All language subtitles for Miss Marple Sleeping Murder English

-Why do you want to go to Dillmouth?
-It sounds nice.

Anyway, I haven't seen the sea yet.

Going to paddle?

I might. Don't be superior.

It's all new to me, darling.
That's what you don't understand.

-Giles, look!
-What?

Just stop!
I've got to take a look at that.

What?

That house!

What would you do
with a vast place like that?

Live in it. It's just what I want,
what I've always dreamed of.

The agents are in Dillmouth.
I was right to come!

Young people don't live here.
People RETIRE to Dillmouth.

I'm just an ignorant New Zealander.
I can do what I want.

Galbraith and Penderley,
in Fore Street.

All right.
But it's the last house we see today.

It might be the last house
we're GOING to see.

It seems rather large.

-Is it SEVEN bedrooms?
-Six.

In my opinion,
the seventh is a dressing room.

It's a lovely big room,
Mrs Hengrave.

But you can't see the sea.

Are you a Devon man, Mr Reed?

I was born in Plymouth but my wife
has never been to England before.

I flew back last week
after three years in New Zealand.

-On business?
-Yes. The Meat Marketing Board.

-My husband was in the bank.
-Really?

He was secretary of the golf club.
He was very attached to Dillmouth.

Linen cupboards here.

Is this the bathroom?

...Oh, yes, it is!
With a mahogany surround!

Isn't that wonderful?

-My husband was old-fashioned.
-I really love it!

I can just see
celluloid ducks in that bath!

-You mean plastic.
-Celluloid, when I was a girl.

There must be another bedroom here.

Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs Hengrave.

I just feel so at home here.

Now, this is the room for me!

And there's the sea!

-Oh!
-What's wrong?

I don't know.
It's like vertigo.

Someone on my grave.

This house isn't haunted, is it?

I never heard so.

But someone died here.

My husband died
in St Monica's Nursing Home.

Of course. You told us. I'm sorry.

In a house of this age,
there must have been some deaths.

Miss Elworthy, from whom
we bought it, was in excellent health.

She went abroad to do missionary work.
You'll want to see the garden.

We have a man who comes twice
a week but he's not very reliable.

(PHONE RINGS)

-Oh, dear, excuse me.
-Yes, of course.

Do you think it's someone else
wanting to view?

I doubt it. The price is too high.

That forsythia will have to go.
It blocks the view.

There should be steps here
down to the lawn.

Steps? I thought this place
gave you the creeps.

That was silly.

I want it.
Aunt Mary's furniture will be perfect!

-It's five hundred over the top.
-Make an offer then.

'Do a brutal deal with
Galbraith and Penderley and feel happy.'

-We've got to get up.
-Why?

Just because you're a man
of leisure for the next 2 months...

Moving into this house
is the hardest work I've ever done!

The workmen
and Mrs Cocker will be here.

She said something yesterday
about the devil and idle hands!

Oh, Mrs Cocker...

-They workmen make a powerful lot of dust.
-Yes, I know!

-I'll cover the dining room table with this.
-And not a bit too soon.

Oh! How silly of me!
I always think there's a door through here!

'Twould save a tidy lot
of trouble to have a door there.

I'll ask Mr Sims about it.

If you'd put this on the table,
I'll get my husband his breakfast.

Yes, madam.

-It's from Raymond West.
-Who?

My cousin in town.
The writer. I told you about him.

Oh, yes. What does he want?

Wants us to spend
a few days with them in London.

He and Joan are dying to meet you.

-Oh, no.
-Why not?

A break would do us good.
And I have things to do in town.

Why don't you want to go?

There's too much to do here.
It'll be chaos.

It'll be chaos anyway.

Why don't we let Sims and Mrs Cocker
fight it out while we take a break?

No.

You go if you want.
It's you they want to see. I'll stay here.

You'll be lonely.

-I might have a mad affair with Reg.
-Reg?

-He's the mason.
-Is he now?

Looks like you're
going back to old times, Miss.

