Original subtitles

Thank you very much, sir. Even great men have their correlations.

Very, very good meeting you.

Very, very good meeting you. God bless you, sir.

Here's a gentleman.

A very perfect, gentle knight.

Definitely yours, sir.

Thank you, sir. Oh, verily, my cock runneth over.

May your sweetness never blush unseen.

My gratitude knows no bounds, sir.

Here I sit, your slave, working, firm, with and despite.

William Shakespeare.

Oh, you're a gentleman, sir. And so is he.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, sir.

Blessed are the poor in spirit.

For yours is the kingdom of heaven, sir.

But we arranged it two weeks ago.

We were to have supper at my club.

Yes. He did mention it to me this morning.

It was just before the lady called. Lady?

Which lady?

Well, I don't know her name, but the lady called and Mr Holmes went out.

In that case, I should take advantage of an early night.

I must answer the door.

won't mind, I'm sure. He's the kindest of men.

Mrs. Whitney to see you, Doctor.

Kate, this is a surprise.

Not a pleasant one, I fear, John.

Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.

Perhaps some tea?

That would be most welcome.

You must forgive me for causing so much trouble. You're causing us no trouble at

all. Your assistant told me that you were...

Dining with Mr. Holmes.

Oh, I see you've been to the surgery. And you had just left. Well, Mr. Holmes

has disappeared without trace, as you can see.

Well, in that case, I really shouldn't bother you with my problems. Oh, Mr.

Holmes disappears without trace at regular intervals.

There's really no cause for alarm, only curiosity.

But, um... Why did you want to see me? If you're ill, you should not be

travelling across London.

I am not ill.

It's Iser.

Ah. Well, if Iser is ill, I can visit him at home.

He's not at home.

He too has disappeared without trace.

You can probably guess what he's doing.

I imagine he's indulging his addiction.

Opium?

I fear so.

Well, he's done this before, has he not? What makes this circumstance so very

different?

Normally, his orgies are confined to one day.

He leaves the house in the morning and returns in the evening, pale and

shattered.

And this time?

I have not seen either for 48 hours.

I give you the remotest idea where he might be.

There is an establishment.

Called the Bar of Gold in Upper Thornham Lane.

I believe he is there.

But I dare not go there alone.

Oh, no respectable woman would go within a hundred miles of that vile alley

unaccompanied.

Will you come with me?

No. Oh, but... No, I shall go there on my own.

You will go home, and if your husband is where you think he is, I guarantee to

have him back with you within two hours.

Though I dare not imagine what state he'll be in.

Your tea, Doctor.

My apologies, Mrs. Hudson. I shall not require tea. I'm going out.

But Mrs. Whitney will take tea.

And what am I to tell Mr.

Holmes? Should he return?

Tell him I've disappeared without trace.

Up at Swanton Lane, please, cabbie.

I sometimes wonder whether men ever really truly grow up.

They seem to remain little boys forever.

Do you wonder about that, Mrs. Hudson?

No, Mrs. Whitney, I don't wonder about it. I know it.

And they always need us to kiss them better afterwards.

In a manner of speaking, of course.

Take care. Bye. Bye.

No, thank you. I've not come here to stay. There's a friend of mine here.

I just wish to speak to Mr. Isa Whitney.

Isaac. Isaac.

What?

What's the time?

It's 11.

What's the day?

Friday the 19th.

I thought it was Wednesday.

It is Wednesday.

You were trying to frighten me. Your wife has been waiting for you to return

home for two days.

Two? It's surely not.

A few hours, perhaps.

Three pipes.

Short pipes.

I forget.

I've got a cab outside. You're going home now.

I'll tell you my friendship.

Wife's love.

Oh, okay.

Come on.

I have to play.

I'm the manager.

Monday.

You have to pay for your own destruction.

I'll pay for it.

Get out of here. We'll play.

You have a cab, I'm sorry.

I pray send him home.

He looks too little to get into any kind of mischief.

Five minutes.

Give this to the lady of the house.

Holmes!

Piper.

Certainly surprised to see you in that place. I suppose you think I've added

opium to smoking to all my other little weaknesses.

I merely said I was surprised to see you there.

As indeed I was to see you.

I was searching for a friend. And I thought an enemy.

An enemy? Had I been recognised in that place, my life would not have been worth

an hour's purchase.

