautiful.

Blue pattern

with flowers

and fruits.

- And then?

- I don't know.

I remember her face which
is pleading with me.

And, I remember my own fear.

Mostly I remember the fear.

How long
has this been going on,

mademoiselle?

- It started a few weeks after
we moved into the cottage.

Now I dread the night!

- I think you should escort
Mademoiselle Marchaud home.

- Yes.

- I can hardly tell
you not to worry.

I don't want to
trivialize your fear.

All I can tell you is that
you are no longer alone.

- Don't come any further
because of my father,

you understand?

- Of course.

I'll stand and watch
until you're indoors.

- I think you're a good man.

- Terrific, yes.

- Will I see you again tomorrow?

- I want to hear what your
doctor friend has to say,

don't you?

- Yes, I do.

- Then I shall see you tomorrow.

Goodbye.

- Au revoir.

Damn!

- You called, sir?

- What?

- Oh, yeah.

- This coffee, Agnes--

- Yeah, it's too hot, sir.

- Yes.

- Oh, as usual.

You know, I keep telling them.

Shall I take it away?

- No, leave it.

- It's no bother, sir.

- Morning, sir.
- Morning, morning.

Good morning, young man!

You're early.

- I decided not to
play, matter of fact.

- Very sensible.

Actually, I've been
trying to remember.

You know that jar the
girl was talking about?

- Oh, the one the woman
in the dream was holding?

- Yes.

I think I've seen
one like it before.

- Really?

- I can't think where.

Still, I've got
conveyancing today.

- Conveyancing, eh?

- I'm not bad at conveyancing.

- Good.

- Got it!

- Yes?

- Hoped you'd be here.

It's what we talked
about this morning.

Mr Hubble, a pint
please, and what's yours?

- A small whisky,
if you'd be so good.

- And, a small whisky.

The blue jar.

Remember?

- Ah yes, the blue jar.

- Yeah, you see, Uncle George
has got one in his hallway.

- Has he really?

- Is there something wrong?

- No.

Well, your Mr Dodds is a
mine of local information,

buried treasure
and goodness knows

what I got from
him this morning.

- Really?

- Remember I told you
there were charcoal burners

in the woods around here?

- Yes.

- They used to move
through the woods

like gypsies, of course,
but it seems they had

one main camp near the village.

Last of the charcoal burners
left to join up 20 years ago,

and the campsite was
turned over to new housing.

When they were digging
the foundations

for the new houses
they came across

the charcoal burner's
treasure, a tin box,

lots of coins, bits
of gold jewelery,

but most importantly a bag
of Victorian gold sovereigns

worth hundreds today, of course.

- Yes.

Look, I think this jar
might be important.

- Hartington, I'm afraid I told
you an untruth a minute ago.

Something is the matter.

- What?

- I went to see the
Marchauds this morning.

I'm very worried
about that girl.

I think she might
well be in danger.

- What?

- Not danger as most people
would interpret the word,

but danger all the same.

Power of
the spirit, m'boy.

Beautiful, blue
pattern with flowers and fruits.

Never
underestimate it,

power of the spirit.

I can
remember my own fear.

Mostly I remember the fear.

You
got a four surely

at the last hole, didn't you?

- Just a cup of
coffee please, Agnes.

I'm awfully late.

- Right.

- I overslept.

Thank you.

- Hartington, I've
been a complete fool.

- What?

- Well, not listening
to you mostly,

not seeing what was
under my own nose.

I think the key to the whole
thing might be the jar.

- I was trying to tell you that.

- Yes, I know, and I apologize.

I was following a theory
of my own, if you remember.

I think it is essential

that all three of us
meet this evening.

- Yes, all right, absolutely.

At the pub?

- Yes.

- Good, good.

Look, I'm sorry, I
really must dash.

Will you organize it?

- Of course.

- Good.

- Here you are, sir.

- Oh, thanks.

- Let us suppose the
events were as follows.

Mad Sir Harry paid
the charcoal burners

not only to do
away with the girl,

but get rid of the body also.

That would account for the
treasure, would it not?

- Yes, indeed,

and the smell of
burning in your dream.

- Yet, the most
persistent feature

of Mademoiselle Marchaud's dream

was the unaccountable
smell of burning.

- Yes, but what does it mean?

- The whole meaning
eludes me at the moment,

but some things I do know.

The shedding of innocent
blood is at the center

of the most powerful myths
in the history of the occult,

and not only that.

"The voice of thy
brother's blood

"cryeth unto me
from the ground."

I believe that this girl's
blood cries to us now.

It has waited a long time.

It has at last found
two sensitives,

yourself and
Mademoiselle Marchaud,

through whom to make the link.

- Now I see.

- Yes, but why the
blue jar, monsieur?

Of all things in the dream

I seem to see it
most clearly of all.

What is this thing?

- What do you think, Hartington?

- I'm pretty sure
there's one just like it

in my uncle's house.

It could well have come from
the family home, do you see?

Though what it could have to do

with this whole thing beats me.