-Old times?
-I come across the old steps, see?

Just like you want 'em now.
Someone had planted over them.

That was silly. You want a view
here down to the lawn and the sea.

These shrubs made it dark in the house.
Still, they was growing well.

Forsythia ain't much,
but they wigglers, they cost money.

-This is much nicer.
-Maybe it is.

Mr Foster, who lived here
before the Hengraves?

They weren't here very long.

Oh...six years or so. Before them,
the Miss Elworthys, churchy folk.

Missions to the heathen.
Who was it afore that?

Mrs Findeyson. Proper gentry, she was.
Planted most of the garden.

-Did she die here?
-No.

Died out in Egypt, or some such place.

But they brought her home
and she'm buried in the churchyard.

Weren't none of they new houses then.

-I suppose there have to be improvements.
-I don't see any.

That was the cottage hospital there,
nice and handy.

Then they builds that
new place a mile out of town.

Changes all the time.
What's the good of that?

What do you fancy, Mrs Reed?

We've got a nice candy-stripe.
We do a lot of that.

One or two walls,
and a matching emulsion.

-Oh, I don't know, Mr Sims.
-It's contemporary!

This won't be your room, I take it,
not when the other's been decorated.

I DO like this room.

-Been the nursery at one time.
-What?

Bars on the windows.

Still...

I know what I want!
I want a wallpaper...

with bunches of tiny scarlet poppies
and something else...

Yes! Poppies and bunches
of blue cornflowers.

To match this.
A white background

-and bunches of red and blue flowers!
-Mrs Reed...

And this is stuck.
Even my husband couldn't open it.

Do you think...?

It's been painted over a good few times.

My carpenter will see to that.

Redecorating will take care of any damage.

It won't alter the estimate?

Oh, bless us, no! Got some good news
for you on that score, Mrs Reed.

You have?

That door to the dining room
that you wanted...

Reg scraped some plaster away.

He said there's been a door there before.

There WAS a door?

Very simple to put it back, so I'll
take a few pounds off what I quoted.

I knew there was a door.

Common sense, really.

But that wallpaper you talked about,
cornflowers and poppies, you said.

I'll look through the samples,
but I can't remember anything like that.

'I can just see celluloid ducks
in a bath like that.

I think you mean plastic.

'That door to the dining room
that you wanted...

'Reg scraped some plaster away.

He said there's been a door there before.

'It's like you're
going back to old times, Miss.

Old times?

'I've come across the old steps,
just like you want 'em now.

'It's been the nursery at one time,
I fancy.

'It's been painted over a good few times.

'My carpenter will see to that.

The redecorating will
take care of any damage.

'With bunches of tiny scarlet poppies
and bunches of blue cornflowers. '

Oh!

Oh-h!

(PHONE RINGS)

Hello?

-Hello?
-Giles?

-Are you all right, darling?
-Are you in London?

Yes, I'm calling from the Wests'.

They would love you
to come down just for a few days.

-Are you there? Gwenda?
-Yes, I'm here.

Hop on a train and I'll see you
at Paddington tomorrow.

Yes, I will.

Raymond and Joan will be chuffed.
And there's someone else to meet.

Here she is! Aunt Jane,
this is Giles' wife, Gwenda.

-How do you do, Miss Marple?
-How do you do.

-What an unusual name!
-It's Welsh.

My mother was Welsh.

But aren't you from New Zealand?

My mother died
when I was born, in India.

My father sent me to New Zealand
to live with relatives.

-It wasn't long before he died too.
-That awful climate!

I know some old India hands
in St Mary Mead.

That's my village.

Aunt Jane solves puzzles,
and not the ones in The Times!

-I am fond of the crossword.
-What puzzles?

Very murky puzzles. The things that
happen in a village would amaze you.

So that's why YOU go there so often.

The ambiance suits me perfectly.

Under the thatch of "The Lilacs",
dark passions stir.

Here in London,
we need the arts to jazz things up.

Oh, we're all going
to the Court tonight.

-The Court?!
-It's a theatre.

