All language subtitles for This.Is.Not.A.Murder.Mystery.S01E01.The.Lovers.1080p.AMZN.WEB-DL.DUAL.DDP2.0.H.264-YAGAMi_Subtítulos01.ENG

Mummy!

Mummy!

Hello?

Please stand by for an international
call from England Brighton Exchange.

Uh, yes. Thank you.

George, is that you?

My sweetheart. Is everything okay?

Did your trip go well?

After this,
I'll need you in the dining room.

And I need everything perfect.
- Yes, sir.

My love...

We have a problem.

A problem?

Tell me everything, sweetheart.

Let's start from the beginning, okay?

What's the place like?

What are the other guests like?

Of course you know the Dalís, sir?

A little bit, yes.

Do not look me in the eye.

Fetch my suitcases and bring them
up to my suite, on the double.

Darling. What a silly mistake.

This is not some little footman.

This is the future of surrealist painting.
After me, of course.

She even asked after you.
- Gala?

Yes.
- Wow.

Where is your darling wife?
Georgina was it?

Georgette.
- Yes, right. That's the one.

I was also wondering
how Lord James is in real life.

Not here.
- That's not possible.

My Lord and I
would like to welcome you all,

the most promising artists of today.

Where is your Lord by the way?

Delayed in London, preparing
for the Exhibition of the Century, sir.

This coming Friday here at West Dean,

which will establish you
as the world's foremost artists,

not to mention rich
beyond your wildest dreams.

You'll have five days to display
your art in our exhibition space.

And where would that be?
- Monkton House, Mr Ray.

Within walking distance of the manor,
amid the estate's beautiful forests.

Meanwhile, don't forget
to live it up like lords and ladies.

Once you all hit the deadline
on Friday, of course. 4 PM sharp.

If I could ask you to raise a glass?

Mr Dalí, Ms Miller, Mrs Dalí,

Mr Ray, Mr Magritte,

Mr Ernst, Nash, sir...

and Ms Legge.

Here's to unlimited success.

Unlimited success.
- To all of us.

René?

You were talking about a problem?

René? Are you still there?

Butler?

What is she doing here?

I'm sorry, sir?
- Sheila.

I swore I would never see
that vile child again.

Mr Dalí, Ms Legge is Lord James' niece.

She's been staying here
at the estate for some time.

I'm afraid you will just
have to put up with her.

And why is she at our table?
She's not even an artist.

Ms Legge is one of our most
esteemed performance artists, sir.

And she will be performing on Friday.

If you'll excuse me.

"Performance artist."

The future of surrealist painting.

René Magritte.

How are you?

René?

René?

Don't touch anything!

Is she...?

Oh, good God!

Get up, Mr Magritte. At once. Come on.
- No...

Calm yourself. Come on, sir.

Come on.

What the hell happened?

René?
- Let's get you out of here. Good man.

Don't say anything to anybody, please.
- Why not?

Maybe someone remembers something...

That might be so,
but we can't create a panic.

Let me call the police first, sir.

Well, I have questions too, okay?

René?

I don't mean to upset you, sir,
but you just woke up next to a dead woman.

What's the problem
you wanted to tell me about?

It's nothing, my love.

Just a bad night, I think.

Breakfast is being served. I have to go.

René?

You're gloomy, even by your standards.

My poor little pal
didn't survive the trip.

Those damned storms.

Da Vinci is used to being
under water, not on top of it.

You care more for your damn
dead crustacean than you do me.

Hey, Magritte.
- Hi.

My condolences on the death
of your lobster, Man.

This is one lobster that won't be missed.

Da Vinci bit me on the way over. Twice.

A lobster doesn't bite, it pinches.
And it's a sign of affection.

A bit like you then.

I'm glad you're in lobster heaven, buddy.

Hell of a lot better
than being stuck down here.

You're as pale as a corpse, Magritte.

Sheila didn't wear you out
too much last night, did she?

Wear me out?
- We saw you go up together

just after midnight. Fast work, my friend.

Will you excuse me?

