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All I can say at present is that death was due to asphyxia.

I don't know yet what caused it.

Oh, sorry, Doctor.

No one mentioned a smell of gas, did they?

- No. - Poison?

Hmm, could be.

I'll be up at the house if you need me.

Right. Thank you, Doctor.

I don't like anything about it.

There's only one thing about it that I like.

What?

Linda Lafcadio is out of the country. You can't pin this one on her.

Yes, all right, all right.

Do you still claim she launched herself at Tom Dacre and stabbed him to death?

I don't know. I don't even know why she went to Paris.

Well, she went to Paris to try and find out who did murder Tom.

Which you seem to have lost interest in.

And to find out who began stealing

and buying up all his pictures as soon as he was dead.

Odd there's a glass

but no bottle.

Yes, I wondered about that.

Perhaps someone came back and took the bottle away.

And washed the glass.

Mmm.

- He's late. - Who?

Potter, the husband.

Well, that's another day over.

Thank God for...

Oh, hello.

Excuse me.

Claire, we've got visitors.

Mr Potter.

Not yet.

Oh, dear. She must've...

You'd better sit down, Mr Potter.

What's that?

Oh!

Yes, I knew it was going to happen.

I warned Belle only this morning.

You told her Mrs Potter was going to die?

What?

No, but...

Some kind of disaster.

I have an overwhelming premonition, I still have.

Two deaths already.

Don't you find that sinister, Inspector?

Don't you believe these things always go in threes?

Thrice mine and thrice thine.

No, dear, the inspector doesn't believe that.

Won't help him at all if we all go around talking like something out of Macbeth.

Ah, Lisa.

How is Mr Potter?

The doctor's given him something, we've put him to bed.

- Oh, good. - You wanted me?

No, I did. Just a few questions, if you don't mind.

At the moment, it seems you were the last one in this household

to see Mrs Potter alive.

Yes. I saw her at about half past four.

Did she seem worried or upset?

No.

She was working hard as usual.

We chatted a bit.

I didn't stay for tea, because the telephone rang so I left her to it.

I see.

And that was the last you saw of her?

Yes.

The next I heard about it was when Belle rushed in and said,

"Lisa, go down to the cottage, stand by the door and see that nobody goes in."

Then she went to telephone the doctor and I went down there.

You came back to the house to telephone?

I needed my glasses to look up the number.

I rang the doctor, then Albert.

And while you were outside the door of the cottage, no one went inside?

No, I stayed there till you and the doctor came.

I see. Well, that's all for now, thank you.

Poor, poor Claire. Of all people.

Such a gentle, harmless soul.

Nothing was ever too much trouble for her.

There must be some malign force at work, something really evil.

- Who could want to murder Claire? - Oh, please.

Oh, thank heavens, here's Max.

Ah, the gentleman who confessed to murdering Dacre.

Is he going to give us a repeat performance, I wonder?

Belle, my dear, may I come in?

Terrible news, terrible.

Max, so good of you to come. I knew you would as soon you heard.

Beatrice.

How did you come to hear the news, Mr Fustian?

Why, Lisa told me. On the way upstairs.

It's quite a shock, as you would imagine.

I'm glad now I obeyed the impulse to come on here from Sayers.

- You must have had a presentiment. - Sayers?

That's an art gallery.

Private view of the Duchess of Swain's pastels.

Delicate things. Genuine feeling. Selling like hot cakes.

If you still want to see Potter,

his breathing's much better now that we've got him into bed.

Ah, is he willing to talk?

Oh, yes, he's rather keen to get it over.

Thinks he'll sleep better. Probably right.

Thank you, Doctor.

Ah, this is a terrible business.

Indeed.

Dreadful.

The suggestion that I killed my wife is ridiculous.

What put that idea into your head, Mr Potter?

Lisa's been telling me the sort of questions you've been asking.

She had no right to do that.

I'll pop back later.

I've been lying here,

realising that I'm on my own now.

I'm free to go anywhere I like.

And to do anything I like.

And I wish I was dead.

Ask me what it is you want to know.

When you went out this morning,

- did your wife seem quite normal? - Ha.

I suppose so.

But you would have noticed if she had been worried or upset?

God, what a hell of a question, are you married?

We all get so wrapped up in ourselves.

To be honest, I wasn't paying much attention.

She seemed all right.

One thing that's puzzling is

the doctor's now convinced that she took something by mouth.