Oh. Thank goodness.

More dark passions, actually,
"The Duchess of Malfi".

BOSOLA:
Alas! How have these offended?

FERDINAND: The death of young wolves
is never to be pitied.

Fix your eyes here. Constantly.

Do you not weep?
Other sins only speak: Murder shrieks out.

Water moistens the earth,
But blood flies up and bedews the heavens.

Cover her face.

Mine eyes dazzle: She died YOUNG.

I think not so...
(GWENDA SCREAMS)

Her...her infelicity seemed
to have years too many.

She and I were twins,

And should I die this instant,
I had lived her time to a minute!

It seems she was born first.

You have bloodily
approved the ancient truth

That kindred commonly do worse agree
Than remote strangers.

JOAN:
How do I know why she screamed?

RAYMOND: "Webster was much
possessed by death", of course.

Well done, Raymond.

Personally, I loathe Jacobean drama.

I suppose it was the shock.

I think there is
more to it than that, Joan.

I must apologise.
Gwenda's very sorry; so am I.

-She's gone to bed.
-How is she, poor dear?

She's still very shaken.
I don't quite know what to do.

It's rather a muddle,
like one of your puzzles.

I don't think I should
leave her alone too long.

No. I don't want to interfere,
but may I speak to her?

That would be very kind.
She'd like that.

-Good. Well, I'll go up.
-Would you like a drink?

Cocoa would be nice;

hot sweet tea for Gwenda
and lots of hot water bottles.

You know the room?

-Have we any cocoa?
-Or hot water bottles?

Dear Aunt Jane.

Whisky, we have.
You deserve a large one.

Thanks. Gwenda's still very upset.

I think I'm going mad.
I must be going mad.

All those things
that happened in the house,

in Hillside...

and then tonight.

Yes?

It happened...quite suddenly.

I was enjoying the play,
not thinking about the house.

And then he said those words...

The Duke.

"Cover her face.
Mine eyes dazzle. She died young."

And I was on the stair at Hillside,
looking down through the bannister.

And I saw her lying there,

her hair all golden
and her face...

She was strangled.

There was a man.

I saw his hands.

They were grey, wrinkled,
like monkeys' paws.

She was dead.

Who was dead?

Helen.

Why did I say that?
I don't know any Helen.

You see, I'm mad.

I ought to see a psychiatrist at once,
unless it's too late.

Do that if you wish, but I'd look
at the simplest explanation first.

You say several things about
this house seem familiar, right?

Yes.

The easiest and most natural
explanation is you've seen them before.

-In another life, you mean?
-No, dear, no. I mean in this life.

I've never been in England
until six weeks ago.

My father sent me straight
from India to New Zealand.

And you remember that?
The voyage to New Zealand?

No.

It's quite possible that you came
to England and lived at Hillside.

The room you remember
was probably your nursery.

It WAS a nursery.
There are bars on the window.

-But that's impossible.
-No, no, not impossible.

Just a remarkable coincidence.
And coincidences DO happen.

Remember, you chose the house.

And you had no feeling of revulsion

until you started to come downstairs
and looked into the hall.

Then that's true as well?

I mean, Helen...?

I think if the other things are
memories, this is a memory too.

Remember, you told me you saw
the body THROUGH the bannisters,

just as you would have done
standing on the stairs as a child.

I must speak to Aunt Alison.

In New Zealand?

She'll know.

Oh, good morning, Miss Marple.

-Am I disturbing you?
-No, of course not.

Gwenda's just coming down.
It was pretty late before we got to bed.

Did Gwenda speak
to her relations in New Zealand?

Aunt Alison didn't seem
to realise it was so late here.

You were right.

Her father took her to England
after her mother died.

He met a young woman on the boat
and married her in London.

Did Aunt Alison recall her name?
She left him quite soon.

That's why Gwenda
was sent to New Zealand.

Aunt Alison DID remember
they lived in Devon:

Dartmouth she thought,
but it could have been Dillmouth.

So that all fits.