I could get used to this.
- I couldn't live here, sir.

The air...

What is it? The plants? The animals?

The people.

Just don't show them that you're impressed

by their wealth and their little games.

Right, sir.

Thank you.
- Sir.

An honour to meet you, My Lord.
Detective Chief Inspector Thistlethwaite.

Detective Quant, at your service.

I must say,
your estate deserves to be seen

in among the collection
of any gentlemen's seats in the Kingdom.

Please, sir, you are mistaken.
I am merely Lord James' servant.

I see.

Name?

Jukes, sir. Archibald... sir.

Please, could you show us the body?
- Of course. Follow me.

We'll take it from here, thank you.

Yes, sir.

You do the honours now,
Detective Constable.

On the left-hand side of the bed:
female, deceased,

evening clothes, her head covered with
a white scarf tied loosely at the neck,

bloodstained nose,

a broken glass,
another stain on the sheets.

Blood or wine.

Right side of the bed:
an impression of a body.

Heavier, larger... Perhaps male?

I'd say so. Not bad, detective.
Not bad at all.

Black shoes, recently shined.

Men's cologne.

Bitter and sweet.
- Opiates?

And if so, a large dose.

This might be the poor woman
lying in bed, Quant.

Let's meet our victim.

Strangled. A couple of hours ago?

Legge, Sheila. English.
Single. 25 years old.

Occupation: performance artist.

Occupation: murder victim.

No doubt of that.

Who would be the killer in the mix, Quant?

We need a place to work.
Let's find... What's-his-name?

Jukes, I believe, sir.

I found it. Apologies for the wait.

Would this space suit, detectives?

Yes, this will do nicely
for a murder room.

What information do we have
on the guests, Quant?

It looks like they are
a bunch of struggling artists.

One of them is in England
for the first time.

Look.

René François Ghislain Magritte.

Born 1898. Lessines, Belgium.

Painter.

Ah, Magritte? I've got to...

Sir?

I've got to deliver
the bad news to the group.

Come along.

And try to look surprised, sir.

It is my sad duty
to inform you all that...

Ms Legge has passed away in the night.

What?

It was a dreadful accident,
of course, but...

Scotland Yard have been ordered to
investigate, just to be on the safe side.

And they are looking into...

every possibility.

You mean murder?

I know that Ms Legge was a beloved friend,
companion and colleague of you all.

My Lord and I are deeply sorry
for your loss.

If there's anything
you need at this time, please...

don't hesitate to ask.
- Oh my dear God, the poor girl.

Are you happy now?

You need more coke, pal?
- Stop it! We are all in shock.

Let's not make it worse.
- You are awfully quiet.

Sorry?
- Surely you were the last one to see her.

When you took her upstairs.

No... I don't know...

Suddenly you can't speak
English anymore, my friend?

Our friend dies,
and you've got nothing to say?

Explain yourself, man.
- Come on. Nobody wanted this.

Are you sure about that, Sal?
- Shut up.

Good morning. DC Quant, Scotland Yard.

We request
that you all be available for interview.

Oh, and... Please accept our
condolences for the loss of your friend.

Jukes?

Wait... Does this mean we're all suspects?

How long have the guests been here?
- They all arrived last night.

When Ms Legge was still alive?
- Yeah.

So, this lot are all famous, apparently.
In the art world, I presume.

Because I've not heard
of a single one of them before now.

That's the point, sir.

Lord James finds
the greatest artists of tomorrow

just as they lie on the cusp of fame.

By next week,
this lot will be front page news.

How come?

The most important art show of the decade
is due to be held here this coming Friday.

All the artists will showcase their work.

It will be astounding, I can assure you.

Surrealism is the next big thing.

On Lord James' say-so.

Sound investment.

Get the artworks on the cheap,
create the hype,

grab all the cash.

Smart move.

I take it you're not much
of an art lover then, sir?

What time did you go to bed
last night, Jukes?

On the stroke of eleven.

Nervous, are you?

We would appreciate it if you told us
everything we needed to know.

