Original subtitles

THEME SONG PLAYING...

So, tomorrow's the big day.

- How many have there been up to now? - Tomorrow will be the eighth.

They seem to come around more quickly every year.

And every year, more people want to be invited.

Still, what Johnny wanted,

he usually managed to get his own way.

Do you know, I found the original letter last week.

Letter? I thought it was a clause in his will.

Oh, no. He always had this bee in his bonnet.

He said, "When an artist dies, his reputation goes into the doldrums.

"But in ten years, if he was any good,

"it starts climbing again." I'll show you.

Got it here somewhere.

- Dear Belle. - Well, yes, indeed.

The master always knew he could trust her with the practical things of life.

She was one of those people who were thoroughly at home on Earth.

- Do you know what I mean? - Erm...

The ones who have been here many times.

What we in our little circle call an old soul.

That's very kind of them. I do hope I'm one of the dear old souls.

What's the picture this year? Is it a portrait or one of the narrative ones?

- "The Trial of Joan of Arc." - Oh, that's interesting.

- Of course, it'll be a pre-shaven version. - Mmm.

Did you pose for it?

I don't remember this one. Must have been before my time.

He did occasionally use other models, dear.

But even then I used to lie on the chaise-longue and watch him.

- Ah, here we are. - The master loved to have me

near him while he worked.

And Belle was so splendid about that. She never minded. Did you, dear?

Not in the least. Johnny's letter.

"Belle, darling,

"when you return a sorrowing widow from the abbey,

"where 10,000 cretins will,

"I hope, be..."

Er, no. Here's where it comes.

"I shall leave 12 canvases boxed and sealed.

"I want them sent to old Seagrave just as they are.

"On show Sunday, on the 11th year after my death,

"I want you to open up the studio,

"send around invitations, and show the first picture.

"And so on for 12 years."

Sent around to old Seagrave's?

- I thought he died years ago. - Yes.

Yes. Max Fustian took over. He has them now.

Max has been wonderful.

I tell you this, Mr Campion,

no one really appreciates how much that man has done to keep the memory green.

I'm sure you do, dear.

Oh, please, don't get up.

Belle, Max Fustian is here. He's in the studio.

Thank you, Lisa. Say I'll be down at once.

- Aren't you coming? - I won't be long.

You run along.

You can talk to him while he works. He might enjoy that.

Perhaps I should have installed a chaise-longue down there.

- Was she a part of Johnny's legacy? - Yes, in a way.

Nothing on paper.

He just said, "Look after the silly old bitch, Belle. She was so lovely, once."

Like Nelson leaving Emma to the nation.

Exactly. Now come down and see the picture.

You know, sometimes I feel positively beleaguered by Johnny's lame ducks.

There's her. There's old Lisa.

And poor Potter and his wife, in that place Johnny built for them out in the garden.

No, no. Sorry, it's just not honest.

- What? - Belle, darling! Just what I needed.

- A deal ex machina. You look wonderful. - Oh, Max!

Have you met Mr Campion?

What? Oh, yes, of course, your friend, the sleuth.

How do you do? My dear, you must come and arbitrate.

They're trying to turn the whole thing

into some ghastly pastiche of the local church bazaar.

Donna Beatrice insists on a fancy-work stall, no less.

Not "fancy-work," handmade jewellery from her craftsman's guild.

Of course, the perennial Potter with his boring lithographs,

- can't you stop him? - Max.

It's his only outlet. He'd be so upset.

Oh, well, we'll have to ask Tom what he thinks.

So, you've invited Tom Dacre in on this?

I couldn't not ask him. He's here.

He came to see Linda.

Claire, have you seen Tom Dacre?

Yes.

He went upstairs to your granddaughter's flat.

Belle, dear, do listen. For Johnny's sake,

if we must have this embarrassment of sideshows,

either move them out to the entrance hall, or better still, onto the pavement.

Or at the very least, back here, out of the way.

Well, I'll see what I can do.

Now, Mr Potter...

There's your ring. Now go to hell!

Linda? Linda!

I'm talking to you!