We found a glass on the draining board.

But somebody seems to have washed it.

Any idea who that might have been?

Yes.

Who?

Claire. She did it herself.

- Oh, why should she? - Cast iron habit.

I suppose she was afraid of the smell hanging around.

Same as hiding the bottles.

You don't mean she washed the glass between every drink?

You haven't got the picture yet, have you?

Now, listen,

mostly she never touched it.

Except when something bad had happened.

Then she'd wait until she was on her own.

She wouldn't sit down and spin it out

and enjoy it, oh, no.

No, she'd down the whole lot right away.

And she'd wash the glass, hide the bottles.

In 10 minutes, she was out like a light.

- Where did she keep the bottles? - I don't know.

I don't know where she got them from, either.

I certainly don't know where she got the money from.

We're impossibly poor.

And what did she do with the empty bottles?

I used to hunt for them sometimes,

but I didn't find anything.

- That's really quite hard to believe. - Yes.

Well, I can't help that.

I can't help anything.

Look, I would like to be left alone.

You're not giving me a sniff at this, are ya?

All right. There's things you don't want found out.

Why, do you think I wielded the jewel led scissors and poisoned Mrs Potter?

You could be covering for somebody.

If I was, would you shop me, Lugg?

You'd be out of a job if they put me in clink.

Job?

You said there'd be action. You call this a job?

Look, here, Lugg. 50 to one, the next caper will involve

a whole hornet's nest of villains and thugs and you'll be invaluable.

But in this case, you'll just be a spanner in the works.

Nothing I can do about it.

You can get a move on it and solve it quick.

I'll go round a twist just messing about here.

That's the report from forensic.

14.98 milligrams of alkaloid nicotiana.

Can't you trace that?

Doesn't sound like the sort of stuff you can go out and buy by the pint.

Anyone can buy a box of cigars.

Ah, nicotine.

Is it really as easy as that?

Only if you know how to do it.

But it seems we're up against somebody that knows plenty.

Why can't they stick to arsenic? I could write a book about arsenic.

That stuff paralyses the respiratory system.

Which is why the doctor said asphyxia.

They also found alcohol in the body.

Hmm.

She must have had more than a glass full.

She got a bottle from somewhere, that's for sure.

And somebody poisoned it.

And then came back and took the bottle away.

Have you checked Potter's alibi?

Hmm?

Yes, he'd come straight from school.

We were there when he arrived.

No, he can't have disposed of it.

But somebody must have.

- Any luck? - Nothing so far, sir.

So, that leaves us with Potter,

Donna Beatrice, Lisa...

Or Belle.

Or suicide.

Or Mr Fustian.

Fustian.

He was miles away.

He's got an alibi.

Oh, yes. He was at Sayer's Art Gallery, rubbing shoulders

with a couple of hundred witnesses straight out of Who's Who.

And he couldn't wait to rush around here,

still in his glad rags, and wave that alibi under our noses.

And you can't wait, I'm sorry to say this, Albert,

you can't wait to put up any argument to direct my attention away from this house

and these people, you're too close to them.

Anyway, I'm not looking for theories, I'm looking for facts.

Have you traced that phone call yet?

The one that came through here at half past four as Lisa was leaving.

I've told HQ to try and trace it, there's not much hope.

Why, do you think somebody poured the poison down the phone?

No, but how about this?

We know from Potter if ever she had an upset or nasty shock,

she went straight for the whisky.

Now, you can't use the phone to administer poison.

But you could certainly use it to administer a nasty shock.

You can't use it to take a bottle away, though.

Oates, you are getting obsessed by that bottle!

Oh.

Hello, Lisa.

Belle's asking if the inspector would like to come up to the house

for tea and biscuits.

Er, no, thank you.

Just a minute.

I want you to think very hard.

You remember after Mrs Lafcadio found the body,

she left you here and you waited outside.

Yes.

All the time?

Yes.

Are you quite sure that no one came in?

I told you, nobody came in.

Nobody even came near.

Except the boy.

Boy?

What boy?

Now,

if you want to make Detective Chief Inspector Oates very happy,

and me too,

just tell us about the boy.

Well, he's just a lad who works for Max Fustian.

He comes around every week with a sort of a box thing, about this size.

It's work... It was work for Claire Potter.

When it was done, she'd put it ready for him just inside the door there.

He didn't come in, he'd just put his hand in and took it away.

Same as always.

He just took it away.

