All language subtitles for Bookish.S01E01.Slightly.Foxed.Part.1.1080p.AMZN.WEB-DL.DDP5.1.H.264-RAWR_track3_[eng]

Go on, son.
Keep your nose clean.

They don't get any lighter.

Come and get
your paper.

All the latest news.

Come and get your paper.

Bit lost, love?

Uh...158?

Just there, sweetheart.

Ta.

Post, madam?

Come and get your paper!

Paper of the day!

Hold that, would you?

Oh, uh...

What do you make of it?

- Looks old.
- It is.

Fairly indifferent
Jacobean poetry.

Calf-skin binding.
Worth a couple of bob.

What are these brown spots
on the pages?

You get straight to the heart of
the matter, Mister, um...

Jack.

Just Jack.

That's called "foxing",
Jack Just Jack.

It's what time does to books.

To all of us.

In the profession we say it's
"slightly foxed".

Interested?

You know, there's a mistake.

A mistake?

Well, isn't there?

Above the door, the sign.

What about it?

Well, it's wrong, isn't it?

There's no apostrophe
in "books".

- There is.
- No, there isn't.

- There is.
- There isn't.

There is if your name is Book
and you own the shop,

which it is and I do.

My name is Book.

Book's books.

Confusing, I know.

Or is it handy?
I can never decide.

Anyway, I'm Book
and I run a bookshop.

This one, obviously.
You must be here about the job.

Tea?

Er, not quite there yet.

I'm trying to make ginger snaps.

Er... how much?

Where were you dragged up?

One for each person
and one for the pot.

Now...

Where have we got to,
Jack Just Jack?

Uh, this is Dog.

Book. Dog. Job.

I have a little hobby
on the side,

and I find it's taking me
away from the shop

more and more.

So... I require assistance.

Ooh...

Oh, God.

Oh, that's better.

I must have tea.

Without tea, I'm merely
un-reconstituted dust.

Look, this isn't really
my sort of gaff.

I mean, I thought they'd maybe
send me to a factory or something.

They?

Well, you know where
I've come from, don't you?

You know that I was...

No need to mention it again.

What are you hoping for now
you've got the job,

Jack Just Jack?

I just want to keep
my head down.

You know, try and get back
to norm...

Wait, I've got the job?

Normality is overrated.

Yes, you've got the job.

If you want it.

Darling...

you must come at once.
Oh.

Uh, Trottie,
this is Jack Just Jack.

Jack, this is Trottie, my wife.

Hello.

- Hello.
- Well, what is it?

The bomb site.

The men clearing the bomb site,
you know, where Inkerman Street

- used to be?
- Oh, yes, that one.

What of it?

Well, they found something.

In suspicious circumstances.

My favorite kind
of circumstances.

Ah, I was wondering
if we'd be seeing you.

I'm like a bad penny, Sergeant.

Yeah, well, you know
my feelings.

You've made them
exquisitely plain.

But as you know,
I do have a special...

Letter from Churchill.

Yeah.

All right...

Oh, hello, Book. Mrs. Book.

Thought this might be
up your street.

Almost literally.

Start at the beginning,
Inspector,

and leave nothing out.

Especially if it's salacious,

gory or vaguely scandalous.

Bit of a puzzle.

Mr. Baseheart here

was starting to clear away
the rubble

from this old bomb site
the other day.

Inkerman Street caught it in
'44, didn't it?

Yes, sir. Terrible pounding.

Do you remember that raid, sir?

How could I forget?

Trottie and I ended up
cheek by jowl

in the Anderson shelter

with the man from the Prudential
Insurance Company.

He had lovely fingernails.

And terrible halitosis.

Those shelters weren't built
for sharing.

Uh, war's over, Mr. Baseheart.

Quite so, sir. But I still like
to patrol my route.

For old time's sake.

And to keep an eye on
old Brenda there.

My trusty searchlight.

Well, here he was, trying to
clear away the rubble,

when, lo, what does he find?

Lo, what?

Ah.