Did Gwenda say why
she was making these enquiries?

She said she had a strong feeling
she'd been in England before.

Aunt Alison has left
some things unsaid to Gwenda.

I suppose she thought it best forgotten.

-Ah, there you are, my dear!
-Good morning, Miss Marple.

-Raymond's typing but where's Joan?
-In her studio.

Has Giles told you
how brilliant you are?

Oh.

We just couldn't get to sleep.
It explained so much.

-And then, so much it didn't.
-That's true.

I must find out, of course.

-Find out what?
-The truth.

Who was Helen?
And was she really murdered?

I've got to know.

Oh, my dear, I do advise you
most strongly not to do that.

Why? I expect it's all imagination
but Gwenda wants to know.

Giles is right.
We've got to see it through.

Don't you understand?

Of course I do because
you're both young and charming

and you're just beginning.

You can't imagine...

I was thinking of Freddie Lovelace.

He was dairyman at Home Farm.

His mother had apparently
won first prize for chrysanthemums,

before Freddie was born.

When she died, he tried to find
the certificate to have it framed.

He was so proud of her, you see.
It was a grave mistake.

Why? Hadn't she won?

Oh, no.
It turned out she wasn't his mother.

All I'm saying is that I wish...
I do so wish

that you'd leave the past alone.

-Was it here?
-A bit nearer the stairs.

I think it must be true.
What Miss Marple said, I mean.

And you can't remember
anything else, here in the hall?

Just Helen.

No-one knows about it
so it can't have have been murder.

And the parish register of deaths
wasn't much help.

What idiots!

-You know who we should ask?
-Who?

The land agents. My father must
have bought or rented this house.

Of course!
Galbraith and Penderley.

There WAS a Halliday
at my prep school...in Yorkshire.

Seventy years ago!
Good God! Eh?

Why come to me?
I'm an old man. Retired years ago.

We thought you
might remember, Mr Galbraith,

because my father
came here from India.

Mr Penderley said you
were there in the First World War.

India?

We think Gwenda's father
might have rented Hillside.

Was it called Hillside then?

WAS a chap...young wife and a baby.

-Little girl.
-That was me.

You don't say so!

Well, well!

-Now, what WAS his name?
-Halliday.

That's right, my dear.
Nice fellow. Very pretty wife.

Young, fair-haired.

Wanted to be near her people.

-Yes...VERY pretty.
-Who WERE her people?

Mm? No idea.

No idea at all, my dear.
Didn't look like you.

No, well...

St Catherine's!
Yes, that's what the place was called.

He took St Catherine's
at 8 guineas a week,

while Mrs Findeyson
was out in Egypt.

Didn't she run off with someone,
that young girl, Halliday's wife?

We thought you might tell us.

Oh, I don't know, my dears.
It's a devil of a long time ago.

You can tell Beryl I want my drink.

I didn't dream it, then.

So, my stepmother was young
and she had fair hair.

But we still don't know her name.

We DIDN'T.
This is from Raymond.

I asked him to check for me
at Somerset House.

What's Somerset House?

The registry of births,
deaths and marriages.

Here's a duplicate
of your father's certificate:

Kensington Registry Office, August 7th.

Kelvin James Halliday...

to Helen Spenlove Kennedy.

But it CAN'T have been her you saw.
Galbraith said she went away.

How do we know?

How do we know she went away?

Miss Marple?

-I thought it was you!
-Hello, my dear.

What are YOU doing here?

My doctor ordered me
to the seaside for a change

and you'd told me
how attractive Dillmouth was.

Also a friend's former cook
takes boarders here.

Why didn't you visit us?

Old people are a nuisance
to a young couple.

No, not you!

You'd have made me welcome,
I'm sure. How are you?

I was thinking of you
only a moment ago.

-You were?
-Yes.

I've been studying
the local newspaper.

Then you've seen our advertisement.
I'm afraid we haven't taken your advice.

Well, good advice
is almost certain to be ignored.

I always find
the Personals intriguing.