Will you listen?

Please get out of my way.

Look, I don't want the bloody ring back. Here, keep it.

Linda, this is crazy. I thought you understood.

So did I. We were both wrong.

- So now, will you please go? - No.

- Belle asked me to stay and look at the picture. - Oh, did she?

Well, the sooner you've seen it, the sooner you can clear off!

Now, then.

Max?

Sometimes beauty is like the Gorgon's head,

and spirit turns to stone beholding it.

One of his best.

- He was a great painter. - I know.

He never tired of telling me.

Ah, Tom. So glad you could come along.

What do you think of it?

That is perfection.

Tell me about Italy. I hear you did well out there.

Oh, it was just commercial stuff, decorative panels.

You mean ceilings and things like...

Not the Sistine Chapel, no. It was a chain of cinemas.

What? Nothing you can bring back and show? No pictures?

I think Dacre is very wise to stick to his own medium.

- And what medium is that? - That's obvious, tempera.

In tempera, he can really express himself.

He's done some very worthwhile things.

There now, and Max wouldn't say that if he didn't really mean it.

Oh, I'm sure there's a good reason for everything that Max says and does.

My dear fellow!

Are you all right?

- You're looking pale. - Please don't.

This child is disturbed.

You know I'm always the first to sense these things.

It's nothing. It's just a headache.

Have you told her about Rosa? He's brought this glamorous new model home from Italy.

- What's she like? - Quite good.

- Her feet are ugly. Otherwise good. - Dark or fair?

- Fat or thin? - Thin.

- Neapolitan father. - Sounds so romantic.

Not really. Mother's from Shepherd's Bush.

Look, she's a good model. I happen to find her useful. That's all.

I'd say you must find her indispensable, to bring her all that way.

To cope with all the red-tape about work permits and residence permits.

Drop it, Max. I would seriously advise you to, all right?

Of course. How silly of me. Residence wouldn't be a problem, would it?

I gather it's a menage a trois with you and Matt D'Urfey.

- Doesn't Linda mind? - Linda understands.

Is that right?

- Oh! My dear! My dear! - It's all right. I'll go.

You've seen the picture already.

Lugg, it's a social event.

- Oh, I see. - Bravo.

Not only that. She's an old friend. She appreciates a bit of moral support.

It's become a sort of curtain raiser for the London season.

- You mean a lot of nobs are gonna be there? - Creme de la creme.

Well, I hope you're gonna dress up proper.

So you'd advise against the plus-fours, would you?

No need to get snarky.

I'm not saying you don't know the right thing to do.

Trouble is, half the time, you just can't be bothered.

Ah, well, there's always a Bohemian contingent at this kind of do.

If I don't come up to scratch, she can always pass me off as one of the artists.

I promise you, she wouldn't turn a hair.

Never mind her. I'm talking about me.

You're expecting me to drive you there tomorrow.

Well, spruce yourself up a bit.

I don't wanna be disgraced in public.

- Goodnight, Mr Campion. - Goodnight, Mr Lugg.

Hello.

- Am I interrupting? - No, Will's gone to bed.

And I'm taking the first breather I've had all day.

How's everything up at the house?

It's all quiet now that Flash Harry is gone.

Oh, Max.

- Cup of tea? - Mmm.

No, sit down.

I can't understand how he gets away with bossing them all about.

William's stall, for instance. He had it all nicely set out, hadn't he?

Nope. His Lordship doesn't like it.

Poor Will, he tries so hard.

I can't bear all this tension.

Never mind.

- By tomorrow night, it'll all be over. - Thank God for that.

One lot squabbling downstairs, in the studio.

Linda having tantrums upstairs. And that Beatrice, floating around

in a world of her own. She is weird, that one.

I don't think there's any harm in her.

It's just that she can't face growing old.

If you ask me, Belle's the only one with her head screwed on.

I don't know how she puts up with them all.

She put up with being married to Johnny for all those years.

After that you could put up with anything, couldn't you?

She must have known about him and Beatrice.

Well, of course she did.

With him, it was anything in skirts, wasn't it?