Heavens to Betsy.

Tossed together like
a skeletal salad. How many?

It's hard to tell, because
they're all jumbled up.

Ten or twelve, I'd say.

Quite why Mr. Baseheart didn't
tell the authorities

about his discovery forthwith,
is another matter.

- He didn't?
- No.

Some kiddies who were playing
here let us know.

As I was saying, uh,
I have a theory.

Well, obviously they copped it
in the raid, didn't they?

What do you think, Jack?

- Me?
- You.

Uh...

yeah, that's what must
have happened.

Air raid killed them.

Died two years ago, and now
they're all rotted away.

That would be
a logical assumption.

Who's this?

So, you don't think they died
in an air raid?

If you recall, Inkerman Street
was already empty,

wasn't it, Mr. Baseheart?

Scheduled for demolition.

So, nobody was living here.
In which case...

-Who are they?
- Well, anybody, surely?

Anybody could have taken shelter
from the bombing

in one of the empty houses.

A dozen of them?
What about clothes?

- Clothes?
- "All flesh is grass."

The raid was only two years ago.

Even if the bodies
had rotted away,

their clothes would
still be intact.

I think Mr. Baseheart and I are
thinking along...

similar lines.

Well...

that would appear to be
the clincher.

What do you think?

The unmistakable bonce
of King Charles II.

Ooh. Does it have a date
on it, too?

1665.

Plague pit, yeah?

So it would seem.

A what?

A plague pit.

The Great Plague.

London's burial grounds
were overflowing,

so, they dug these
great big pits

and dumped
all the corpses in them.

Ah, I...I'm a bit of an
archaeologist.

On the side. Strictly amateur,
you understand.

So, why didn't you tell us
straight away

when you found them?

Well, I...

I knew I'd never get a
chance like this again.

I just wanted a bit of time
to excavate them.

Fascinating stuff.

I really am very sorry,
Inspector.

Yes. Well, no harm done,
I suppose.

Not sure about that.

These skeletons might
still be lively.

What, you mean,
it's still catching?

The jury, as they say, is out.

But I think it's very unlikely.

Do you mind if I hang onto this?

- You're welcome to it.
- All right, Mr. Book?

Oh, hello, Nora.

Why am I not surprised to see
you here?

Did you know that back then,

they used to use great catapults

to toss plaguey corpses into
besieged cities

to deliberately infect people?

That's horrible, Nora.

I know.

And a split infinitive.

Even more horrible.

Might be worth a bit, too.

Sergeant, get this lot
taken care of, pronto.

- With care.
- Er, where to, sir?

Uh, a morgue, I suppose.

And get Dr. Calder to take
a shufty.

See if there's any chance
they're still infectious.

Yes, sir.

- Thank you, Book.
- Any time, Inspector.

Sergeant?

Why can't you collect stamps
like normal people?

Oh, dear.

Are you all right?

Yeah. Um...

it's all just a bit, uh...

me and coppers...

I've, uh...

I've been away, you see, and...

Oh, yes, I, I know.

Can't have been very nice.

You can tell me all about it
when you're ready.

Here, let me take this.

Well, you must stay with us,
mustn't you?

Now that you've got the job.

I have the premises next door.

Book has his books,
I have my wallpaper,

and there is a darling little
attic room between the two.

Why are you helping me
like this?

-I'll just check in...
- Why not?

...with the Inspector,

if that's all right with you?

I'll get this cordoned
off, sir.

Poor old Harkup.

- Suicide, I heard.
- Heard?

Heard from your colleague
over there.

Ooh, I'll have his ruddy guts
for garters.

This goes against
all the rules of...

All right, Sergeant, all right.

Mr. Book's always welcome
to give us the benefit

of his wisdom.
And as you know...

Yes.

Yes.

Bad business, Book, very bad.

Poor sod.

But look, Morris has a point.

This is a plain,
ordinary suicide.

I mean, I can be flexible,
as you know,

when something
a little bit more...

Recherché? Outré?