Same as always.

Right.

See?

We got two like this.

I'd take one round to her, and the other one would be ready to bring away.

- Who packed them? - Mr Fustian did. He was funny about that.

They're very valuable.

What size were the blocks?

Well, I would say one would about fill this up.

Only not so wide.

About like this.

Wouldn't it slide along?

I expect he put something in it to stop it.

You never watched him pack it?

Oh, no, he wouldn't let me near it.

But he must have done, mustn't he?

He must have put something in each side.

A scrupled up bit of paper or something like that?

Or something like that.

Thank you, Mr Green.

Oh, by the way,

did you leave one of those behind you the last time you called?

Oh, no, I just fetched the last one away.

Mr Fustian said she'd finished the job.

- So, Fustian was paying her in kind. - Yeah.

Drink came in with the blocks, and the empties went out the same way.

Did you manage to trace the phone call she received?

Oh, yes!

Wasn't much help, though, because

it was made from a public phone box in Clifford Street.

- Do you know Clifford Street? - Yes.

It's just around the corner from Sayer's Art Gallery.

Bang goes Fustian's alibi.

He was no more than 50 yards from that phone box.

Wait a minute.

Anything she drank at that time, she must have had for several days.

Well...

All right. We know she didn't drink every day.

Fustian was waiting patiently to hear she'd mysteriously died.

Nothing happened, so he decided to hurry things up.

He rang her and told her something that put the fear of God into her.

- And he's got away with it. - What?

We haven't got enough to pull him in for questioning. We can only wait.

Good God! What for?

Well, he won't stop at this. They never do.

The question is, who's gonna annoy him next?

No.

I won't let you take them out of the country.

Johnny left specific instructions about those 12 pictures.

He wanted one unpacked and exhibited every year and people invited to see it.

I've done it for eight years, and I shall do it for the other four.

- You'll find that people won't be so eager to exhibit... - I don't care if nobody comes.

I shall still do what he wanted.

- My dear Belle... - I am not your dear Belle.

Let me explain again.

I'm offering to do this at great personal inconvenience

as a last tribute to Don Lafcadio.

If I take the pictures abroad now,

I know that I can sell privately in Tokyo or New York

where they won't even have heard of the scandal.

Now, there aren't many painters I'd do it for.

Cos I was the one chiefly responsible for bringing his work to public attention, I...

Well, I feel it's my duty.

- Do listen to him, Belle. - I'm not going to plead with you, Belle.

Bring the lawyers into it if you must. They'll encourage you.

Nothing they like more than old ladies

in their 70s with a taste of vexatious litigation.

At your age, it's a well-known syndrome.

Well, the courts will recognise it and sympathise,

but they won't take it seriously.

On the other hand, the gutter press with have a field day.

Mr Fustian, I shall overlook what you've said about me.

You've always been a vain and bumptious little man.

And it must have come as a shock to find that,

just for once, you can't have your own way.

But I shall find it much harder to forgive what you said about Johnny.

You brought his name before the public. I...

I've never heard such monstrous nonsense in my life.

You only hold the position you occupy now

because you had the intelligence to cling to his coattails when he was alive

and make capital out of him when he was dead.

This is your last chance, Mrs Lafcadio.

Will you or will you not allow me to take the pictures abroad?

- No. - Nothing will make any difference?

Only my death.

When I'm dead, you can all do what you like.

Yes?

We've come to see Albert.

Whom shall I say it is, madam?

Oh, Lugg, don't be so silly. You know perfectly well I rang up yesterday.

Who is that?

Oh, that's the famous Lugg, sort of butler-cum-henchman,

and he thinks he's Albert's Dr Watson.

Come and sit down.

Miss Linda Lafcadio and Mr Matt D'Urfey.

- Yes, thank you, Lugg. - Only doing me job.

Well, now... I didn't expect you back so soon.

Well, as soon as I heard about Claire, I dropped everything.

You're looking well. Paris has done you good.

We're beginning to get somewhere. That's what's doing me good.

It was shock enough when Tommy got murdered,

and 10 times worse when everyone seemed to think I'd done it.

And then when the pictures started vanishing, I wondered if I really was mad.

Do you know what is the most beautiful feeling in the whole world?

Waking up in the morning and thinking,

"I am not going off my head. I never was going off my head."

Uh, Linda. Are you gonna show him this?

Yes, Matt.

Matt is a great lad for getting down to essentials.

