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No! No!

If a man will begin with certainties,

he shall end in doubts.

But if he will be content to begin with doubts,

he shall end in certainties.

Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live

and is full of misery.

He cometh up

and is cut down like a flower.

He fleeth, as it were, a shadow...

Did you make the booking?

They're expecting you, my Lord.

Is there a difference in the distinction?

Morrie's fish parlour does not take bookings, my Lord.

No need to look so sniffy, Bunter.

The ambience is more than made up for

by the excellence of its rai au beurre.

Let us hope the lady also esteems the skate

above the surroundings.

Must we have this again, Bunter?

I supposed your lordship

particularly partial to the piece.

Yes. But, uh, three times in a row...

Try the sherry, my Lord.

Don't humour me, Bunter.

This bow tie is a mess.

Yes. Too perfect. Quite like a made-up affair.

Ah.

Bunter, what does "ah" mean?

I have remarked that on the rare occasions

when our sangfroid does slip,

we have a rendezvous with Miss Vane.

Bunter, you have a wonderful gift for impudence.

Thank you, my Lord.

Bunter.

How's that?

Perfect. That is to say, slightly flawed.

The sign of a true gentleman.

How are the skate wings? Delicious.

Don't the capers absolutely make it?

Absolutely.

How do you suppose it is

that capers, liquefied butter, and skate wings

come together in such magical combination?

Talking of magical combinations,

how about completing the evening

and condescending to be my wife?

That would be a caper of quite a different sort.

"We that are true lovers run into strange capers."

As you like it, act 2, scene 4.

What if one doesn't like it?

Ah, fie.

I take it that since I've been away,

nothing has changed

and you have no new answer to give me.

No, Peter, I'm sorry.

I'm afraid I can't say anything else.

It's all right. Don't worry.

I shall try not to be a nuisance.

But if you could see your way

to putting up with me occasionally,

as you're doing tonight, I'd be grateful.

I don't think that would be very fair to you.

If that's the only reason, I'm the best judge of that.

I will, however, continue to propose to you

at decently regulated intervals...

as a birthday treat, on Guy Fawkes Night.

Peter, this is foolish.

And of course, on the feast of all fools.

But regard it as a pure formality.

It would be better that you forgot the whole thing.

I thought you had.

I have the most ill-regulated memory.

When do you go to Oxford?

The 14th, I think.

I'm not sure I shall go, though.

May I?

"The warden and fellows of Shrewsbury College, Oxford,

"request the pleasure of the company of Miss Harriet Vane

at the college gaudy." Hmm.

Why deny them their pleasure?

Besides, won't it be fun

to see what's happened to your old chums?

I often find it hilarious.

Not so hilarious to have to face

their morbid curiosity about my recent past.

It's always there, isn't it?

It isn't easy to forget being on trial for murder.

Being found innocent

doesn't usually make one persona non grata

in a place so civilized as Oxford.

No, but in a less civilized world,

I'm still the subject of newspaper articles

and vile letters that slander every area of my life.

Particularly this one.

I could hardly have hoped that it would be otherwise.

But you said nothing,

so I allowed myself to be selfish.

You know, you'd have been perfectly justified

in telling me I was making life difficult by hanging around.

Would I? Did you expect me to point out

that you'd saved me from the gallows

but left me in the pillory?

I shall admit defeat, then, and say good-bye, shall I?

I'm not being very consistent, I'm afraid, Peter.

I came here tonight with the firm intention

of telling you to chuck it.

But I'm damned if I'll have you wiped out

by anonymous letter writers.

You have got guts, Harriet.

Give me your hand,

and we'll fight the lot until we drop.

Courage, mon brave.

Go to your gaudy.

From the Latin for "joy"?

A respectable derivation.

So, once a year you jump for joy.

At an Oxford ladies' college?

There are two fines still unpaid?

Oh, thank you, bursar.

Yes, I think now I really must contact the parents.

There's another matter outstanding,

and I really don't think I can overlook this matter any longer.

Yes, of course.

But, please, should you receive payment within a couple of days,

I'd be most obliged if you'd let me know.

Thank you so much. Good-bye.

That'll be all, then, Miss Martin?

Yes, thank you, Carrie.

Oh, no. I wonder, would you mind

taking this accommodation list for the gaudy

over to Padgett in the lodge?

Of course, ma'am.

Oh!

Ohh! Ohh!

Ohh!

And this was with it?

"The blood is on your hands, too.

Guilty."

This is ridiculous.

I mean, to what could it possibly refer?

Of what are you supposed to be guilty?

Well, of course it's ridiculous.

At least, it would be if it weren't so revolting.

It certainly cannot be regarded as a joke.

What is happening to the college?

There's Miss Hillyard, Miss Lydgate,

Miss Chilperic, Amy Burrows... they've all had these things.

Well, this sort of thing. The police must be called.

I'm sorry, but no.

I haven't defended the good name

of women's education for 20 years

to throw away the reputation of my college by panicking now.

I'm not panicking, warden. I'm not.

We must set up a committee to deal with this

amongst ourselves.

Amongst ourselves? But how, Dean?

We are all of us under suspicion.

We? Well, of course.

Who has access?

Certainly all the fellows of the college have,

never mind who else.

The gaudy is on Saturday.

The gaudy? What has that to do with it?

A member of the college who was up some years ago,

I notice in your guest list.

Accustomed to dealing in mysteries, as I understand.

Mysteries?