I mean you'd only got to give him an inch,

and before you knew where you were...

Where are you going?

- Don't I go in? - No.

- Stick out here in the car, all night? - Yes, if you like.

Pick me up at half past ten.

Oh, no, wouldn't for the world.

Albert?

- Go up and talk to Linda. - And say what?

Well, make her come down. I can't manage on my own.

- B won't leave her precious stall. Oh, go on, shoo. - Huh.

Ah, Dr Fettes.

- Believe me, I know how you feel. - You can't possibly know.

If you don't go down, they'll just...

I don't give a damn what anybody thinks.

Well, that's easy to say, but you have to live with these people.

- This isn't the end of the world. - Isn't it?

Linda?

- Oh! - Hi, Mrs Potter.

Well, Mr Campion, if you'll excuse me, I have things to see to.

Do try and persuade her.

Go away.

You're wasting your time.

Don't be a fool and for heaven's sake, don't make an exhibition of yourself.

What's it all about? Tommy?

What, is it serious?

He's gone and married her.

Rosa, his new model.

- Good Lord. - I could put up with that.

It was the only way around the regulations.

If she married him, she could stay here.

I mean, if Belle can put up with someone like Beatrice, I thought, I can do it too.

You've got to, if he's a great artist.

Do you know what he's doing?

Commercial posters.

I've been such a fool.

I could kick myself.

And as for him, as far as I'm concerned,

he can go to hell!

I'll join you later.

- She's coming down. - Oh! Bless you.

- It's going well. - Yes, I think so.

He mentioned it in a letter, in the summer of 1906.

You'll find it quoted in Chapter 12 of my book.

Now, Margaret, will you concede my point on production?

Now, look at that profile. Look at that lighting.

- Have you sold anything? - Not yet.

That one shows the old bridge. John never...

Look at this monstrosity! Pathetic!

I mean if you've got a good serviceable pair of scissors, you leave it alone.

- Tom, how could you? - You don't go mucking it up with barbola work.

Do you honestly believe anybody's gonna buy any of this junk?

If I were you, I'd toddle off and chat to my friends.

I promise you, nobody's gonna walk off with any of this.

Not even a kleptomaniac would give them a second glance.

So, who's the fat bloke with the squinty eyes?

Eh! I'm talking to you.

That's the Chief Inquisitor.

- I thought you said you weren't coming. - So I changed my mind.

You got no better shirt than that?

Put it back and stop showing off.

Must be a fuse. This always happens.

Hold on.

- The fuse? - Yes, yes.

Oh, yes, Mrs Potter. Much better.

Oh, so sorry.

- Excuse me. - I sensed it as soon as I saw you.

There was this grey cloud...

Can I help at all?

It's all right, it was just the fuse.

- Well done, Mr Potter. - Just the fuse, Mr Fustian.

What's happening?

I can't quite see, but someone seems to have fainted.

It's only Tommy.

Somewhere close by will do. I don't want to move him too much.

In here, Doctor.

Please try to stop. It's not going to help anyone.

It won't help you.

- Please try. Rosa, please try. - Lisa,

- take her somewhere where she can lie down. - I'll take her upstairs.

Come with me.

Oates. Oh, hello, Albert.

Listen, I need a tactful policeman to solve a murder.

- What? - It's happened at a party I'm attending.

Someone has taken a dislike to one of the guests.

There's a doctor here already.

He was also one of the guests. I'm afraid we had to move the body.

I thought it best, in the circumstances.

Wish you hadn't.

Still, where are you?

Yeah. Yeah. Easton?

- Yeah. - Car.

Right. Yeah, I'll come straight away. I'll be there in 15 minutes.

- Meanwhile, nobody leaves. - I'm afraid some have left already.

- Albert. - Stanislaus, there's no problem about that.

It's strictly by invitation.

We know who they all were.

I'm perfectly all right.

Ladies and gentlemen, a moment, if you would.

Ladies and gentlemen.

My dears, something terrible has happened.

There's been... Well, an accident.

A young man who was here with us a few moments ago is...