Anything with an acute accent?

Unusual comes along.

Like, like our... our friends,
the skeletons.

But this is a meat
and potatoes job.

You know, the Sergeant and I
are perfectly capable of...

Who found him?

Charwoman. Ada Dredge.

Pretty shook up she is.

Dredge?
That rings a little bell.

She's been doing for Harkup
for donkey's.

Ding, dong.

- Was there a note?
- No, no note.

How did he do it?

Prussic acid.

Na... nasty.

And intriguing, don't you think?

- Mr. Harkup?
- Afraid so.

Looks like suicide.

Oh, how dreadful.

Well, I'd better get on.

Too much excitement for one day.

Jack, nip back to the shop,
would you?

There's a pile of newspapers,
third stack on the right

as you come in,
Charing Cross Dispatch.

Underneath two volumes on
Eleanor of Castille

and a wilting aspidistra.

Fetch them for me, would you?

Okay.

Oh, and put the kettle on again.

We're going to have company.

We'll have a drink, all right?

Oh...

Oh, well,
seeing as it's from him.

Hmm.

Oh, I, I brought a coffee
and walnut cake round

for Mr. Harkup.

You might as well have it.

And this was your usual
char day?

Yes. Every week regular
as clockwork.

But I only saw him yesterday.

Popped round to get
some bandages.

Bandages?

Oh, my son, he was injured in
the War.

He needs constant attention.
The dressing.

Uh, what time did you see
Mr. Harkup?

Uh, six.

Six-ish, I think.

Oh, it doesn't seem possible.

Him, standing there, all full of
life, and then...

finding him lying there
like that.

You're doing very well.

And was he?

Was he what?

Full of life, when you saw him?

In good spirits, I mean.

Well, to be honest,
he seemed a little down.

But why he'd want to go and do
an 'orrible thing

like that to himself.

Any... vices?

Vices, sir?

We must investigate all angles,
alas, dear lady.

Oh.

Man of very regular habits,
he was.

Church every Sunday.

Kept his accounts
in very neat order.

I think that was
the soldier in him.

He, he did play dominoes.

Dominoes?

Every Monday and Thursday night.

In The Bull with Mr. Baseheart
and some others.

Does that count as a vice?

I hardly think so.

Did he have any family?

My mother always said,
if you can't say anything nice

about someone,
don't open your trap.

So, there was...

bad blood, then?

There's a daughter, isn't there?
Some... estrangement?

I wouldn't like to say.

Don't seem right.

What, with Mr. H not cold
in his grave.

Heavens, this cake.

- Yes?
- Well, it's superb.

Ooh. Too kind, sir.

But then,
I'd expect nothing less.

Oh. Why do you say that?

From Miss Lyons Corner House,
1921?

Ooh. Fancy you knowing that.

It was 1922, though.

My mistake.

- How the dickens?
- Oh.

I store up a lot of little
titbits like that,

mostly useless.

Must have been a...

lovely experience.

Oh, yes. Oh.

I've never felt so glamorous.

I got a new hat.

And the Lord Mayor winked at me.

Winked!

Fancy.

Worked there for years I did.

At the Corner House.

So, I got very good
with the baking.

Mr. H used to love
my pineapple upside-down...

You know, it really would be
most helpful to know

why he and his daughter, Sarah,
uh...

- Meru...
- Merula.

Merula, that's right.

Why he and Merula no longer
saw eye-to-eye.

Well, seeing as you've been
so kind, sir...

Very good of you.

She was a cow.

A right, horrible,
money-grabbing little cow.

I see.

Apple of his eye she was,

after his wife passed on.

But she knew how to twist him
round her little finger.

Nothing was too much
for his little princess. Hah.

And then, she has the gall
to run off with him.

Him?

Mickey.

Mickey Hall.

He's a right ne'er-do-well.

Up to all sorts in the War.

Spivvy stuff, you know.

Black market.

He's a motor mechanic.

They've got a garage.

Out Mile End way.

- Mile End?
- Charming.