She found this in Paris.

There's a man called Lepanon.

Keeps a filthy little cafe at Montparnasse.

I knew Tommy used to take rooms there sometimes when he was hard up.

He left this behind once in lieu of rent.

- Well? - It looks familiar.

Doesn't it just? It's a detail from my grandfather's picture.

The soldier standing just behind Saint Joan.

Ah, yes. That's it.

You mean Dacre copied it? When? Why?

- Matt's got a theory. - Come and look.

Lugg, wasn't there something you had to do in the kitchen?

I can take a hint.

It's all I'm fit for nowadays, making tea.

I'm sorry. You were saying?

- All right, you see that watermark? - Mm-hmm.

Well, this paper is What man, fashion surface.

And it wasn't manufactured till about seven years ago.

Lafcadio was dead by then, so he can't have drawn it.

- You mean Dacre copied it? - No, no, he can't have.

You see, Saint Joan is supposed to be

one of the 12 Lafcadio pictures packed up and sealed before his death.

When Dacre was in Paris, it hadn't been unveiled.

That isn't a copy of a painting.

It's a study for a painting.

Are you trying to suggest that Tom Dacre painted the picture of Saint Joan?

We're not suggesting. We're telling you. It's a fake.

It fooled the experts.

Experts are only human, Mr Campion.

Was Dacre really a good enough painter to deceive everybody?

Yes, he was.

Not many people realise it.

That's why Max has been so busy getting hold of his paintings and destroying them.

So no one ever will realise it.

You think it was Max?

Don't you?

I think when he took over Seagrave's gallery,

he couldn't keep his hands off Lafcadio's pictures.

- Well, that was the time he got so rich. - So suddenly.

I believe he opened them up and sold off

three or four to private buyers on the quiet.

He never thought Belle would live so long.

If she died, he could have covered his tracks and told any tale he liked.

As it was, he knew he'd have to produce something to replace them,

so he hired Tom to forge them.

But why kill him?

Well, it must have been hard for Tom to hear his picture praised as a masterpiece

and not be able to take a bow.

Well, perhaps he threatened to blow the gaff.

Or paint some more Lafcadios on his own account.

Albert.

Max had got to be stopped.

Where is Williams?

Tell Easton I want the report on the Teller case.

Well, find him!

You were saying?

You asked for evidence. That drawing is evidence.

It proves nothing.

It could have been an old sketch by Lafcadio...

- Lafcadio. - ...copied from old paper onto new paper.

Too circumstantial.

And about time.

Oates, will you or will you not give me three minutes' undivided attention?

Sorry. Yes.

I'm telling you Max Fustian killed two people.

Look, we're watching him. The very next time he puts a foot wrong...

Or the next time somebody dies?

Look, Albert, I can't and I won't do anything

until I've got a case that will stick.

Suppose you're right about Dacre, what about Claire Potter?

- Well, we know how he did that. - Where's the motive?

If Dacre was forging Lafcadio pictures,

he'd have had to go to her for Lafcadio red and a couple of other pigments.

She knew too much.

Now, the 4:30 phone call,

he could have told her the police were onto the fraud,

that she'd be charged as an accessory.

That would have driven her to the bottle.

- Now, will you arrest him? - No.

Unless we've got hard evidence,

Fustian can hire first-class lawyers and make us look like fools.

What I will do, though,

I'll put a man onto Fustian full time.

All right?

I wouldn't have said "all right" was the mot juste.

What you're really asking for is one more corpse.

- Albert. - What?

Mind how you go.

Oates.

Lugg!

Lugg. I'm going to need your help.

- That's nothing new. - Tom Dacre's widow.

- What's she like? - You're about to find out.

- She's coming to lunch tomorrow. - Here?

You can, um, get the food up from the restaurant downstairs.

But I want to be sure of privacy and I want bags of style.

Lugg, she's a girl who takes umbrage if she's not treated right.

I want you to pick her up in the car tomorrow at about half past 12.

At her home, would that be?

That's right. At her home.

I'm looking for a lady called...

I am Rosa.

Where is the car?

- More coffee? - No.

But I'll have some more of that.

- So, go on. What happened next? - Wait till he's gone.

Why you got a man like him? He's not a proper servant.

That right?

I try to give satisfaction, madam.

How do you recognise a proper servant?

Easy. You don't know he's there.

You think, "Ah, it is two hands holding a tray."

