Original subtitles

I wonder how many wives there are in the world who would actually murder their

husbands if it was positively guaranteed they would get away with it.

Quite a few.

Here is one way that is worth considering.

Go out and buy 13 oysters in the shell.

Bury one of them in the soil of a potted plant for 48 hours.

Then dig it up and squeeze just one drop of its juice onto each of the six

oysters you are serving to your beloved spouse for supper that evening.

Your own fix you leave alone.

Later on, I promise you, the wretched man will be smitten with shellfish

poisoning so virulent that he will succumb before dawn breaks.

And not one finger of blame will be pointed at you.

The poor fellow ate a bad oyster, and that's all they'll ever be able to say

about it.

Now watch this story.

Mr. Appleby was about to open his fourth antique shop.

His rather unusual methods of business had got him into the habit of disposing

of a wife and the shop in a different town every few years.

Mr. Appleby hated to sell anything.

He loved trick -or -treating.

Consequently, three successive marriages with three well -to -do ladies had to

date made good his losses.

Appleby Antiques, which sold other people's candles.

believe in bad luck, Mrs. Yes.

I'm not open for business yet. Oh, dear, I see just the thing I need.

What? That.

It's perfect for a friend I know.

I shall be open tomorrow.

How much?

It's not for sale.

Not till tomorrow.

You remind me of my father.

Really? He was a stickler, everything in its time and place.

Please. What?

No cigarette.

Oh, Ash never hurt a rug.

I... It doesn't be there. It's far too... Everything's a stickler. I'm

sorry, madam. Miss... Miss Sturgis.

Well, well.

Miss, if you insist.

You seem rather attached to that awful rug.

The sentimental value.

That's all.

You positively can't bring yourself to sell the vase until tomorrow?

No. Not till I'm straight. I'm sorry.

Pity. My friend would have hated it so much.

I'm prepared to pay a good price, Mr. Appleby. I'm not without money.

Shall we say I'm one of the fortunate few?

Perhaps I'll pop by again tomorrow.

By all means, do.

Now again.

Have you cracked a bottle of champagne over it yet?

What? The shop.

It's the official opening day, isn't it?

Yes. But no champagne.

No. I imagine you still have that unspeakable barge.

Oh, yes.

It's even worse than I thought.

Perfect. Right. How much?

Well, I... It's not for sale. No, as a matter of fact. Oh, come. Now, Mr.

Appleby, we mustn't be silly. You have a living to make.

Besides, I'm sure you're dying to get rid of it. I knew I would be.

You see, I... Please, Miss Dennis, would you come through? Oh.

How sweet.

You remembered my name.

I have rather a good memory.

Really? Oh.

You're obviously very tidy.

Yes. I like things in order.

Just like my father.

Obsessive.

I was saying... Oh, yes, yes, here you are.

I only sell objet d 'art.

What?

Works of art.

What, this joke?

Oh, please.

My shop is my life, and furthermore, it is the policy of the shop never to sell

anything unless the prospective purchaser shows a true appreciation of

article in question and can assure it the care and attention to which it is

entitled.

Really?

Then you must be flat out.

Oh, well, no, no, no, I wouldn't say that.

Well, you can't make a living.

Oh, I survive.

But that's not the point.

If I sell, I must be quite sure that the article goes to a good home.

Any other policy would be a betrayal, a desecration.

What an unusual man you are, Mr. Appleby.

Fascinating.

Of course, I was only teasing about the farm.

My friend will adore it, cherish it.

But I must go. I'm keeping you. No, no.

I hope I haven't kept you. Oh, no, no, no. I'm a woman of leisure. I don't have

to work for my living.

You know,

it's quite uncanny.

You even dress like my father.

You were with him to the last?

Yes.

Yes, I was.

Then if I may say so, Miss Sturgis, you deserve your reward because, well, a

woman such as yourself could have married at almost any time and left the

nursing of an aged father to someone else.

You must have made a considerable sacrifice.

Well, I don't deny I've had my dreams, Mr. Appleby, but that's all they were.

I dare say all they'll ever be now.

I don't see why.