And now Merula
will inherit the lot.

Don't seem right, do it?

No, it, um...

don't.

Thanks for the cake.

What the hell do you think
you're doing?

Just being neighborly,
Sergeant.

Uh... your witness, I think.

Hello again.

Oh, hello, Book.

Just wondered if I could have
a little nosey around

before I head out.

- See if I can... help at all.
- Head out?

Oh, Mrs. Book and I are off
on pleasure bent.

The new boy is baby-sitting.

Oh, for the dog?

Dog. There's no
definite article.

Er, off to the pictures?

They're re-running a Sandra Dare
at the Rialto.

The opera.

Fat ladies singing.

Speaking of which, may I, um...

There's a daughter.

But Mrs. Dredge says
they didn't get on.

So I gather.

We're endeavoring to trace her.

She has a garage...

in Mile End.

Oh, right.

Thanks.

Funny, aren't they?

Mrs. Bliss goes in for
something similar.

Little, little knick-knacks.

Not quite the same, I think.

These are jade.

Rather fine.

And this one...

Mr. Harkup was obviously
a connoisseur.

Do you think it was suicide?

You have doubts?

I do. What... what's your theory?

- Evening, gentlemen.
- Evening.

Oh, Eric. Black Lamb
and Grey Falcon.

- Eh?
- That book for Sheila.

- It's arrived.
- Oh, smashing.

Uh, she'll come over tomorrow
for it.

- Right-o.
- Wet your whistle?

Oh, no, thank you.

I was never keen on him myself,
Harkup.

God forgive me.

Bit of a little Hitler.

Still, poor bugger.

Topping himself like that.

Hmm.

So...

what's your theory?

Patience, Inspector. Patience.

The two most powerful warriors
are patience and time.

- Tolstoy.
- Oh, couldn't get into him.

I tried that one, you know,
where, where she chucks herself

in front of a train.

No?

No.

Book.

Inspector.

Too much?

No, not at all.

Uh...

you look amazing.

- I meant the walls.
- Oh.

Book says it's an affront to
good taste,

but I don't know,
I think it has a certain

something, don't you?

I'm good at knocking
things together.

I...I always have been.

Wardrobes, wireless sets,

heads.

I was in the Land Army.

- Gin?
- What?

Oh, yeah, please.

So, you're going out then?

My dear, we're always going out.

Well, one has to live,
doesn't one?

Especially after the time
we've all had.

There are some chops in
the larder, I think.

Your room's up at the top,
I've aired the sheets.

You're...

I mean...

thank you.

Hmm.

Mm.

I'd better go and unpack.

Well?

Well?

I know that look.

- You're on to something.
- Nonsense.

Merely the happy look
of a contented man.

I have my lovely wife,
my lovely shop, my lovely Dog.

What more could a man ask for?

Fraud.

Three things, then.

Mr. Harkup collected

Chinese jade figures
of exceptional quality.

But dust is eloquent,
as someone once said.

Dust doesn't lie.

One of the figures has
been replaced

with a bit of cheap trash,
a chess piece.

But the larger outline
remains clear.

Mrs. Dredge hasn't cleaned
in a while,

despite what she said.

Secondly, Mr. Harkup

has a small lump
on the back of his head.

Not caused by him falling,
I don't think.

More probably a blow
with a blunt instrument.

A blunt instrument
that didn't break the skin.

And yet there is blood on
the back of Mr. Harkup's scalp.

- Thirdly...
- Yes?

"Darkling, I listen.

And for many a time
I have been half in love

with easeful Death.

Called him soft names

in many a mused rhyme,

to take into the air
my quiet breath."

Pardon?

Why would a chemist,

with every known gentle poison
in the shop,

choose to kill himself with
something as horrible

as Prussic acid?

Hmm.

Well, Book,

there you are, then.

Yes, Trottie.

There we are.

It's murder.

Book?

Mrs. Book.

- Be careful.
- Be careful.

Shop?

Ah, good morning.

Hmm.