I don't know if this is important.
- You don't know if it isn't.

This morning,

when I was doing my rounds
with the special breakfast requests,

I found one of our guests
in bed with Ms Legge.

Bending over her.
- Who?

Well...

It was Mr Magritte, but I know
he had absolutely nothing to do with this.

Don't ever play games with me, Jukes.

Alright?
- No. Never, sir.

Magritte!

Magritte!

Yes?

DCI Thistlethwaite.

What's the matter, detective?
- You're the matter, Magritte.

Final person to be seen with the victim
last night and first thing this morning.

You're found in bed with the poor woman.

So why don't you do us a favour
and confess?

We can all be back in London for supper.
- No. No.

No.

Sure?

Alright, let's concentrate on last night.

Your movements from midnight onwards.

We know you slipped away
with Ms Legge. Correct?

We went upstairs, yes.

Was there a scarf wound
around your neck like with Ms Legge?

Yes. I woke up because
I was struggling to breathe.

Jukes told me you're all here to exhibit.

Perhaps become famous and wealthy
beyond your surrealist dreams.

Not all of you, of course.
Must create a few little rivalries, no?

No.

Are you a jealous man, Magritte?
- No, just a curious man.

Well, that makes two of us.

Good. Because I have
something I want to show you.

Unless, of course,
your colleague has already found it.

Sir? You have to see this.

What the bloody hell?

I found it in his box,
in that wardrobe there.

It was nailed shut.
I had to break it open, sorry.

This is your painting?
- Yes.

I brought it back from Brussels
for the big show on Friday.

But this box has never been opened
on English soil.

Well, I just opened it...
- I mean, up until now.

It looks just like the murder scene.

Tell me about it.

Les Amants. The Lovers.

You see... My lovers, they kiss.

And at the same time, they don't kiss.

As their lips are sealed with a scarf,
they cannot get fully close.

And that's what I call love.

Right, well, enough of the art lessons.

Let me smell your breath.
- Excuse me?

No, come on. Open up.

Oh, good God.
- I didn't brush my teeth this morning.

Maybe just as well

because you could have saved yourself
a night in a little horrible cell.

Oh, you were drugged, just like Ms Legge.

Look at that sediment.

And no one else has seen
this painting. You're sure?

My wife. But she's in Brussels, so no.

Did you notice
anything else strange last night?

Well...

Thank you.

Don't worry, darling.
I don't play with little girls.

Should I let you know when
I'm finally old enough to play with you?

Perhaps in half a century?

Wrap it up, you two. Let's not have
the boys drink all the best stuff.

There was rather...

extraordinary entertainment.

And five...

Four.

Three, two, one...

But it was just for fun. Don't worry.

Is there anything else
you'd like to reveal?

No, I'm good.
- Alright, you can go.

For now.

A suspect, do you think?

Not when the lab confirms he was drugged.

Don't be charmed by this Magritte, Quant.
I need you to stay focussed.

I don't find him charming, sir.
I just pay attention.

There was something else
I found at the crime scene earlier.

What do you make of this?

It's a bank book I found
in Ms Legge's bedside table.

Starting last summer,

she makes monthly payments
to a certain Charlie L.

This goes on for a year.

Until suddenly...

yesterday,

an extra thousand pounds
is paid to this Charlie L.

Who could that be?
- L for Legge, perhaps?

A relation? Or...

Constables?

I want you to search all the guest rooms.
We're looking for the following items:

a glass revolver,

any narcotics and relevant prescriptions,

any reference to a Charlie L.

Plus anything you gentlemen
regard as suspicious.

Go on, hop to it. Double quick.

Jukes?

We need a lockable place on the estate,
preferably indoors.

As cold as can be.
- Yes.

I believe I have somewhere in mind, sir.

This way, please.

Don't ever do that again.
- My sincerest apologies.

I would like to help you
with your investigation.

I want to catch this killer as much
as you do. Probably even more.

Why?

Mummy!

It's your fault, René.

You do realise you're still a suspect.