Because I've never met the man who could fit those dreams.

No? No.

I'm hardly a simpering schoolgirl anymore, am I? That isn't the way I

You see, I know my bank balance would outweigh my looks.

I'm a realist, Mr Appleby.

But I admit that what I yearn for most is a decent, respectable man who would

devote himself to me and make the memory of my dear father a living thing.

Oh, please, don't say anything.

I must go.

I've said too much already.

I'd given up hope.

Three days and you didn't call in.

Why didn't you?

I felt we both needed time to think about our friendship.

I know I did.

And have you?

Yes. Yes, I've thought about it a great deal.

I'm sure you have too. Yes, well, I remembered what you'd said about your

and how you'd always hoped you'd meet a man like him. I've nearly given up hope.

Martha? Yes.

I believe you've met that man.

Do you, Arthur?

Do you? Yes.

Yes, I do, with all my heart.

The truth is, I'm very lonely.

I believe you are, too.

Perhaps I am.

Oh, Martha, I give you respect, tenderness.

Could you, I mean, would you marry me?

You've made up your mind.

Absolutely.

I still believe it to be a somewhat premature decision, Miss Sturgis.

If your father were alive... But he isn't, is he?

No, quite.

I'm sure you'll approve of him when you see him. I did.

Come in.

Ah, Dominic, dear boy.

Mr. Appleby, father.

Mr. Appleby.

Mr. Gainsborough?

Arthur, dear. Mr.

Gainsborough knows about us. You can trust him completely.

He'd be in our family solicitor for years.

I didn't quite know what to think when Mr. Gainsborough telephoned me this

morning. Well, don't you worry, dear.

Everything's arranged.

Now, do sit down, Mr. Appleby. Thank you.

Thank you, darling.

Now, our valued client, Miss Turgis, has intimated to us her intentions towards

you. Marriage, that is. My congratulations.

Thank you.

And while she agrees with me that her fortune might well be part of her

attraction... Oh, no. ...she realizes, of course, that that is not so with you.

Quite.

Mr. Appleby, have you been married before?

Yes.

Divorced? Good heavens, no.

Ah, good.

Forgive me, the question may have seemed somewhat impertinent, but in these days

of moral laxity, I myself am perhaps somewhat old -fashioned. No, no, I quite

agree with you. Good.

That's settled, then.

Now, we act not only as Miss Turges's solicitors, but also as her trustees.

And she has instructed us to make certain adjustments in your favour to

of trust.

But that's wonderful.

Yes, it is.

You're a fortunate man, Mr. Appleby.

Still think it's all been a bit hasty, don't you?

We love Papa.

Oh.

Well, don't look so gloomy.

The old boy doesn't get a penny till she dies.

Just off to the shop, dear.

So soon? Half past nine. I open at ten precisely.

I didn't mean that.

What then? When I said so soon, I meant... How long have we been married,

Arthur?

Three weeks.

And already you're forgetting your promise, aren't you?

No, I don't think so, dear.

No. To devote yourself to me.

But I am devoted, dear. I am.

But you can't be dear if you're at your shop.

The man must work.

My man mustn't, dear.

My money is more than enough.

Your income wouldn't keep me in secret.

I do wish you wouldn't smoke.

Are you criticising me?

No, no, no, it's just... No.

Good, that's settled then. This morning, no shop.

You'll help me with the crossword, then I shall cook you a nice lunch to build

you up.

I don't take lunch, dear, I did say. Yes, I know you did, dear.

But a husband who only eats soft -boiled eggs is never going to satisfy me.

Eat up, there's a good boy.

All ready?

I don't take condiments.

My father was a pernickety eater.

So like you.

I'm fine, Mr. Gainsborough. A joyful bride.

Arthur's become so... so devoted.

Yes. Yes, I'll ring you tomorrow night. Same time.

I'm just going up, Arthur.

Oh, you and your glass of water.

My father always had a glass of water at nine o 'clock.

Settles my stomach, dear.

Yes.

Big time.

I'm ready, Arthur.

Do come along, Arthur.

Joe?

Yes, dear.

Anything nice?

Nothing much.