John!

I'm in the midst of the most remarkable inquiry.

I hope you're not smoking the substance in that pipe, Holmes.

Only to the extent necessary to merge with the surroundings.

I'm off to leave.

Big pence.

Are you coming?

Of course.

I

think

we should be safe now, Watson. Would you take the reins?

Where exactly are we going?

The Cedars.

A lovely villa near Lee in Kent.

May I ask why I'm going to Lee in Kent?

The middle of the night on a Friday in March?

Because you are my trusty comrade and my loyal chronicler, I may be both.

Get at the fact that I understand.

Several years ago, there came to Lee in Kent a gentleman by name Neville St.

Clair.

He took a large villa, the Cedars.

and about a year later married the daughter of a local brewer.

They have two small children.

He has interest in several companies and travels to the city every morning,

returning by the 514 train from Cannon Street every night.

He is a man of temperate habits, a good husband, an affectionate father, and is

popular with all who know.

His death, as far as we can ascertain, amount to 88 pounds and 10 shillings,

while he has 220 pounds to his credit in the capital and county's bank.

Therefore, there is no reason to think that money troubles have been weighing

him down.

A veritable paradox.

What?

There's a hint of scepticism in your voice, which does you no credit.

I expect Mrs. Leclerc came to you saying that her husband had disappeared.

Exactly. Well, it seems to be a continuous thread in life's fabric.

What's in what is?

I shall ignore your ad of resignation to the world's frailties and continue.

Oh, please do. On Monday, Sinclair left for the city as usual. Before he left,

he promised that he would bring home a box of building bricks for his children.

Building bricks? Mark that well, Watson.

Soon after he left, Mrs. Sinclair received a telegram to say that a parcel

considerable value had arrived for her to the offices of the Aberdeen Shipping

Company.

she decided to travel to the city, collect her parcels, have lunch, and do

shopping.

It was by chance that she found herself in Upper Swandham Lane, that plain, vile

alley that we both visited this evening, Watson.

And it was at this point that something quite singular took place.

Where are you going?

I'm going upstairs.

There's nobody upstairs.

I saw my husband waving from an upstairs window.

There is nobody upstairs.

I saw him. I know my own husband.

What's he doing here? There is nobody upstairs.

Oh!

Neville!

They threw her out. They did.

The Malay and the Lusker who owned the establishment.

A man of the vilest antecedents and a murderer into the valley. A murderer,

he goes free.

The rear of the building backs on to the river. There's even a convenient trap

door for the disposal of bodies.

Why don't the police arrest these two men?

What's for the police who arrested a cripple?

There's so much more yet to tell you, but here we are at the sewers.

Thank you.

Any news?

Mrs. Sinclair, I thought you'd be asleep.

Sleep does not come easily at a time like this.

This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, who has kindly agreed to help me

my investigation.

Mr. Holmes has spoken of you.

Mrs. Sinclair?

I have taken the liberty of asking the doctor to stay overnight.

And I took the liberty of preparing a little cold supper.

Dr. Watson, you take my place. Oh, no, really, I thought Mrs.

Sinclair is a very...

Strong -willed woman.

You refuse her at your peril.

Thank you.

Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, before we eat, I should like to ask one or two plain

questions to which I should like plain answers.

Certainly, madam.

Do you in your heart of hearts think that Neville is still alive?

Frankly, now, I'm not hysterical, nor am I given to fainting.

Frankly, then, I do not.

You think he is dead?

I do.

Murdered? I don't see that.

Perhaps.

And on what day did he meet his death?

On Monday.

So then how do you explain that I received a letter from him?

Now, Missy and Claire, I wonder if you would do me a favour.

By all means.

I have told Dr Watson what happened up to the moment when you were ejected from

that building.

Would you tell us what happened subsequently, please?

For Dr Watson's benefit?

And for mine.

I, too, have to re -examine the facts as we know them.

Now, if you're not too tired.

Of course.

As you may imagine, I do not take kindly to being forcibly removed from a

building.

I sought and found police help.

To constable and inspector... Bradstreet.

Bradstreet. And then you returned to the building?

Yes. The period of time between these two visits was... About 20 minutes.

By the time we returned, the door was unbolted.

Though I am sure the Lasker had bolted it when I left earlier.