I know. If I can find one thing
in that murder scene that you missed,

would you perhaps allow me to assist you?

This is a murder investigation, Magritte,
not a bloody game.

I'm serious.

I'm deadly serious.

This is really important to me.

If you can show me one decent clue,

then I might look the other way
whilst you play detective.

Follow me.

Do you know anything about painting?

Not really.
- Okay. Because this assassin does.

What makes you so sure?

Are you familiar with
a painting technique called repoussoir ?

No.
- Okay.

It's when you paint
the foreground in darker tones,

but you brighten up details
in the background.

So it creates a depth of field

and leads the viewer's eyes
to details otherwise overlooked.

I use it all the time.

You, detectives, focus on the logical
things: the body, the bed, the bottle...

An error on our part?
- No, but you focus on the foreground.

Thus, your view is incomplete.

So let's focus on the background.

Aha!

What? The killer likes oysters?

Symbolism since Brueghel and Bosch:

an oyster near a woman means that
she is of loose morals, how do you...

I get it, thank you.

Your killer is an artist.
- In a house full of artists?

Yeah.

Stat crux dum volvitur orbis.

La croix demeure
tandis que le monde tourne.

The cross stays put
whilst the world turns around.

That is fascinating, Magritte.
Thank you. Let's go.

Hey, listen.
Artists have a very specific language.

Use me as an interpreter. I can help.
- I'll be fine with English, thank you.

If we can have your attention,
ladies, gentlemen.

Constables are currently searching
all of your rooms.

Do not disturb them
in the direction of their duties.

Search all you like.
I'm getting out of here.

Nobody is leaving. We're keeping
your passports until we clear this case.

What? No way.
- Goddamn little fascists.

Is it really necessary?
- Mrs Gala Dalí, is it?

Who wants to know?

The woman who's going
to be questioning you.

You must all stay put right here.

We have questions
for each and every one of you.

Examine your conscience well.

I thought we were friends.
- I thought we were safe.

So long, my love.

Our secret's safe with me.

Mind your steps, boys.
It's just through here.

All of the stuff,
get rid of all of this, obviously.

One hell of a mortuary.

Lee Miller. The war reporter.

That's me alright.

Listen.
I didn't know Sheila all that well.

Not like the others,
but I knew it would end in tears.

It's the rule of the three Ds:
Drugs and Depression equals Death.

What was your exact relationship
with Sheila Legge, Mr Ray?

She...

inspired me.
- As a model?

Muse, more so.

I'm bored. Locked up in this golden cage.

Come Monday morning, I'm off to Munich.

Interviewing Hitler
for the Washington Post.

Any questions?

For you or for Hitler?
- Both.

Any theories
as to who might have done this?

If I did, I...

I'd have killed him by now.

You think it was a man?

You don't?

What's wrong with your arm?

Uh...

Lee was playing with her toy gun

doing her damned William Tell party trick.

The ricochet got me.
- The infamous glass gun...

Yeah, a Smith & Wesson Ladysmith.
She's a gun nut.

Where's the gun now?

It lives in her purse.

That silly thing?

You don't think
that's a lethal weapon, do you?

I put it right in my bag
after the game last night, I could swear.

It's gone.

Duly noted.

And you have no idea
who could have taken it?

I haven't the damnedest.

Sorry.

The DC has trouble adapting
to this environment.

Bless you, detective.
I sure can relate to that.

Tell us about this game last night.

Come on, Lee. Shoot.

Sheila had to pose for me as the victim.
Man loves danger.

Dalí is scared of loud noises.

Somebody is going to get hurt.
I don't like this game. It's a silly game.

Come on, Salva.
- I don't like this. It's a silly game.

It's a toy.

Gala loved it, of course.
Told me to aim lower.

For a joke, mind you.

Five, four...

Three, two...
- Aim lower, Lee.

One...

Bravo.
- Stupid game.

Sheila?

Are you okay?

But you see, it was just a little game.

No one got hurt.
Except for Ms Legge's coke bottle.

Perfume, I should say.