How can I help?

Oh. Well, I'm...

I'm after a book.

You are very much
in the right place.

What do you think, young man?

What would suit the lady best?

Dickens? Wilkie Collins?

Henry James?

Do you have the new
Georgette Heyer?

Ah.

Well, I...I've read all her
other ones.

Me too.
And what a smasher she is.

But that would be a new book,
Miss, um...

Mrs. Goodwin.

- Jean.
- Jean.

We don't really go in for
those, do we?

We should try Foyles.

It's a bit of a trudge,

with my feet
being what they are.

I have the perfect alternative.

One who was spinning
romantic yarns

when Miss Heyer was still in
the cradle... probably.

Oh, well, if you think
that then...

- Shh.
- I mean, if you'd recommend...

Shh.

Beg your pardon, I'm sure.

Sorry. Thinking. Ah!

Orczy.

Never heard of him.

Her. Baroness.

Hungarian.

The Scarlet Pimpernel.

Oh, I've heard of that.

French Revolution.

It's a delight.

You won't regret it.

When you've finished,

come back and I'll find you
the sequel.

Oh, that's very good of you.

What do I owe you?

Oh, let's call it a bob.

Hang on.

Feet.

Feet, feet, feet.

Ah.

This...

is free.

- Oh, I, I couldn't possibly...
- Oh, it's nothing.

But sending you off happily
on the bus

without further bunions

is a price above rubies.

Wouldn't you agree, Jean?

Thank you.

Cheery bye.

Come on, woman.

I'll never make any money
like that, will I?

Hey ho.

Now then, Jack, excited to start
the day?

There's a whole world
of learning in here.

All human life.

And some inhuman.

Still got that coin?

What? Oh, uh...

yeah, yeah, of course.

Good.

I don't mean to pry, Mr. Book,

but, um...

what exactly is it you do?

I would have thought
that was obvious.

I sell books.

Yeah, but that's not all, is it?

Yesterday,

out there at the bomb site,

your chat with the charlady...

- Yes?
- Well, is that, like, your...

your hobby?

I mean, the way you talk
to those coppers,

the way they let you roam
around that pit...

are you like some sort of
advisor to them or something?

I mean, why should
they listen to you?

They frequently don't.

More fool them.

I did the Inspector a favor
once during the War.

He hasn't forgotten.

Also, I have a special letter...

Uh, a letter from Churchill?

Yeah, the copper said that.
A...

A letter saying what?

It's a chaotic world, Jack.

I have a system.

Sometimes people like me
to give an opinion on things.

Impose a little order.

That's all.

You can read
all sorts of things...

as well as books.

What? So...

This...

this is your system?

Yes.

What's wrong with it?

Well, they're not
in any kind of order.

I mean...

Cataracts of Denial.

Diseases of the Eye
and Their Treatment.

Cataracts. Eye disease. Logical.

The Guillotine:
A Practical Guide.

The Life and Death of
Alfred Muttings, Gent.

Coins of the Realm.
I mean, there's no system.

There's no system at all.

Well, it's all up here,
isn't it?

How best to explain?

Alfred Muttings
was a career criminal.

Very successful forger
in his day,

which was Queen Victoria's day.

Extraordinary chap in his field.

He was a coiner,
a forger of coins.

But his luck ran out in Paris,

and they chopped off his head,

which is why all those books are
clumped together, you see?

Yeah, but that's...

I mean, that's silly.

Nevertheless.

Well, I shall leave you to,
uh... hold the fort.

Slightly foxed.

Slightly... foxed.

Says it all.

- Morning.
- Yeah?

Uh... can I help you?

I've come to collect an order.

Uh, righto. Um, what's the name?

Sheila Wellbeloved.

Um...

Hello.

- Jack?
- Yeah?

I'm Nora.

We've got lots to talk about.

Thank you, Miss. Uh, again,
very sorry for your loss.

- Can I go now?
- Well, if you wouldn't mind

- just answering a few questions.
-Ah.