Is dead.

He died in here when the lights were out.

I've been advised that until the police arrive...

Albert, would you?

Ladies and gentlemen,

the position is that the police are on their way.

I suggest that until they arrive, everyone remain in this room.

Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?

Where's Linda?

I'll go and find her.

Linda?

Albert, did you see him?

- Is he really dead? - Yes.

- This is terrible. Like a nightmare. - Linda...

I wish we hadn't argued. I did care about him, despite everything.

- Linda... - Shh.

- Why? - I've got Rosa in there.

Still, she's not likely to wake up now.

Good God, Linda, what have you done?

What have I done?

I gave her a bromide, that's all.

Why, what did you think?

I don't know what I thought.

You don't think I killed Tommy, do you?

But you can't!

I mean, I'd have to be mad.

Or is that what you're saying?

Listen, listen.

I was angry with him, yes.

But I didn't kill him.

The first I heard about it was when Rosa screamed.

You do believe me, don't you?

You've got to.

Yes. I believe you.

- So when the lights went out, you were with Mrs Lafcadio? - Yes.

So, now I've seen all the permanent residents.

Is that right? Just the four of you?

Yes, there's me, Belle, Linda,

and Donna Beatrice.

- Donna who? - Professional name. You've got her down as Harriet Pickering.

- Ah. - And the Potters.

Potters? Who are the Potters? Do they live here?

John Lafcadio built them their own place.

In the garden.

Oh.

All right. Thank you.

Well, that'll do for now. Goodnight.

I don't like it, Stanislaus. You've got the air of a man who's tying up loose ends.

I'm sorry, but that's about what it comes to.

I can see it's very awkward for you,

being a friend of the girl's family, and all that.

The girl. I knew that's what you were thinking.

You're on the wrong track, Stanislaus.

Of course, you've got to say that whether you believe it or not, right?

- Right? - I'm thinking.

Well, if I thought Linda Lafcadio killed her fiance,

and if I thought I could throw you off the scent,

I dare say I'd have a stab at it.

So, now we know where we stand.

Well, if it's any consolation to you,

I don't suppose there's a cat in hell's chance of making it stick.

One, nobody saw her do it.

Two, we'd never get a set of fingerprints off that stupid pair of scissors.

And three, she's innocent.

Look, it has to be one of those impulsive murders.

Which means somebody like Linda,

who was so mad with Tom Dacre, she was half out of her mind, didn't stop to think.

And it was a woman's weapon.

And I'm not the only one to think so.

Are you sure you wouldn't like me to stay the night?

- Oh, Max. - It's kind of you, Max, but there's nothing you can do.

No wonder Linda has been acting so strangely.

I told Belle at the time I had the strangest foreboding.

Some menace hanging over her. Some aura of evil.

She was just upset.

She must have known about this marriage for days.

Ever since he got back, I should think.

If only she'd told us, instead of bottling it up, it might have...

Is that policeman still in the library?

As far as I know. Why?

My dear, you're wrong about one thing.

There is something I can do.

I can put an end to all this, very simply.

The husband is W. T. Potter.

He is a failed artist. Invented his own type of lithographic process

and was too pig-headed to admit it's a washout.

- So, what do they live on? - What, indeed.

I believe she earns a bit.

General dogsbody to the artistic colony around here.

And he teaches one day a week.

Ah, Inspector. I was afraid you'd left.

I'm Max Fustian.

Oh, yes. The name has cropped up.

Yes, I imagine it must have.

Well, I'll tell you why I've come.

When you interviewed Mrs Lafcadio,

she got the impression that you suspect her granddaughter. Is that correct?

Mr Fustian, all I'm doing at this stage is asking various people

to give me their own accounts of what happened this evening.

That's just the point. I can clear this whole matter up for you.

It's really quite simple.

There is no way that Linda Lafcadio could possibly have done it.

I killed Tom Dacre.

I see, sir.

Well, now. Perhaps you won't mind sitting down

and telling us, clearly and concisely, in your own words,

just how you did it, and why.

You wish me to make a formal confession, I take it, Inspector?