And a scratch on Man's arm.

Nothing serious.

Alright. Thanks for now, Ms Miller.
- Thank you.

Sheila should never have died.

Just like my birds.

She was way too good for this world.

She's an angel now.

Watching over me.

Oh, my sweet guardian angel.
I can't stand this.

I'll kill myself.

Sorry.

Who did you last see with the victim?

Don't call her like that.

The Belgian lad.

He seems so nice.

He's a bit shy.

Just like me.

I saw them going upstairs together.

My brave Sheila looked... free again.

How was Ms Legge's mood last night?

Up and down.

Mostly down.

Ever since the death of her son.

When did this happen?
- Last summer. He died.

An accident, the inquest stated.

Who's the father?

Nobody knows.

Could be anyone, so...

Thank you. You can go.

Thank you so much.
- For now.

Thank you.

Charlie L?

Seb?

Seb? Seb?

Where are you?

Seb?

Why don't you arrest the Belgian?
He's done it, I'm sure.

Perhaps a sleazy sex game gone wrong?

He gives me the creeps, that fellow.
- Excuse me, Mrs Dalí?

We wanted to speak to your husband.

Mr and Mrs Dalí.
- Call me Gala or nothing at all.

It is my cosmic name.

I think we might need an interpreter.

Look at this.

Last night, we believe
you had a fight with Ms Legge?

A fight?
Just two women having a good time.

We all loved her.

Who do you think did it, Mr Dalí?
- You think it's us, don't you?

Well... We've got an alibi, ironclad.

But in your own mind, Mr Dalí,

who do you think may have killed Ms Legge?

Do you think birds have
a conscience, detective?

I'm sorry... Do you think birds have
a conscience? Is that what you said?

They look like they do, don't they?

We only want to know
if you think anyone has a motive, sir.

Sheila owned millions.

Who would inherit it?
Isn't that your million-dollar question?

We will look into it.

Anything else of note?

Man Ray was very drunk.
He looked like one of my early paintings.

He had a scuffle with our boy Nash
at about 02:04 AM.

I know it because
I happened to be watching the clock.

So we took Nash upstairs
to avoid cold-blooded murder.

The three of us slept together
in the same bed, like babies,

till this morning.

Alibi, as my wife said.

I hardly remember anything else.

Well said, Salva babe.
- Thank you, my Queen.

Right.

We'll be in touch when
we have more questions, thank you.

More questions?
- It's okay.

Gala, they want to ask us more questions?
- It's okay.

Perfectly normal bunch of people,
these surrealists. Don't you think, Quant?

Detective Quant?
- Sir?

What did Magritte say to you earlier
in the upstairs corridor?

He wanted to see the crime scene.

And you let him?
- Well, I...

I thought it might be useful
to hear what he had to say.

Any particular insights on his part?

No, sir.

Please don't keep
such things from me again.

Sir.

Nesh?

Nesh?

Hello, Nesh.
- It's Nash. With an A.

Like MA-gritte. Nash.
Please remember my name.

I'm sorry.
- Don't worry about it.

Good that you're here,
because I may be able to help you.

Really?

I know who might've killed Sheila.

Who?

There's two of them, possibly.
I'm just still figuring it out.

I don't think you did it, dear.

Why not me?

Because you carry
the spring in your heart.

You don't know about the darkness.

Who was blackmailing Sheila?

Look at Hercule Poirot over here.

Are you two related?
You need to get a better moustache.

Stop with the jokes, Nash. Sheila is dead.

After Sebastian died...

Sheila was never really the same.

The tree was broken.

Did you hear something back there?

No.
- Are you sure?

What about the father?
- I don't know about the father.

Someone does.
- Well, I don't.

Someone named Charlie L?
- I don't know who that is.

Yes, I think you do, you little...
- Stop it. I don't know who that is!

Nash?
- Yes.

How are you doing?

I am so sorry for your loss.

We all are.

But you two were so close.
My deepest condolences.

And you are again?

René Magritte. Nice to meet you.

We met last night?
- Right, the man from Brussels.