Um, would you just, just come
with me, please, Miss?

Fascinating.

- Where better to hide a tree...
-Than in a forest.

Now these markings...

Indeed.

- Book?
- Oh, hello.

Just checking in on those
skeletons with Dr. Calder here.

Ah, yes. Uh, any risk
of infection?

Quite safe on that count,
Inspector.

- However...
- Ah.

"Loose lips drop slips,"

as they say
in the knicker trade.

Wouldn't want to spoil
the surprise, would we?

Surprise?

Anyway, back to the case
in hand.

This is Miss Merula Harkup.

Oh, my dear child,
I'm so very sorry.

- A few questions, you said?
- Yeah.

Do you mind if... I tag along?

Uh, don't forget that blood
test, will you?

On its way.

Sorry about that.

There you go.

Black Lamb and Grey Falcon.

Sounds interesting?

Ta.

Getting the hang of it?

Slowly.

So... who are you?

Nora.

I live across the road
in the Turkish restaurant.

Help out in the shop sometimes.

So, um...

do you know them well, then?

Mr. and Mrs. Book?

Yeah.

And do you know about his...

little hobby?

Bloody hell, yes.

It's all I think about.

Isn't all that, I mean...

- Isn't that...
- Unhealthy?

I should think so.

What do your mum and dad think?

Don't have any.

What do you mean?

Well, it was the War, wasn't it?

Everyone lost someone.

I lost them.

Sorry.

- What happened?
- So...

how are you getting on,
anyway, with the Books?

Mr. and Mrs.?

It's not quite
what I expected when...

what is his Christian name,
by the way?

What do you think?

Cook Book?

Scrap Book? Mucky Book?

Gabriel.

Ah.

Like the angel?

Archangel, I think you'll find.

They're a dream.

Both of them.

Such sweethearts.

So...

what's your story?

Suppose you think I'm hard.

I'm not sniffling,
boo-hooing all over the shop.

I mean, it's just not the way
I'm made.

So there.

Your father?

I'm sorry that he's dead.

Of course, I am. He was my dad.

In spite of everything.

He didn't make it easy to, um...

to love him, though.

Can you think of any reason why

he'd want to take his own life?

None. No, he was nicely set up
with his shop, and...

well, Mum had left him a few bob
when she died.

You... you don't think your
estrangement...

No. Nothing to do with that.

He wasn't the type to get
all emotional.

Maybe that's where
I get it from.

I mean, he made it
very clear that...

he didn't approve of, um...

me and Mickey.

But, um, he'd hardly have gone
and killed himself

in a fit of the glums about it.

He just... he weren't the type,
as I say.

Tell us about Mickey.

What's to say?
He's my fella.

Hmm.

How was his War?

Why do you ask that?

Well, we know how much your
father appreciated

the armed forces.

Always wore his medal ribbons

with great pride.

Yes, well...

Mickey wasn't lucky.

His eyes, they're not...

they're not good.

I say that's why he ended up
with me.

I mean...

he wouldn't have been
much good against Jerry

with eyes like his.

Dad didn't like that.

Thought he was a shirker.

That was the start of it.

What was the finish?

Well, Dad was convinced that
Mickey was thieving from him.

Cash?

Morphine.

Mickey got up to some shady
business during the War.

Just stockings, cigarettes,
small stuff.

Dad had, um...

just got it into his head
that Mickey was bad.

And he'd noticed morphine
had gone missing?

Yes.

Wouldn't speak to us.

But you've had a bit of news,
haven't you?

I thought a little one
might be the thing that

brung us back together.

What's all this about?

Why are you so
interested in Mickey

if... if...

Dad has gone and topped himself?

Stories?

Detective stories.

That's what I want to write.

I've got so many ideas.

It's...

such an exciting
new world out there.

Everything's all smashed up.

The whole world.

No one knows what to do anymore.

Well, I do.

The War turned everything

upside down.

Shook it up.

But that's great.

There's no going back to how
things used to be.

Including murders?

Including murders.