That's perfectly in order.

- My name is Maximilian Fustian... - Thank you, Mr Fustian.

Just start from where you decided to kill the other gentleman.

Well, I made up my mind last night,

when I'd learned that he'd married the Italian woman.

It's an insufferable way to behave to a girl like Miss Lafcadio.

An insult!

She was terribly upset.

I just felt that a man who could behave like that deserved to be done away with.

I hadn't made any plans, but when the opportunity came, I took it.

From the beginning, the scissors had fascinated me.

So, when the lights went out, I saw my chance. I crossed the room,

picked up the scissors, struck.

He just grunted and went down like a pig.

Er, the weapon was still in my hand.

I wiped the handle, dropped it onto the body, and...

Moved away.

Well, I suppose that's all I can tell you.

Would you like me to come with you at once?

- Do you mind showing me? - I'm sorry?

The scissors. I'd like you to give us a demonstration.

Allow me.

I will be Tom Dacre.

Yes.

Like that.

An upward thrust, I believe.

Er, my recollection is not quite accurate. It was all over in a second.

And the weapon was still in the wound.

Trying to waste police time by misleading them is an of fence, Mr Fustian.

It might be best if you were to spend a bit more time thinking it over.

You might see things more clearly in the morning.

Right. The Potters.

Max Fustian!

That's the type we always get popping up with fake confessions.

Any drama going on, they can't bear not to be in the middle of it.

- Is that the Potter place? - That's right.

Looks as if they're still up.

I am Detective Chief Inspector Oates of Scotland Yard.

I know it's late, sir, but I would like to have

a word with you about this evening's events.

Would you come back tomorrow, instead?

Any particular reason for that, sir?

Well, we are both rather tired.

It needn't take long.

Oh, God. Oh, no.

Why did you let him in?

I couldn't help it, love.

He went on as though we had something to hide.

So, we did.

I've been drinking. That's all.

Are you happy now?

I'm terribly sorry.

Yes, yes, well. There we are, then.

That's that.

I don't think we've got anything to apologise for.

It's very rare that this sort of thing happens.

And then only when something has been too much for her.

Like today.

But she doesn't let it affect her work.

I doubt if any of the others even know.

Only Mrs Lafcadio.

- After all, it's nobody else's business. - Quite right, sir.

I'll call back tomorrow.

If you like, but we can't tell you very much.

You see, I went out to mend the fuse.

And my wife stayed at our table by the door.

Then, the next we heard, he was dead.

Well, it's only natural that she's upset.

Good night.

Will the reporters be turning up?

At this inquest?

Not in force, I shouldn't imagine.

It's only the local coroner going through the motions.

Funny it's all passing off so quiet.

I mean,

a man gets stabbed to death, in the middle of all them bigwigs.

I thought we'd see it all over the front page,

- what with this free press we're always hearing about. - Oh, come off it, Lugg.

Stop acting naive. You haven't got the face for it.

- So who's been pulling strings, then? - I couldn't say.

But a couple of the bigwigs, as you call them, are from the Diplomatic Corps

and might not want their names in the newspapers.

So, maybe the Foreign Office dropped a little hint.

- Thank God for that. - Why?

Because I hope that means we've heard the last of it. I don't know if you realise,

but it makes you all jumpy when it's friends of yours getting mixed up in a case.

You haven't been very easy to live with this last week.

Are you going to let it rest there? "Person or persons unknown"?

What's a verdict like that going to mean to Linda?

It means she's a very lucky girl.

- She's free to get on with her life. - Oh, yes?

You've no idea what it's like living among artists.

It's like a whispering gallery.

They'll all have heard the gossip. What they'll say now is,

"The police know damn well who did it, but somehow she got away with it."

But, of course, that's what you think, too.

Hey.

Hey!

- You're not sorry you came, are you? - No.

You'll feel better when you start getting round a bit more and seeing your friends.

What friends?

Do you realise, of all the people

who were friends with both Tom and me,

not one of them has come near?

Except me.

Except you.

Anyway, I think when something terrible has happened,

some people just feel awkward. They don't know what to say.