"Will anyone with a knowledge
of Helen Spenlove Halliday,

nee Kennedy etc."

-So it WAS Helen?
-Yes, it was.

Forgive me if I seem concerned
but my life has so few excitements.

Don't think me inquisitive
if I ask you to tell me how you get on.

No, of course not.

We'll tell you everything.

Come to afternoon tea
and see the house.

We put the advertisement
in The Times as well,

so we should get some answers.

Yes, I think so.
I DO think so, my dear.

'Galls Hill, Woodleigh Bolton.

'Dear Sir, In answer to your
advertisement in The Times,

Helen Spenlove Kennedy is my sister.

'I've lost touch with her
and should be glad to have news of her.

Yours faithfully, James Kennedy, MD. '

Good Lord!
You don't mean to tell me you're Gwennie!

Yes, I'm Gwennie!

This calls for some ceremony.
We must have tea. Please sit down

So, you've bought a house
in Dillmouth, have you?

Yes.
By coincidence, we bought Hillside.

I believe you told me on the phone.

-It was for sale, you see.
-Mm.

It's the house my father
had all those years ago.

Hillside?

They changed the name, before the war.

I've got the right place?
On the Leahampton Road?

-It was called St Catherine's then.
-Of course.

Ah, Mrs Rowe.

We thought we'd have some tea.
Some cakes or something.

I don't usually go in for tea.

Why are you back at St Catherine's?
You won't remember much about it.

-Very little. But it felt like home.
-Felt like home...

So I hoped you could tell me
all about it: my father and Helen.

-Well, everything.
-There's not much.

Helen met your father
on the boat back from India.

He'd lost his wife.
Fell in love with her.

She felt sorry for him.

It's hard to know
how these things happen.

They married in London
and came down to me.

I was in practice in Dillmouth then.

Nice fellow, Kelvin.
A bit nervy and run-down.

But they were happy together - then.

However, within a year,
she ran away with someone else.

-Who did she run away with?
-She didn't tell me.

But I'd seen there was some
friction between her and Kelvin.

She didn't want me to know what
was going on. I wouldn't have approved.

They often had people to stay with them.
I imagined it was one of them.

There wasn't a divorce?

Helen didn't want a divorce,
so I imagined it was some married man,

someone whose wife
was a Catholic, perhaps.

-And my father?
-He didn't want a divorce either.

Why did he send me to New Zealand?

I gather your people out there
were pressing him.

Why didn't he take me?

He was in rather
poor health at the time.

-What did he die of?
-I don't remember.

He was in poor health and he went
to a sanatorium on the east coast

and died there about 2 years later.

Where was it exactly?

I don't remember.

Can you tell us where he is buried?

I don't think we should
dwell on the past.

It was such a long time ago.

We rather lost touch
when he left Dillmouth.

-I've no idea where he is buried.
-That's strange.

Not really. Helen was the link.
I was fond of her.

Tried to take care of her.
She was my half-sister.

She got involved early on
with a most unsuitable young man.

And I took care of that.

Then she went to India
to marry Walter Fane,

a solicitor's son
who was dull as dishwater.

When she saw him in Bombay,
it was all off.

And then,
she met your father coming home.

You see what I mean?
I was always worried about Helen.

Do you know where she is?
I'd like to get in touch with her again.

No.

No, we don't know at all.

That's one of the reasons
we came to see you.

I thought from your advertisement...

-So tell me, why did you advertise?
-We were hoping...

We thought someone who knew her

might be able to tell me
something about my father.

Were you? Well now, I'm sorry.
That's all I know.

What did you make of him?

I think he's hiding something.

I wish we'd never started this.

Jim?

Look what I found in the paper.
I almost strained the chips onto it.

"Will anyone with a knowledge
of Helen Spenlove Halliday nee Kennedy

communicate with..."

That's Mrs Halliday
I was in service with.

Her name was Helen.

And she was sister to Dr Kennedy.
Him as cured my chilblains.

Think there's any money in it?
Might be a will. It's a long time ago.