With him, you don't think that's a pair of hands.

You think there is another man in this room.

Quite true,

but don't I think I could live with genuine 18-carat civility, it's too corrupting.

Che?

- Not talking over her head. - Lugg, go away.

Your cover is blown. You've been unmasked as a human being.

Perhaps you ought to be flattered.

You were saying that Dacre went to a cottage.

- Was that with you? - No. No.

Long time ago, he went there to paint a man called Hector.

You know about him?

- Hector who? - Old Greek soldier.

Oh, that Hector. A classical picture.

Si, those kinds with lots of people in.

He did four big ones, all different.

Ah, now I make you excited, eh?

You look nice like that.

I think maybe you got a too-quiet life.

Hmm. Uh, you don't happen to remember where the cottage was?

Remember? Remember?

When Tommy was dead, they all told me,

"Odd luck, missus. You got nothing coming. He never had nothing."

I said, "Balls! He had a cottage."

- He owned it? - Eh?

He must have. He was there for weeks all on his own.

He never paid rent.

So I went to the railway.

I said, "Where is a place called... Eeronowee?"

- Haronhowe. - Si, that's at Essex, right?

I said, "Give me a ticket," and I went, and nothing there.

- No pictures? - No cottage.

Cows, fields, little titchy bunch of house and one pub.

I asked people, "Where is the cottage called Penny stone belonging to a painter?"

And guess what? They all swear he never been there.

Why do they lie?

Now then, somebody made his pictures vanish.

So, all right, clever trick.

But somebody making the whole damn cottage vanish?

That's somebody in league with the devil.

- It's around here somewhere. - So you keep saying.

There are only two Haronhowes.

Rosa drew a blank in the Essex one.

It's got to be the Sussex one.

Try the next on the left.

- What are you expecting to find here? - I don't know.

That's handy.

Nobody's been near this place in donkey's years.

Oh, I don't know.

Wouldn't you say this has been trodden on?

Anything could have done that.

- Such as? - I don't know.

A place like this, I daresay it's running alive with things as soon as it gets dark.

Foxes, ferrets.

Rats and things.

Badgers.

Oh, I do like that. Straight out of Kenneth Grahame.

Ratty and Mole and Badger, and wonderful Mr Toad.

This place is rubbish. It's falling down.

This window's not fastened properly.

Maybe I can get in.

Don't strain yourself.

Door open around there.

Thank you, Lugg.

Stinks, don't it?

Damp, that is.

And mildew.

Greatest crash in Wall Street's history.

- That's going back a bit. - Six years.

This stuff wasn't burned six years ago.

It would've settled into dust.

Lugg, come here.

Is it my imagination, or is this warm?

That's warmer back there. You feel it.

No, no, I'll take your word for it.

Eureka.

- What is it? - It's a little piece of an oil painting.

And unless I'm very much mistaken, the colour is the true Lafcadio red.

Does that mean...

My dear fellow!

But this is delightful!

How very good of you to drop in!

Sorry the place is so obscenely dirty and I'm afraid I can't offer you a drink,

but at least there's a chair.

Won't you sit down?

Is this place yours?

Such as it is, yes. A poor thing, but mine own.

Actually, I believe that's a misquotation, but I've always been too lazy to look it up.

Well, well, well, this is a surprise.

Just happened to be passing, did you?

Or perhaps you're on the lookout for a country cottage?

You could put it like that.

Well, I doubt whether this would suit you, dear boy.

It's very remote and quite devastatingly unsanitary.

So I bought it some years ago to lend out to artists, you know.

Just put a painter in here, he'd get so bored, he'd work like a beaver.

A studio in the back thrown in. Converted wash house.

There's a studio, is there?

You'd like to look it over! By all means, peer into every nook and cranny.

But you won't find anything.

I've been having a grand clear-out.

- Any particular reason? - Why, yes.

I'm leaving the country soon. I may be gone some time.

One prefers not to leave loose ends lying around.

I noticed you'd been destroying something.

Oh, everything, dear boy.

All my sins.

Can I give you a lift?

Most kind, but no, my car's back there around the corner.

Well, it's been nice knowing you, Campion.

This looks like the parting of the ways.

Give my regards to Belle.

Say I'll send her a postcard from New York.

- Goodbye. - Bon voyage.

Oh, and about the Dacre picture...

Yes?

You said you'd keep an eye open for me to find me one to replace it.

No need now. I managed to get hold of a Dacre oil painting.