I know what they'd like to say, but they haven't got the nerve.

"Did you do it, or didn't you?"

Would you drive?

I had a dreadful thought the other day.

Tell me.

If I was out of my mind...

That must be what they think, if they believe I'd do things like that.

Well, then, perhaps I did do it,

and I don't remember.

Oh, come on, Linda. That's rubbish. You know it is.

No, but listen, Matt. I had three pictures of Tom's in a big drawer.

I always kept them in the same place, and now they've gone.

I thought and thought, and hunted, and asked everybody in the house.

So, I must have moved them.

But I've got absolutely no recollection of doing it.

If there's something really wrong with me, I ought to see someone about it.

Only I'm afraid of what they'll do.

Were they oil paintings?

- What? - In the drawer?

Yes. Why?

I had two of Tommy's paintings on the wall.

One he gave me for Christmas, and one I bought from an exhibition.

And they've gone.

Can't get it out of your mind, can you?

Because I know she didn't do it.

- No one's said she did. - Not out loud.

Anyway, that's not the point. Whoever did do it is still walking around free.

Who've you got on your shortlist?

What? Oh, you don't know these people, Lugg.

- Oh, pardon me, I'm sure! - I mean, it's a different world.

They're artists.

If you've never come across them, you'd never understand

the kind of things that motivate them.

That's all poppycock.

Makes no odds how different they are.

All you're looking for is either somebody who couldn't stand the man,

or somebody who stands to gain now he's dead.

Page one of the sleuth's handbook. Thank you very much, Lugg.

Don't go getting snarky with me just 'cause you're bogged down.

A lot of people couldn't stand him. He didn't go in for charm.

Even in his last half-hour, he sneered at one woman's craft stall

and nearly reduced her to tears.

He told an engraver called Potter, he was wasting his time

trying to become an artist.

He was rather rude to a couple of critics,

and had a row with his wife in front of everybody.

- What's his wife like? - Young, beautiful, Italian.

- Hot tempered. - And she's now his widow. That's handy.

Comes in for his money, I suppose?

Nice try, Lugg, but there won't be any money.

He was the type that spends it before it comes in.

Lugg, I've come to see Albert. This is Mr D'Urfey.

Hello, Albert.

Miss Lafcadio and Mr Murphy.

Well, this is nice. You're looking better.

This is Matt, a friend of Tom's.

- They shared the same digs for a while. - How do you do, Mr Murphy?

Actually, it's D'Urfey. D-apostrophe.

Please.

I brought him because something very odd is going on.

I was afraid you'd say I was imagining things.

But no one would think that about him, would they?

He looks pretty level-headed, certainly.

She means I look unimaginative.

- Well. - Albert,

whoever killed Tommy isn't content with stealing his life.

They're trying to obliterate every trace of him.

Go on.

The first things that disappeared were some pictures he'd given me.

I turned the place inside out and raised hell generally, but they'd just vanished.

Two of mine went the same way.

- You mean burglary. - Yes.

Everything he ever did is vanishing.

And I've been to several galleries that I know used to stock some,

and they have none left. Somebody's buying them up.

I'm sorry, Linda, but I seem to be missing the point.

Surely that's what they're for, to be sold.

Yes, but we have made some enquiries.

Nearly all of them are gone to buyers who walked in,

paid cash, and didn't give a name. That is, er, unusual.

Couldn't it simply be speculators, though?

Reading about his death and buying his stuff quickly, before the price goes up?

That happens, of course, but what sort of speculators?

- Would they just walk in off the streets? - Well, I did.

Lugg, could you get me the package from Seagrave's Gallery?

- You got one of Tom's pictures? - Yes.

So, you see, it does rather undermine your theory.

If I reacted like that, then probably quite a lot of other people did the same.

- When did you get it? - About three days ago.

Yes, and not even unpacked.

Art lovers.

So you see, the pictures aren't vanishing, Linda.

They're being lovingly installed, like this one, in the homes of...

Good Lord.

What's the matter?

Pretty nebulous, though, isn't it?