Do you think it could be the police?

-Whatever?
-You KNOW what I always thought.

I told Edie but she wouldn't have it.

I'd have said more but I'd gone to
the pictures when I shouldn't have.

'Twouldn't be police after all this time.

But it doesn't say, "To your advantage."

Do you think I should, Jim?

-Not if I was you, Lily.
-Whyever not?

Only leads to trouble,
that sort of thing.

When's supper ready?

(PHONE RINGS)

I'll answer it, darling.

-Hello?
-Mr Reed? It's Dr Kennedy here.

Hello, Dr Kennedy.

'I've thought of some things
you and your wife should know. '

Seems odd to be here again.

Are you still determined to find
the sanatorium where your father died?

Yes, we are.

That should be easy enough
after what I've told you.

Shall we sit down?

I thought it better
if you heard the facts from me.

It won't do you or anybody
any good but there it is.

No, thanks.

Your father wasn't physically ill.
The sanatorium was a mental home.

A mental home?

You mean he was mad?

He had a severe mental breakdown.

He was suffering from
delusional obsessions.

What kind of delusions?

He thought
that he'd strangled his wife.

No!

Strangled? And had he?

-No, of course, he hadn't.
-How do you know?

There was no question of that.

He'd been in a very
unbalanced state for some time.

The shock when Helen left him
sent him over the edge.

If a man would rather
his wife was dead than unfaithful,

he can persuade himself of anything.

So you're quite sure
he hadn't done what he said?

Oh, quite sure.
I'd had two letters from Helen.

One from France, a week after she left
and another six months later.

It was all a delusion.

-Can you tell us about it?
-I'll try to.

He'd been having dreams

that always ended up in the same way,
with throttling Helen.

It all came to a head one evening
after I got back from the hospital.

It was a Friday, I remember.

Kelvin had been waiting for me in my
consulting room for about 15 minutes.

When I came in, he looked up at me
and said, "I've killed Helen."

I didn't know what to think.

I said, "Have you had another dream?"

He said, "No, it's true.
She's lying there. Strangled."

He seemed very cool and reasonable,

so I got the car out again
and took him back to the house.

It was quiet and dark, I remember.

-We went up to the bedroom.
-The bedroom?

Yes, that's where it happened.
But there was nothing there.

The whole thing was a hallucination.

-What did my father say?
-He persisted in his story of course.

I gave him a sedative and put
him to bed in the dressing room.

I found a note
in the waste-paper basket in HERE.

It said, "Going away
with the only man I've ever loved."

Clearly he'd come in and read it

and experienced a severe attack
of hysterical amnesia.

That's all.

He wasn't alone
that night in the house.

Of course, you were tucked up in bed
but I questioned the housemaid.

I took her upstairs into Helen's room.

She'd packed a suitcase
before she went away.

The next morning I talked to Kelvin

and he agreed
to go into a nursing home.

Helen's letter came from Biarritz.

She said she didn't want a divorce

and she hoped Kelvin would
forget her as soon as possible.

He went into a private mental home
and that's where he died.

-You got another letter from Helen?
-Yes. Poste restante from Florence.

She said if Kelvin wanted a divorce,
she'd let him have the evidence.

I showed it to him and he said that
he didn't, so I wrote and told her.

And that's the last I ever heard.

Of course,
the war blotted out many things.

I'm sorry to have to tell you this,
Gwennie.

But you had to know.

Aunt Alison never breathed a word.

No. She never did.

I KNEW. I knew all the time.

-We still can't be sure.
-I knew it was Helen.

-I saw she was strangled.
-But there was no body.

Your father was mistaken.

-You could have been too.
-No, Giles.

Supposing he found
her writing the note?

Suppose he saw red, grabbed her,
got his hands round her throat

-and that's what you saw.
-Then what?

She passed out. He thought
he'd killed her, went for Dr Kennedy.

Meanwhile, she recovers
or her lover turns up.

No, I know she was dead.

Like a dog that throws back
its head and howls.