- It could be the key.

To what, we don't know.

A key is meaningless in itself,

but can be the means
to great things.

The blue jar could be some
link in the pattern of energies

which allowed you to
hear this girl's voice.

That voice requires
something of us,

and I believe we should
listen to whatever it is.

- Yes, but how?

- Can you get a hold of the jar?

- Of course.

Uncle George won't mind.

He only uses it as
an umbrella stand.

In any case, he's on holiday.

- Do you believe we
can do it, Doctor?

- Lavington.

Lay to rest a perturbed spirit?

- If only that could be.

- I think we should try this out

as soon as possible, Doctor.

I'll run down to the house
and get it straight away.

Shall I meet you
both at the cottage?

- Yes, good man.

Jack!

- Oh, Uncle George.

- Oh Jack, dear boy, what
on earth are you doing?

Can I help?

- Uncle George,
you're back early.

- Funked it, I'm afraid.

Dreadful crossing.

Lost a perfectly good Poland
breakfast to the fishes,

and the sight of Calais

and the smell of that
awful French tobacco

and that pansy
language, all too--

Hello!

Where on earth
did you find that?

Do you know, I
thought I'd lost it?

No, I had to rest up in
Paris for a couple of days.

Sent a wire.

"Indisposed."

Awful coward, and
I suppose your aunt

will wreak her vengeance,
but there we are.

I say, you look terrible.

What's up?

- Well, it's a long story.

- You look as though
you need a brandy.

Come in this den and
tell me all about it.

By God, Jack, that
is a pretty rum tale.

And, you think there's
something in it, do you?

- Yes, I do.

- Well, what did I tell you?

"More things in
heaven and earth", eh?

This gal of yours,
pretty, is she?

- She's beautiful.

- French, you say?

- Yes.

- Well, when you've
sorted this lot out

you'd better get
down to some work.

Looks as though you'll have
to pass your exams after all.

Supporting aged foreign-in-laws

doesn't exactly come
cheap, you know.

Well wll lad, take
that damn pot of yours

and keep your rendezvous.

- Oh I say thanks
awfully, Uncle George.

- I say nothing dangerous
in it, is there?

- No!

No, this chap Lavington knows
exactly what he's doing.

- Oh well, that's
all right then.

Off you go.

- Thanks awfully.

Oh!

- Oh, good evening!

- Yeah, yeah.

- You've come.

I was worried.

- I wouldn't let you down.

No, I know.

Listen, we must be quiet.

My father is asleep upstairs.

We must not wake him.

No, of course.

I've made some coffee for you.

- Well done, Hartington.

Now, let's see if Mademoiselle
Marchaud can identify it.

- Yes.

Hey, it's all right.

We're all in this together.

- Sit down, mademoiselle.

We will need all our strength,

all our clarity of mind,
all our resources of will.

Hartington, we've been
drinking strong black coffee,

and I suggest you do too.

It may be a long session.

It will require great
concentration from us all.

- Yes, of course.

Are you sure you're all right?

- Yes.

And you?

- Yes.

Sorry, that's a bit hot for me.

Shall we?

- Take your time.

- You haven't told us
yet what we have to do.

- What we have to try to do.

We may not succeed.

- Nevertheless, we must try.

- Oh yes, we must try.

All our energies must combine
in the corporate purpose

of sensing what there
is in this place.

A pulse of energy, a
faint residue of spirit,

half evaporated by time,
gathering itself into a voice.

- Yes, I see.

Felise!

Felise!

- Excuse me a moment.

My father.

- Of course.

- Try to make him
comfortable, mademoiselle.

It is essential we
are not interrupted.

, papa!

Ah, Felise.

- Right, I'm ready.

- Sit down, mademoiselle.

- Shall I?

- Yes.

- I don't mind admitting
I'm slightly apprehensive.

- If we can lay this poor
girl's spirit to rest,

she will be eternally grateful.

Right, we shall begin.

Place your hands over
the jar like this.

As the eyes close,
unwilled, let them close.

Good.

As the eyes close, feel the
initial drift of the spirit.

Help it.

Let it go.

Drift on the wind.

Ride your breath.

Threads on the air.

Alert, silent, seeking.

We call to you through
your chosen medium

to reveal yourself
through one of us.

We, the triangle which
makes the circle,

the star on the void,
six-handed, embracing nothing.

We are one and ready.

Use us.

Use us.

Use us.

- And, another one.

Very nicely illustrated
in the manner

of the great Thomas Bewick.

Some of the finest
woodcuts achieved

outside the workshop of that
finest of masters, in fact.

There's an amusing chapter
on eider ducks and shovelers.

- Rooks, damn it, rooks!

- Rooks?

- Rooks!

The voice disturbed the rooks!

Jack described it
to me plain as day.

I knew there was
something wrong.

You don't disturb rooks
with voices in your head.

There's some sort of
deception going on.

But, the question
is why, Dodds, why?

You're an educated chap.

Perhaps you could
make some sense of it.

- Yes.

Well yes, I'd be
delighted to try.