Just a postcard.

Who's it from?

I don't know.

It's for you.

Oh.

Hult?

You're not going to the shop, are you?

Oh, yes. I think I must.

Today. Really?

Oh, very well.

But you'll have to make up for it tomorrow.

from Isabel.

Do you remember? I sent her that awful vase.

Oh, Arthur.

Imagine.

But to her we might never have met.

Off you go.

Back by six o 'clock.

Client informs us three months in arrears rent.

Above -mention property.

Unless hear from you by return of post.

Forced to take immediate action.

Appy?

Appy?

I'm sure you heard me the first time.

I do wish you wouldn't call me happy, dear. But it suits you, dear.

You don't have to hang up your clothes, you know. I don't mind.

I like things tidy.

I know you do, happy dear.

I don't.

looking for a distinct improvement tonight.

Your telephone call to Mr.

Gainsborough? Yes, happy dear.

I don't see why you have to telephone him every night.

Martha? I'd like a glass of water, please.

You would?

Yes.

Very well, I could do.

What happened to the others?

Others?

What others?

Your other three wives, Appie.

What do you mean? I don't understand.

Oh, surely you can't forget three wives just like that.

Unless, of course, I've come to mean so much to you that you can't bear to think

about the others. That would be lovely. I made it quite clear I'd been married

before. Of course, of course you did, dear.

But you didn't say how many times, did you?

Mr. Gainsborough decided, after we were married, to check.

Everything he found out about you only made you seem, in my eyes, an ideal

partner.

Ideal? The moment I first saw you, I knew you instinctively for what you

were.

Knew?

How could you? I've told you many times. You're the perfect image of my father

in everything, Appie. Don't call me that. From now on, I shall call you

I like.

You're insufferably neat, just as he was, priggish and pompous. I hated him

my life for what he was and what he did to my mother.

What, married her for her money, made every day a nightmare, and then killed

for what was left of her fortune?

Killed her?

Oh, do you imagine you're the only man who's ever been capable of that?

Yes, Appy dear, he killed her.

Murdered her, if you prefer.

Using a slip rug on a polished floor to make it look as though she'd broken her

neck.

A method strangely similar to your own, is it not?

Aren't you going to drink your water?

What happened to him? Oh, Mr. Gainsborough thinks you know that

He thinks you read of the case and copied it.

There were no witnesses, of course, but Mr. Gainsborough was my mother's

solicitor. He became suspicious, demanded a hearing.

A doctor made it clear in court how my father could have killed her and made it

look like an innocent fool.

But before a decision could be made, my father died of a heart attack.

What has all this to do with us? When he was gone, I swore that I would find a

man exactly like him and make him suffer as my mother suffered.

I knew, of course, such a man would only marry me for my money.

And I determined he should never see a penny of it until I was dead.

And I won't be dead for a long, long time, Mappy dear, because you're going

care for me until my last possible breath.

How can you make me do that?

A man whose wife can send him to the gallows ought to know that for him.

You can.

Prove anything.

Three wives, the same method. It's too much for coincidence, dear.

If I did it three times, I can do it again.

Ah, but see, that's where my arrangements come in.

Arrangements? Mr. Gainsborough had all the documents about your marriages. The

way your wives died, the way you always got the bequest at the right time to pay

your shop's debts.

And a letter from me saying that in the event of my death an inquest was to be

held immediately. So you see... Yes, you're going to devote yourself to me,

Arthur Appleby, for the rest of your life. You're going to care for and

me. And eventually I may, I just may, hand over the letter and all the

to you.

Nine days of service.

Arthur!

Mother! Oh, one more thing you must... remember is that if I don't telephone

Gainsborough before quarter past nine every evening and report that I'm fit

well, he has instructions to ring me.

I'll use the telephone in the bedroom.

Ah, there he is.

Wait.

Wait.

Yes.

Appleby?

Yes.

Well, she can't speak to you just now.

What is it?

This is Gainsborough, Appleby.

I give you ten seconds to have your wife at this telephone.

Do you understand?

It's for you.

seconds are up Appleby.

Do you understand?

Your time is up.