-Hello.
-Oh, damn!

-What's she doing here?
-I forgot to tell you, I invited her.

-Gwenda!
-We can't back out now.

Hello, Miss Marple.

-How are you enjoying Dillmouth?
-Very much!

I have friends who have friends here
and I've received a number of invitations.

-That's nice.
-Yes, indeed.

Oh, what a beautiful spot!

I do hope that
you've settled in by now.

Well...

The fact is, Miss Marple,
we've just had a visitor...

and rather a shock for me.

Well, my dears,
I do see what you mean.

It's what you thought in London,
isn't it?

You thought that
my father might be involved.

It occurred to me as a possibility.

With a strangling,
the husband is often involved.

I wish now we'd taken your advice.

Once you've started,
you can't go back.

No. However dangerous the journey,
you can't turn back.

How can we go on?
Nothing makes any sense.

There's always "X".

-"X"?
-"X"?

The unknown factor.

Someone who hasn't appeared yet
but whose presence can be deduced.

A lover, perhaps.

Someone who posted
those letters from abroad.

You're too young to remember
the case of Dr Crippen

when something similar occurred.

We've got to visit the place
where my father died.

Perhaps we'll find something there.

I do remember your father,
though I wasn't in charge of the case.

Dr McGuire was Superintendent then
and I was his junior.

-Would you like to come in?
-Thank you, Dr Penrose.

Thank you.

I...ehm...had Dr Kennedy's letter.

I've been going through the notes
of your father's case history.

It had some very unusual features.
Most interesting.

I know very little about my father.

We hoped you'd tell us
as much as you can.

Yes.

A remarkable obsession -

believing he'd strangled his wife
in a fit of jealous rage.

The delusion itself wasn't untypical

but there was a lack of accompanying
evidence of psychotic symptoms.

What I mean is, he wasn't mad.
...Or didn't appear so.

-How WOULD you describe my father?
-Very convincing.

Gentle, kindly, over-controlled.
At first I was inclined to believe him.

You believed he'd killed his wife?

I said "at first".

Later, as we got
deeper into his history,

we diagnosed it
as a delusional neurosis,

with roots far back in his childhood.

Unfortunately, we didn't have time
to complete his analysis.

You know, I suppose,
he committed suicide?

-No.
-No. We didn't know that.

Oh. I'm sorry. I thought you knew.

We admitted some responsibility.

He'd been prescribed sleeping
tablets BEFORE his admission.

He had pretended to take
the nightly dose until he had sufficient.

-Was he SO unhappy?
-No. It was guilt, not depression.

He tried to call the police -
normal desire for punishment.

I remember he told me

that he thought at one time
his wife was secretly giving him drugs,

probably related to living in India.

There were cases of women driving
their husbands mad with datura.

Ah! Here's a typical interview.

Dr McGuire's notes. Your father
said, "Came home. Everything dark.

"Went into dining room, poured drink
then went through to drawing room."

Then he said he remembers nothing

till standing in bedroom
looking down at Helen, strangled.

-He knew he'd done it.
-How did he know?

Question: "Do you remember killing her?"
Answer: "No."

"Then how do you know?"
Answer: "Because she's dead."

The same pattern over and over again.
Impossible to convince him.

He left this diary, by the way.
I suppose you might like to have it.

It's not especially important,
medically speaking.

-WOULD you like to have it?
-Yes. I should like that very much.

'What's true?
I've written to James Kennedy.

'Let Helen come to see me,
if she's alive.

'He says he doesn't know
where she is but I'm not deceived.

'He's a good fellow.

'And he knows I killed her.

'After all the dreams,
the nightmares...

'Because I always knew from the very
first that there was someone else. '

'There's always "X",
the unknown factor.

'Someone who hasn't appeared yet
but whose presence can be deduced.

' A lover, perhaps.

'Once you've started,
you can't go back.

'No. However dangerous
the journey, you can't turn back. '

'This is the only way for me,
and for little Gwennie.

'I always knew that
there was someone else. '