Half the soldiers in Britain
have come home

with pistols they stole
from dead Nazis.

The country's awash with them.

So?

So...

we only seem civilized
in this country

because we're not armed.

Think of all that throbbing
suburban passion.

Husbands having affairs
with secretaries.

Ladies having affairs
with their chauffeurs.

All those contested wills
and domestic rows.

People used to kill each other

by boiling down arsenic
from their wallpaper.

Now they just have to reach
for a Luger.

Pow, pow, pow.

What did happen to your parents?

You're supposed to be telling me
your story.

I'm an orphan too.

I never knew my mum.

I've got a picture of my dad.

That's all.

I'm sorry.

It's all right.

- Look, I should, um...
- Yeah.

It was nice to meet you.

It was an incendiary.

What?

An incendiary.

Set the roof on fire.

In the Blitz.

Mum got me out and...

went back for Dad.

Then the roof fell in.

I just sat there...

in the garden
looking at the house.

Just...

felt... sort of numb.

The ARP warden found me.

Then...

my uncle took me in.

So...

now I have to help him out...

with the restaurant.

But you'd rather be...?

Much more exciting over here, innit?

I gave up pleasure for Lent.

I gave up Lent.

For pleasure.

Well...

what's your answer?

I told you before,

I'm just a bookseller.

I sell books again,
like I did before the War.

This would be...

for old time's sake.

And we did help you find...

him.

Very kind of you.

How's all that working out?

It's complicated.

Well, yes, I imagine it is.

Delicate.

And we wouldn't want anything
to go wrong...

now, would we?

So...

what do we make of him?

Hmm?

Jack.

I've put him in the attic room.

Like Mrs. Rochester.

Only slightly more butch.

Has it ever occurred to you
that you are such a...

- Bibliophile?
- Because of your name.

Nominative determinism. Hmm.

I mean,
if you'd been called Butcher,

you might be slicing up
choice cuts of meat.

Flensing, that's the word.

Removing fat from a carcass.

Wonderfully descriptive word, flensing.

I shall endeavor
to bring it back.

Well, I wish you joy with that.

Yes, you could be slipping me
black market chops

under the counter like
Mr. Wellbeloved.

Much more useful than books
these days.

I could have been an Archer,

or a Baker,

or a Chandler.

Speaking of which...

..."Farewell, My Lovely."

Oh, are you going out again?

You're so sharp,
you'll cut yourself.

Crime fiction. American.

A customer put in a request.

I know it's here somewhere.

I saw a Lady in the Lake
recently.

Anyway... Jack?

Oh.

Definite promise.
Definite promise.

And he didn't try to flog
that coin.

So, jail hasn't made him
a wrong'un for life.

Touch wood.

And the, uh...

other matter?

It's too soon to tell him.

What was so special
about your book?

Nothing, really.

It's just about some chaps at...

school playing cricket.

And what do you think
of Carol Darley?

You've read Tim?

- Started it.
- When?

After I saved it
from the incinerator.

Book.

What's your name?

Budge over.

That's a funny name.

Thank you.

Stratford Perry.

But my friends call me Trottie.

You're splendid.

You owe me.

I do.

So, when I get into trouble
here,

will you help me out?

Let us make a solemn pact.

"'Put your strong arms around
me, Carol,

and raise me a little.

I can talk better so.'

Carol bowed his head without
a word and kissed him.

And thus, their friendship
was sealed."

Good night, Mrs. Book.

Good night, Mr. Book.

Ah...

The daughter, the spiv, the char,
the warden.

Who gave Harkup...

the ruddy poison?

Absent friends.

Absent friends.

Hi.

Sir? You'll never believe it.

It takes a lot to surprise me,
Morris.

Well, what is it?

We just got the Chemist's will
through, sir.

Yeah?

Daughter doesn't get a bean.

No?

No.

Then who does?

Oh.

The char.

Hmm.

Mrs. Ada Dredge.

Mum!

Mum!

Mum!

Mum!

Urgh!

Mum!