I want to look at your upstairs room.

There's nobody there. There's nobody there. You can't object if I look.

Give me a minute to stay here.

He was in this room.

Time and again I tell you, there's nobody here.

May we look into that room?

You mustn't be worried by this gentleman, Mrs Sinclair.

He is an old friend of the constabulary.

You know, Inspector, according to W .S. Gilbert, a policeman's lot is not a

happy one.

Mr Boone is a professional beggar.

No, not a beggar.

An honest trader.

Does this man lodge here?

Yes. You told me nobody lived here.

Madam! A beggar? He's nobody.

If you've pricked us, do we not bleed?

Shakespeare, Mr Boone, I know that one. You've told it to me before.

Inspector.

We have attempts, Mrs Sinclair.

And a large window.

Mrs Sinclair, a window and a river in close proximity does not automatically

mean violent death.

Been here in the past hour?

Yes. Anyone else been here?

Alas, no. I've been as lonely as a cloud.

Tennyson.

Words worth, Inspector.

was standing here.

I saw him.

Mrs. Sinclair, there is no evidence to suggest that he was ever here.

Building bricks, Inspector.

So I see.

My husband left for the city this morning, and the last thing he said to

that he had to buy some building bricks for our little girl's birthday. I see.

Either of you gentlemen buy building bricks?

Somebody must have left them.

And

these

are my husband's clothes.

Shall I describe them to you in detail as you examine them?

My husband's tailor's name is Smart, if you care to examine the label.

At that moment, Inspector Bradstreet began to believe my story.

He and his men made an extensive search of the building. They found a blood

stain up on the windowsill.

They searched the Malay, the Lasker and Boone, but found nothing.

They failed to find my husband's overcoat.

Overcoat.

The one item of clothing that was not accounted for.

Until they're tied.

It's heavy, sir.

weighted down with something.

There were 421 pennies, 270 ha 'penny, stuffed into every pocket of the

overcoat.

Your conclusion, Watson.

Speak freely, Dr. Watson. I've lived with every possibility this past week,

however hideous.

Hold on.

The murderer must have been Boone the beggar. Who else could have access to

a vast number of pennies and hangers? That is an inclusion reached by the

police.

The arrested Boone is presently in both the police station.

Even though my husband is still alive.

Mrs. Sinclair, let me re -examine the significance of this letter. May I read

to Dr. Watson?

By all means.

Dearest, do not be frightened.

There is a huge error which it may take some little time to rectify.

Wait in patience, Neville.

Written in pencil on the flyleaf of a book, Octavius 5, no watermark.

Posted in grave hand by a man with a dirty thumb.

This is not your husband's writing.

No. But the note is.

Without question.

It's the hand he always used when he was in a hurry.

Whoever gummed down the envelope had, unless I'm very much in error, been

chewing tobacco.

It is a trifle, of course, Watson.

But there's nothing so important as trifles.

Mrs. Sinclair, has your husband ever spoken of a pot of gold and of a swan to

me?

Never. I suspect that Dr. Watson has a question to put to you.

This is a difficult question to ask, Mrs. Sinclair, but has your husband ever

shown any signs of taking opium?

He always appeared perfectly normal.

though I confess I would not recognize the signs.

What are they?

Well, a listlessness, a lack of energy, an inability to concentrate, a general

air of apathy.

Dr. Watson is a specialist in uncontrolled addiction.

My husband was not an opium addict.

That's to say, is not an opium addict.

Mr. Holmes?

I know you think my husband is dead.

I fully realize that letter could have been written on Monday and only posted

today.

I know the circumstances as they have been described lead to the inescapable

conclusion that he has been murdered.

But equally, I know that he is alive.

Watson, if Nelson Clare is alive and well, why doesn't he come home and

demonstrate the fact?

Presumably because he's not alive and well. Yes, but this letter could have

written at any time. Perhaps under duress. It could even be a fearful

And the signet ring?

Easily removed.

Especially if the victim is dead.

Indeed.

Proceeding on the hypothesis that Nelson Clare is dead.

How did he meet his dad?

Well, clearly he was murdered.

By whom?

Well, the police think it was this chap, Boo.

I see no reason to disagree with the police.

Except?

Except what?

You say he's a cripple?

Yes. How severe is his disability?