Yes.
- I've seen your work.

Oh, Mr Ernst...
- Can't remember any of it.

Nash love, you need to find some peace.
Go for a walk in the forest.

I'm sorry, Magritte.

There's a really interesting
poppy field on the estate...

Detec...

Detective Chief Inspec...

Yes, Superintendent Coney, sir?

Yes.

Yes. Will do. And, in fact...

It seems
that Lord James has a lot of clout.

That was the big chief. Worried like hell
that we're going to drop the ball.

Take note.

The elite are keeping tabs on us.

Tread carefully.

Right...

Summarise the case for me,
DC Quant, if you please.

Okay, so...

Crime scene, very theatrical.

Opium in the wine.

Magritte and the murder victim
dressed up as The Lovers,

a painting that nobody has seen,
except for Magritte,

who we don't think has done it?

Also, a group of touchy, oddball artists
intent on becoming famous.

That, and mysterious payments,

potential for blackmail.

A Charlie L. Who is he or she?

Nash's room?

Thank you.

And finally... A vast quantity of cocaine.

Worth a fortune. A fortune
that only an heiress could afford.

Go and get Nash, will you?
- Sir.

Seb?

We've all seen pictures of Nash.
Keep searching. He has to be outside.

Sorry.

So... Charlie L is Nash.

Charlie for cocaine.

L is short for his surname, Lesley.

Nash is the blackmailer.
- Okay.

That's cute, but we need proof.

'To my wildest mate Charlie L.
Pots of love, SL.'

I found it in Nash's room.

We need to find him.
- Well, I saw him...

Seb?

Oh my...

What do you mean, Nash can't be found?

Look bloody well harder!

We have, sir.

It's just a very large estate.
It's ten square miles.

He's not in the house, nor the vicinity,
nor the outhouses.

Nobody has seen him on the estate,
and nobody saw him leave.

Lock down the estate. Every exit.

Main, tradesmen's, hunting paths.
Patrol the perimeter.

We need this man in our custody. Now!

At the double, gentlemen!
No stone unturned!

Right... Time for a motivational speech.

Shall I line up the guests?

Everyone!
- Yes.

You lot show up on this estate last night,
and all hell breaks loose.

Is that a coincidence? I think not.

This is what we call cause and effect.

I'm far from satisfied with the answers

you've all given
regarding the death of Ms Legge.

So from this moment,
I'm placing the estate in lockdown.

Lockdown?

Anyone who steps outside its perimeters,
will be in trouble.

Keep the dogs on the leash.

Who do they think we are?

A bunch of powerless artists, Sal.
Who did you think we were?

As soon as this is solved,
you can all go back to...

doing whatever it is that you do.

Detective?

You seriously think that one of us
was capable of killing Sheila?

We don't think so, sir.

We know.

I came here to create art.
- Really?

One of us? This is ridiculous.

But I have to work.
- This is insane.

Lord James.
- Finally.

Welcome to West Dean, my dearest guests.

Max, how are you?

All the better for seeing you,
My Lordship.

Lord James, if you will...

Who are you to stand on my stairs
and call the shots, old man?

Scotland Yard, Your Lordship.
Detective Chief Inspector John Thistle...

Shh. Down, pup.

You decided to lock up my estate.
Treat my guests like dogs. How dare you?

We are investigating a murder.

The only thing getting murdered
on my estate is poor taste, detective.

The murder of your cousin
Ms Sheila Legge, Your Lordship.

I wanted to tell you, My Lord,
but I couldn't reach you. I'm so sorry.

Where is she?

Where is my cousin?

My condolences, Lord James.
We're interviewing everyone at present.

If we may con...
- You may not!

The greatest artists
of the 20th century are gathered here.

Lovers, they are. Fighters, yes.

But murderers?

Are you serious?

There's something dripping.
- Is that blood?

Yeah.
- Really, is it blood?

Oh my God.
- Oh God, it's Nash.

Everybody, stay outside. Stay outside!

The cross stays put
whilst the world turns around.