- Good man.

It all began with my nephew

coming down to this
neck of the woods

to swot for his law exams, you
see, and practice his golf.

- We are ready.

We are one and ready.

We have reached the hiding
places of time and are ready.

Without mind, we are ready.

Without will, we are ready.

Like a vessel, we are void.

Choose one of us.

Choose.

Choose.

Choose.

I thought he'd never
drink the damn stuff.

Quick, ropes.

He must have a
constitution like an ox!

I was beginning to run out
of mystical mumbo-jumbo.

- Never mind.

We've got it.

Pierre!

Pierre!

Pierre.

- Are you sure?

- Oh, yes, yes, yes,
yes, completely.

All this talk about woods,

there were no woods around
here in Victorian times.

What?

- The woods you see
now, they're recent.

- Well yes, but--

- I think that Lavington
invented it to,

well to credit the girl's story.

- You mean she's his accomplice?

- Yes, there must be
a key to it somewhere.

Well, it isn't the woods,
so it can't be the gypsies.

Could be the jar, possibly?

- Jar?

- It's the jar.

It's the blue jar.

- Why?

- Hmm?

Why?

- Because it has no real
connection with the story.

Don't you see?

All attention has been
focused on the ghost story.

The blue jar's only been
added as a footnote.

Yes, in my opinion Lavington
is up to something,

and it's to do
with that blue jar.

- Yes, but it's only an old pot

we keep umbrellas and
walking sticks in.

- But, is it?

What do you know about it?

- Well, not much.

Came out of the family home.

Been stuck out in
the hall ever since.

- Has Lavington seen it?

- You brought him
here for sherry.

- Oh, did I?

- I've got the pair to
it up in the spare room,

as a matter of fact.

- Have you indeed?

- I'll go and get it.

- Come on, you two.

There's a lot to be done.

- Relax, he's asleep
until the next day.

- Yeah, that's not the point.

Some servant may
notice it's gone.

Not a minute to waste.

Got the bag?

- Yes, sir.

- Check the ropes.

- Chang what?

- Hua.

Chang Hua.

It's 15th century Chinese.

- Is it?

- It says here a single specimen

went at auction recently
for 10,000 guineas.

- What?

- So, a pair...

- Don't tell me.

Get the police.

I need a drink.

- Right, are we ready?

- Did he say how long they'd be?

- Well, he said
he'd come at once.

I explained that it might be
a matter of life or death.

- It might be a matter
of 10,000 guineas!

- Sorry to keep
you waiting, major.

I couldn't find my clips.

I set off with my
trousers in my socks

when the wife calls me back.

Found my clips, you see.

Now, what seems
to be the matter?

- Just get in.

I'll explain as we go.

- I'll put this in
the back, shall I?

- Certainly not!

Lean it up against the wall.

Nobody's going to pinch it.

We'll take a short cut
through Hallow's Farm.

- That's private property.

- That's right.

Jack!

- Well, I never!

- The jar.

I can't see the jar.

- Never mind the jar,
help me untie him.

- Just a moment, sir.

"Is the day of the
supernatural over?

"Not quite, especially
when tricked out

"in new scientific language.

"Kindest regards from

"Felise, invalid
father, and myself.

"Yours ever, Ambrose Lavington,

"doctor of the soul."

- Awake at last, eh?

- Ah, Uncle George!

- Are you feeling all right?

- Yes.

How long have I been?

- Oh, about 15 hours.

Nearly lunchtime.

I'm afraid Lavington and
his accomplices got away.

- What?

Accomplices?

- I'm sorry, old boy, I'm
afraid you've been conned.

- Not Felise?

- It was my blue
jar they were after.

Worth a small
fortune apparently.

- What a damn fool I've been.

- Oh, cheer up, m'boy.

Police are quite hopeful.

The vase is too
big to hide easily.

They'll probably never
get it out of the country.

Anyway, I've still
got the other one.

- I say, I'm sorry.

- Oh, that's all right.

I just wish things were
a bit more cheerful

on the domestic front.

Afraid your aunt's back.

- Oh, dear.

- Not as cross as
she might have been.

Well, she couldn't be really.

She brought a female
relative with her.

Sort of distant cousin
of yours, actually.

Portia Bickerstaff.

- Portia Bickerstaff?

Yes, I met her about
five years ago.

Awful little tyke.

Pigtails and a lisp.

- Yes, well I'm sorry
about this, old boy,

but I'm afraid she's
expecting to play golf.

And, not to put too
fine a point on it,

she's Surrey Ladies' Champion.

- No!

- Couldn't agree more.

Look, she wants to see you.

Is it all right if I let her in?

- Oh no, Uncle.

- I'll rescue you
after a minute or two.

Say you shouldn't be
wasting your strength,

something like that.

- All right.

I say, I'm sorry.

- Oh, don't be so damn silly.

Women, what!

- Come in.

- Hello, cousin Jack.

May I call you Jack?

- Portia!

Gosh.

What?

Yes!

Oh yes, do!