It's only a slight limb.

Well, my medical experience tells me that when there is a weakness in one

it's very often compensated for by exceptional strength in the others.

You're not convinced?

This man is a professional beggar.

He's well known in the city.

He's well liked in the city. I've seen him many times.

He has a remarkable faculty for repartee with which he delights his many

clients. He sounds harmless.

Why, therefore, did the police arrest him rather than the Lasker?

That is the very question that I put to Inspector Bradstreet.

Murder has obviously been committed by a process of elimination. Boone must be

the murderer.

Are these levels from Claire's clothes?

Why did you eliminate the lasker as a husband?

Because Mrs. Sinclair saw her husband in an upstairs window, apparently in the

middle of a struggle.

She went to a downstairs door and was confronted by the lasker.

While they were conversing, or to be more precise...

While the Lasker and his assistant were ejecting Mrs. Sinclair from the

building, the fight was proceeding upstairs, leading, as we now know, to

death of Nils Sinclair.

The 21st birthday present.

A man of meticulous habits. No scratches.

What was the motive in killing Sinclair?

That remains to be established.

Not a trace of opening.

Could it have been robbery?

No.

No, St. Clair's wallet was in his pocket. That's not the money I want.

How do you pay in the coins?

I cannot truly answer that, Mr. Holmes.

Let me try.

Boom, kill St. Clair.

He removes the outer garments, hoping to capitalize on them and their contents.

across the room, forces it through the open window. Hence the abrasion.

Blood on the windowsill.

He releases it into the room.

Well, it sucked away the tide.

In the midst of this activity, he hears the scuffle downstairs as Mrs. McClare

tries to force her way in.

There's not a moment to be lost.

It starts

with the

overcoat.

He realizes at once he will float and not sink.

He rushes across the room to some secret hoard

where he's accumulated the fruits of his beggary, stuffs all the coins that he

can lay his hands on into the pockets of the overcoat, and drops it into the

water.

And would presumably have done the same with the other garments if you and your

men had not arrived.

seals the other garments behind the curtain in the hope that they will not

noticed, and they would not have been noticed had Mrs. Sinclair not been so

persistent. Inspector, whatever plot has been had to that opium den, I cannot

but imagine that the latter is not somehow involved.

I was sorely tempted to arrest him on the day.

Send a couple of men up there now.

No, um, Inspector.

With your permission, may I suggest an alternative strategy?

By all means.

Let me visit the opium den.

Decreetly. Incognito.

We shall learn what we may.

But what did you learn?

Nothing.

Everybody that far as I can ascertain appears to be telling the truth.

But I cannot see an overall pattern.

Can you see a pattern, Watson?

Oh, I see no pattern.

But I do see a woman.

who, despite all objective circumstances, still believes that her

alive. And you've said on many occasions that the impression of a woman may be

more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reason.

But if he is still alive, where is he?

I have no idea.

But I do have an urgent request.

It's now well past four in the morning. May I go to sleep?

Certainly.

Watson. What's that?

Dawn.

I've only had 12 minutes. I wonder if you do me the very great kindness of

considering the possibility of waking up.

I assume you have a good reason. Are you game for the drive?

Certainly, but does it have to be this early? I have a little theory I wish to

test. Is anyone's life at stake? Certainly not.

Wouldn't it be possible to test your theory a little later this morning?

I'll see you downstairs in five minutes.

I agree.

Come on, Nelson.

You have the grand gifts of silence, Watson.

It makes you quite invaluable, isn't it?

Watson, you're in the presence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe.

You exaggerate. I deserve to be kicked from here to Charing Cross.

The moment you woke me up, I would have been prepared to do it. I've got the

key, Watson, here, and this lamp's in there.

Good morning, gentlemen.

Watson, I confess I've been as blind as a mole.

But it's better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all.

Radcliffe.

Radcliffe.

I called about that beggar man, Boone.

He's in the cells, Mr. Holmes. What can I do for you? I should very much like to

see him. He'd probably be asleep.

The population is probably asleep, Holmes.

Are you well, Mr. Holmes? Dr. Watson, have you come this way?

You can leave your bag in the office, Mr. Holmes. I'll take it with me. It

contains the key.

He's a dirty scoundrel.

Filthy.

Refuses to wash.

Says washing weakens a man's resistance.