Ah!

Good. Good.

- I didn't know you'd got hold of a... - Campion!

It's just occurred to me.

I'm not leaving right away. We could get together for a drink sometime next week.

- What do you say? - Nothing I'd like better.

Splendid.

I'll give you a ring.

Ah ha!

My dear fellow.

- Fustian. - Allow me.

You're just in time to join us in a little celebration.

Adrian Fielding, my publisher.

Albert Campion.

The Albert Campion.

- How do you do? - Mr Fielding.

Now, Albert, you must join us in a little toast.

Brandy and soda. So deliciously Edwardian.

It's really a double celebration. - Of what?

Well, number one, 10 years ago, I took this place over.

Best decision you ever made. - I think so.

To the Seagrave Gallery.

The Seagrave Gallery.

You know, Campion, this is one of the few callings

where success goes to the man who was in it for love,

for the sheer privilege of spending his life among truly beautiful objects.

I mean, this for instance.

Isn't it perfect?

Look at that detail!

Or this...

Ah, I shall hate parting with this one.

And this, I take it, is your second cause for celebration.

Ah, yes.

I hope you're satisfied.

The wranglings we've had with this man over the cover design.

Lafcadio, the man.

Very nice. Oh, that reminds me,

I came across an old photograph only last week.

It was the only one taken of both of us together.

That's me. That's Johnny.

A wonderful, wonderful artist.

Johnny Lafcadio.

- Johnny Lafcadio. - Johnny Lafcadio.

And are you a collector, Mr Campion?

Mr Campion has just acquired a new Tom Dacre.

Really? Does one collect Tom Dacres? I hadn't realised.

Adrian takes rather a dim view.

I tend to agree, the man was a second-rater,

but I'll be fascinated to know how you got hold of it.

You must tell me all about it over dinner.

Where will that be?

Oh, Saverini's.

That's where everyone goes this season. Salute!

Won't you follow me, gentlemen? Your table is ready.

I took the caution of leaving the choice of food up to our good maitre d'.

Elizabeth! Hello. What have you done with Margo?

- John. - Fustian.

Thank you.

Tonight, taste the Cantonetti.

To appreciate it one must have the right things with it.

What's the Cantonetti?

My dear Campion, greatest gastronomic discovery of the age.

The one wine our generation has given to the civilised world.

Of course, they've known about it in Romania for generations, but it simply didn't travel.

The aeroplane has changed all that. Joseph.

Has the Cantonetti arrived?

Quite safely, Mr Fustian, by Mr Saverini's private plane.

Has it been kept at 65?

Sixty-five degrees exactly.

- Bring it now. - Very good, sir.

You know, Campion, some people treat good food as a consolation prize

when life is treating them badly.

That is sacrilege.

Should add the final touch of perfection to those days

when nothing can possibly go wrong, don't you agree?

I've been wondering why I've been selected to share this special occasion.

There must have been likelier candidates.

What a suspicious mind you have.

I suppose it's an occupational hazard.

So right, of course.

Suspicious minds so often are. That's the depressing thing about them.

Yes, Campion, I have brought you here in order to lull you

into a mellow and receptive frame of mind.

- To what end? - Ah, you'll enjoy this. One of the house specialties.

Thank you.

You were saying?

- I'm very fond of Belle Lafcadio. - So am I.

She's got the wrong end of the stick.

What I am proposing will be best for her and for Johnny's reputation.

Now, you're a reasonable man, open to persuasion, and she trusts you.

So...

Ah ha!

You are prepared for it, Mr Fustian?

We've been in training all day.

To your health, my dear Campion.

Your very good health.

You're not supposed to sip the stuff. It's not Madera.

Drink it like the divine draught it is.

Now, let me raise the question of Lafcadio.

Aah.

Lafcadio.

Oh, yes, of course, Lafcadio.

It was on the...

- It was on the... - Tip of your tongue?

It was on the agenda.

Oops!

Oh, God, I feel drunk!

- Do you feel drunk? - Not in the least.

Mmm.

I must eat something.

My biscuit appears to be soggy.

Have another.

Did he understand about the Cantonetti?

Well, I certainly thought I'd made it perfectly clear.

Well, he can't have taken you seriously, Mr Fustian.

It's a wonderful wine,

but it's essential to refrain from spirits of any kind for the preceding 12 hours.

Even after one small drink, the strongest head can't stand it.