What do you expect me to do about it?

I expect you to have the grace to admit

that the case against Linda, and God knows it never amounted to much,

has now collapsed.

We seem to have found a chink in it.

- I'll go that far. - And somewhat beyond.

The point is, you'd file this case away

in your own mind as over and done with. Defunct.

Like a dead volcano.

And, now you're going to have to re-label it "still rumbling."

Stanislaus, someone out there is getting rattled.

They're trying to cover up their tracks.

My favourite kind of murderer has always been the one who won't let well alone.

Precisely.

But I'd need more facts before I could put a man on it.

Who is asking for a man? Oh, no. I've got my own.

Bow Street Irregulars. Linda and D'Urfey. There is no holding them.

- Linda is going over to Paris tomorrow. - What's in Paris?

Tom Dacre lived there for a couple of years.

She thinks some of his pictures might still be around over there.

Thanks for the tea.

Relax, I'll be back in a moment.

He's gone for a pee. I'm just working here.

You want him to phone you back?

Is that Rosa? It's you I'm looking for.

I'm going to be busy all this week.

You got to talk to my agent. Wait. I'll give you his number.

- No, listen. I'm not a painter. - No? So who is this talking?

I'm interested in buying some pictures by Tom Dacre.

I thought you might have some in your possession. I can offer a good price.

Are you all right?

No, I'm not bloody all right, I'm stinking mad!

I had some pictures he'd done of me a Roma.

One on the chair with a gamba... What is it? A viola.

One on the sand, and one leaning on a tree.

So, I was going to flog 'em. It's only fair, no? I'm the widow, si?

E all or a, some figlio di...

...son of a bitch had busted in and snitched them.

Yeah, all those ones he brought back from Italia, scomparsi, all gone.

My dear fellow, fantastic.

This whole business is absolutely fantastic.

The mount was there, you say, but no picture? You're sure?

Absolutely.

Well, I've sent for the man who does the packing.

Perhaps he can throw some light on it.

Really, until this morning, I thought you were the last man in London

to have an example of Dacre's work.

Extraordinary things have been happening in connection with

that wretched boy's death.

Then my own experience, I suppose, must have been typical.

- What do you mean? - I had a pencil drawing of Dacre's.

Well, I mean nothing special, a study of the hand, but it pleased me.

I had it hanging in the drawing room. The other night, I came into the flat,

I knew at once somebody had been there.

The picture was gone.

Just the empty frame. Nothing else was missing.

Ah. Mr Green, there you are.

I suppose they've told you what happened.

This is Mr Campion, the customer who has come to complain.

I can't understand it, Mr Fustian.

The picture was all right, when I packed it.

It was left downstairs in the packing room.

Same as always, ready to be sent off the next day.

Which members of staff have access to the packing room?

Everybody, Mr Fustian.

Stands to reason, people are in and out all the time.

The invoice book's in there and the order forms.

It's where we brew up and everything.

Now, I want you to think very hard.

Is it all possible, when you packed the picture that you made a mistake?

If you had the box ready and, somebody said to you "Here is the Dacre drawing".

And passed the picture to you, let us say with the mount face down

and you then slid it into the box, but I...

The picture was there, Mr Fustian.

It was there. I will take my Bible oath on it.

Lisa, if Mr Potter's downstairs,

ask him if he'd be good enough to come up here, would you?

Mr Campion would like a word with him.

Yes, of course I will.

I'd somehow imagined that Linda met Tom somewhere else.

The Slade, perhaps?

Oh, no. Tom was around when she was quite a child.

That's why it surprised me when they got engaged.

I ventured to offer her some guidance.

Did you, dear?

Pro or con?

I'd said she'd be taking on trouble if she plighted her troth to a Scorpio.

And, you see how right I was?

You see what I still don't know is when and why Tom Dacre

first made contact with this household.

It was something to do with the Potters.

Yes, dear.

Come in.

Come in, Mr Potter.

- Do sit down. - Oh.

I don't think so.

Mr Potter.

I wonder if you could remember how you first met Tom Dacre.