A sleeper.

He's a beauty, isn't he?

Inspector, would you do me the great goodness of opening the door as quietly

possible?

Gentlemen, let me introduce you to Mr. Neville St. Clair of Lee in the county

Kent.

Great heaven.

It is true.

And, pray, what have I been charged with?

Charged with making away with Mr. Neville St. Clair.

Making away with myself?

This takes the cake.

But since it is obvious that no crime has been committed, I am illegally

detained.

My strength is as the strength of ten, because my heart is pure.

Alfred Lord Tennyson.

You lied to your wife, Mr. Sinclair.

Is that purity?

Let it be understood that I would have endured imprisonment, even execution,

rather than reveal my miserable secret to my wife and children.

All is now revealed, Mr. Sinclair.

So be it.

My father was a schoolmaster in Chesterfield.

I received an excellent education, traveled, took to the stage.

and finally became a reporter on a London newspaper.

One day, my editor wished to have a series of articles upon begging in the

metropolis, and I volunteered to supply them.

So you became a beggar?

Yes.

And your experience with an actor must have proved invaluable.

Yes.

Yes, I painted my face to make myself look as pitiable as possible.

I manufactured frightening scars.

I twisted my lip with the aid of a piece of flesh -coloured plaster.

And then, with a dark wig and appropriate clothing, took my position

busiest part of the metropolis.

Ostensibly as a match seller, but... Yes.

Really, as a beggar.

I did it well.

In one day I took 26 shillings and four pence.

I wrote my articles for the newspaper. My editor was delighted and I thought no

more about it.

Until one day I backed a bill for a friend of mine. A writ served on me for

pounds.

Well, I was at my wit's end. I mean, what could I do?

And then suddenly an idea came to me.

I asked for a fortnight's holiday from my employers and spent the time in the

city begging.

In ten days, I had the money and was able to pay back the debt.

That was when I fell into the trap.

How much were you earning from the newspaper at this time?

Two pounds a week.

Far less than begging.

During the last few years, I have earned on average at least 700 pounds a year.

But that's a joke.

Calmly, Bradstreet.

I think it is pertinent to say that Mr. Sinclair is no ordinary beggar.

People do not expect a beggar to quote extensively from Shakespeare, Mr.

Dickens, the Bible, or the latest popular thong.

An aristocrat among beggars.

Well, it is not for me to claim.

Such a distinction, but as the inspector rightly observes, I had a gentleman's

income, so I proceeded to live like a gentleman. I bought a villa in Kent. I

married a beautiful and respectable woman.

And every morning I travelled to my business in the city.

You must have been embroiled with the Lasker by this time.

Yes, I paid him a generous rent for the use of his upstairs rooms.

My secret was safe with him.

I fell among thieves but found honour of a sort.

You see, every morning I would emerge as a squalid beggar and every evening

transformed into a gentleman.

Tell us about Monday.

I had finished for the day and was dressing in my room above the opium den.

And suddenly I looked out of the window.

To my horror and astonishment, there was my wife in the street, her eyes fixed

full upon me.

I ran along to try and find Laska.

You must not let her in.

I'll say there's nobody upstairs.

She may return with the police.

I'll tell them there is nobody upstairs.

Mr. Boone will be upstairs.

Ah, Mr. Boone is a lodger. He has a right to be upstairs.

I then became Boone, the beggar, once more.

And then it occurred to me that there might be a search of the room and that

clothes might betray me.

So I picked up my coat, which was weighed down with the coins that I had

transferred from my leather bag in which I carried my takings.

The rest of my clothes would have followed, but at that moment, the police

arrived.

The rest you know.

We found blood on the windowsill.

In my haste to open the window, I cut myself.

A minor abrasion, if you prick me.

And that I was arrested on suspicion of having murdered myself.

And that you caused your wife much anguish.

But I wrote her a letter.

I gave it to the last gutter post. It was not delivered.

It arrived yesterday.

He probably gave it to one of his sailor customers.

I shall never forgive myself the agony which I have inflicted upon my wife.

Can I go to her now? I think we must impose one condition, Mr. Sinclair.

Anything.

There must be no more of you, Boone.

I swear it by the most solemn oath that a man can take.

Farewell, sweet boon.

A flight of angels sing thee to thy rest.