- Excuse me. - Pardon me, sir.

You were just saying something to him over there.

- Mr Fustian, sir. - Right.

Well, you can safely tell me.

- Do you understand what I'm saying? - Yes, sir.

I was simply reminding Mr Fustian that if the Cantonetti

is taken in conjunction with spirits of any kind, even in small quantities,

- the effect can be, to say the least... - Ha!

No, he didn't.

I see it now!

It's damn clever!

I really must apologise for my friend's behaviour.

Not at all, sir, but I do think, in the gentleman's own interest...

Yes, yes, yes.

Have another drink.

To Cleopatra.

Off we go.

What are we doing here?

Come quickly, dear boy.

This way.

Any sign of the train?

- What? - Any sign of the train coming?

Careful.

No, can't see.

Yes, you can. See if there's a light in the tunnel.

- Still alive, then? - Only just.

It is five minutes to one.

- What happened? - You went out. To dinner.

Oh, no.

Seems to me, you made a public exhibition of yourself.

I don't know.

I can't take me eyes off you for 10 minutes without you getting into trouble.

There's been a couple of phone calls. What'll I tell them?

Mr Campion is otherwise engaged.

Right.

If you ever get nearer to death than you were last night,

you'd be able to steal his scythe.

Lucky for me, your chap was there.

Lucky? Luck doesn't come into it.

I told you, I was going to put a man to Fustian.

He was right behind the pair of you all night.

- It's all here in the report. - I can imagine.

Makes a very good read.

I'll show it to you one day.

I don't think you're quite in the mood to appreciate it now.

I intended to be so careful in that restaurant. I thought,

as long as I don't take anything he doesn't take, I'll be all right.

It was much subtler than poison.

Nothing would have been found in your blood stream, only alcohol.

And there were quite a few people about, prepared to witness

that you had been reeling around London drunk as a lord.

- Have you questioned him? - Yes.

He volunteered to make a statement.

Statement? What sort of statement?

A long one. It took them all morning to get it done.

Look here, Stanislaus, you're telling me he's confessed?

He's gone over the edge, delusions of grandeur, megalomania.

There's a lot of stuff in the confession about 15th century Rome.

Either he thinks he's descended from Lorenzo de' Medici

or he thinks he is Lorenzo de' Medici. It's all a lot of rubbish anyway.

You sure he's not faking it?

It's not my department, but the doctors don't think so.

- What will happen now? - Asylum. Pentonville.

Remanded till fit to plead.

Which certainly won't be for a long, long time.

Maybe never.

- I wouldn't have wished that on him. - No, old boy.

I didn't believe you would.

Albert, I hear he's dead.

Yes, bad business.

He died in the infirmary.

He was only there five days.

I suppose no really sane person could have done those things.

What had poor Tom done to him?

The inspector hinted that Tom might have been blackmailing him,

but he wouldn't have done that.

According to Rosa, Tom was short of money.

He talked of going to the cottage and painting some more pictures.

If that meant more fake Lafcadios, Max would have thought it much too dangerous.

And poor Claire. What had she ever done to offend him?

Nothing. Only she'd guessed.

He talked a lot about Claire in his confession.

When he phoned her that day, he told her the police knew everything

and that she would be charged as an accessory.

He knew how much that would frighten her.

Oh, Albert.

The wickedness... Dreadful wickedness, oh, the waste.

And all through that "Show Sunday" idea of Johnny's.

Well, there won't be any more of those now.

He's very upset about that.

He came to me last night.

I could hear his voice so clearly.

And you know, I could sense how much he enjoyed those occasions.

He wanted me to know, he's truly, truly distressed they've come to an end.

Is he, dear?

Does he want me to invite people to come and admire the pictures ghosted by Tom Dacre?

- Well, I... - If so, he's changed a lot since he died.

Next time you're communing with him, tell him for me not to be such a goose.

Do you know,

I've always had the strangest feeling that Johnny couldn't have painted that picture.

And last night, I suddenly realised what had been bothering me.

What was it?

I remember him talking to me about Saint Joan.

Thirty-odd years ago. "Look, Belle," he said.

"She spent most of her life hoeing and carrying pig swill.

"Then a couple of years sleeping rough in army camps,

then rotting in jail.

"And she had the kind of mind

"that thought nobody knew what God wanted, only she.

"I'll lay 20 to one," he said.

"That women must have had a face like Oliver Cromwell's"

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