Why, of course, sir. He was a customer.

You mean Tom bought a lithograph.

Good heavens.

No, no, not of mine.

He was a customer of Claire's.

My wife.

And, what did she do for him.

Oh, dear.

Oh!

Whatever was it?

You see, all kinds of people came to her for all sorts of little jobs.

She does artist supplies.

She does framing and delivering.

And, she makes up her own colours.

And, yes! Yes, that was it. She mixed paints for him.

Why couldn't he mix his own colours?

Uh, no, not on the palate,

I mean the basic colours.

I thought they came in tubes.

Well, the standard ones, yes.

But some of the others are sort of a trade secret.

You know, Albert, like the blue in Gainsborough's Blue Boy.

Claire used to mix some of my Johnny's special paints.

So, still she's got the old formulas.

I see.

So, Mrs Potter and Tom Dacre were old friends.

Well, not friends exactly.

He was just a customer.

He came when he wanted something.

I suppose, that someone must have recommended her to him.

Yes, someone who knew both of them.

You don't happen to know who?

No, I've got no idea.

She might know.

Would she be in, tomorrow evening?

Oh, yes.

If you're going to the shops today, would you mind...

I won't be!

How can I?

You know Thursday is my worst day.

The Seagrave Gallery will be calling around for their Carini block.

Such a finicky job cleaning those things and I haven't even started yet.

William.

If you miss that train, you're going to be late for school.

Can't afford to lose that job.

Sometimes, I wonder whether it's worth it just for one day a week.

I'm really beginning to get somewhere with this new sandstone medium.

Have you seen this one?

- Yes. - See, you would never get

that sort of a feeling with ordinary sandstone. Look, look, look.

Look at the shadows under the railway bridge. You see?

I'm really beginning to get somewhere this time.

William!

Yes, yes, of course, all right.

- William! - What?

Thank you.

Go to work.

Will you be in this evening?

Yes, why?

Mr Campion is going to drop in.

William!

What on Earth does he want? We can't tell him more than we have already.

Oh, no.

Come on, old girl.

Pull yourself together.

This won't do.

Oh, it's you.

Who did you think it was?

I have been working flat out on this cleaning job all day

and I thought they had come to collect it.

- What time is it? - Nearly half past four.

Oh! It's time for a cup of tea then.

Come on, I'll put the kettle on.

I can't stay long, but I've got a message from her.

Donna Beatrice?

Donna, my foot.

Born in Twickenham, all those heirs and graces.

What does she want this time?

Half a dozen tickets for the watercolour show.

She's asking whether you can sell some to some of your customers.

Oh, I wish she wouldn't.

I tried everything to keep my prices down.

But then if I go push tickets on to them

it takes all the guilt off. I don't like it.

What should I tell her, then?

Oh, leave them here.

I suppose, I can shift a couple of them.

No, can't do more than your best.

Excuse me.

I'll pop back later.

Hello?

Claire Potter. Can I help you?

What?

Oh, God.

Oh, it's all my fault. What have I done?

Oh, it's all my fault.

Well, least it looks like a clean break.

Oh, come on, it wasn't as valuable as...

It is all my fault!

It was an accident.

No wonder, you're a bit jittery. We're all a bit jittery.

It was a sign.

I should have known this was an unlucky day.

Oh, for heaven's sake, it doesn't matter.

I'm sure Claire can stick it together.

Only, don't try to tell me that it is a sign of impending doom.

Because I don't think I can stand any more of that!

Forgive me, Belle. Many people tell me

they'd rather not know of things ahead of time.

Of course, some of us are not given the choice.

That must be very tiresome for you.

I'm simply saying that you just dropped it.

It didn't happen because you're a Virgo or on the cusp of the...

- It happened... - No, don't tell me.

It sounds like another of the things I'd much rather not know.

Claire, dear.

Are you busy?

Can I come in?

Claire?

Claire! I didn't see you there, my dear.

What's the matter?

Oh, not again.

Claire?

Claire?

THEME SONG PLAYING...

Preuzeto sa www.titlovi.com