Mysteries?

Oh, Harriet Vane, you mean?

Yes, I remember her well.

She's an interesting girl with a very good mind...

and upon whose tact we might depend.

"And methinks sometime or other

"a benefactor should be found

"to build a monastical college

"for old, decayed, deformed,

"or discontented maids to live together in

"that have lost their first love

or otherwise miscarried."

Harriet Vane?

You don't approve? Certainly not.

Apart from her private life,

about which I prefer to say nothing,

well, she writes trashy novels.

Well, I must say I haven't read enough of her work

to form a sound opinion.

I'm glad, Miss Burrows, you feel morally secure enough

to make an implied judgment.

I don't care if the Vane woman was living

with the sultan of Baghdad, if that's what you mean.

The name of the college is something that concerns me.

What concerns me is her qualifications

for the job, if any.

Which of her books have you read, Miss Burrows?

I don't read trash.

A very scholarly approach, I must say.

You condemn her books without having read them,

and her morals without knowing anything about her.

By her own admission,

she behaved in a thoroughly disreputable fashion.

Ladies, ladies!

Miss Vane has already been tried in public

for a crime she didn't commit.

We're surely not going to conduct

another trial in private, are we?

All right. I just put my protest on record.

And it is noted, Miss Burrows.

Thank you, warden.

I do not understand

why we are so nervous of this letter writer.

Well, you know it's not just letters.

It's all those other things.

They're obscene. They are disgusting.

I do agree. I myself feel utterly soiled.

Yes, well, thank you, Miss Chilperic.

My concern is this, Miss Hillyard.

Suppose the long-term aim of this letter writer

were to bring the college into disrepute.

Now, I need hardly remind you

that we were amongst the first generations of women

to receive a university education,

and that there is still enmity towards our aspirations.

You all know the sort of thing that is levelled at us...

"suppressed impulses,

soured virginity, unwholesome atmosphere."

I won't elaborate.

Now, as you know,

Shrewsbury College will be very much in the public eye

during the coming term.

And it is perfectly possible that we could be heading

for a profoundly injurious scandal.

That, Miss Hillyard, is why I am nervous.

Well, then surely we should call in the police.

It could be someone within this college.

Yes. I fear we have to assume

a degree of inside knowledge.

One of us?

What an appalling thought.

It could, perhaps, be one of the staff.

One of the scouts, maybe.

The long vacation's already started.

At least the undergraduates are ruled out.

Except some of the third-years working in the library.

Oh, dear, it's all so upsetting.

Who could do these things, say these things?

Surely they must be mentally sick.

That's as may be,

but something has got to be done.

The atmosphere of the whole college is being poisoned.

Now, I am reluctant to call in the police

for the reasons I have given.

Now, does anyone else want to make any more points?

Miss Devine?

Now, do I have approval in principle, then,

to approach Miss Vane?

"From women's eyes, this doctrine I derive.

"They sparkle still the right Promethean fire.

"They are the books, the arts, the academes

that show, contain, and nourish all the world."

Now, Miss Armstrong,

you are in new quad. What a shame.

I did so hope it would be my old rooms.

Some of the undergraduates are still in residence.

Doing research in the vacs, you see.

Well, can't you chuck 'em out?

New quad rooms are much nicer.

I know when I'm being smarmed.

Betty! Betty Armstrong!

Dorothy!

Let me see you.

You look in fine fettle.

Oh, ta. I missed you last time.

Poor Machiavel was desperately ill.

Mach... oh, one of your dogs. My champion corgi.

Thought we'd lost him. Couldn't leave him.

And you? How's the book shop?

Oh, same as ever. Going to the dogs.

Ha!

Hello, Padgett.

Miss Vane!

I had a bet with myself you wouldn't remember.

Well, you've lost, Miss, then, haven't you?

I have, Padgett, I have.

And this is your first gaudy since you went down.

You're right. I know I am.

And I've read your books, too.

Old quad, Miss Vane. Haven't you got any luggage?

It's in the car. I'll give you a hand.

There's no need.

Very good, Miss.

Oh, I nearly forgot!

Miss Vane! The warden has asked to see you

as soon as you'd arrived.

The warden?

Yes. Dr. Baring, Miss.

Well, she can't gate you now, Miss, can she?

I liked your latest book extremely.

I think it overtakes sands of crime

as my personal favourite.

You're very kind, warden.

Sugar? No, thank you.

As a matter of fact, I rather like it myself,

to tell you the truth.

Had you, um, had you ever thought to be an academic?

You went down with a first, as I recall.

It has always had its attractions,

I must confess, but I think I lack

the necessary intellectual rigor.

Dean?

Oh, thank you.

I think you flatter us, Miss Vane.

I sometimes wonder if it is not more the wish

to escape from the real world

than the imperative of intellectual inquiry

which guides our steps.

Don't you sometimes feel that, Dean?

Oh, well, the cloister certainly has its charm

in an unquiet age.

Absolutely.

You haven't been to one of our gaudies, I think,

since you went down.

No.

Is it your absence

or your presence which is the more significant?

Well, to use your own words, warden,

the real world is a very demanding place.

For a woman to make her way in it as a writer,

she has to dwell amongst it.

Very diplomatically said,

but that covers only your absence.

Well, let's just say

that "the world is too much with us..."

"Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.

"Little we see in nature that is ours.

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon..."

"For this, for everything, we are out of tune."

Does that answer your question?

Rather underrated these days... Wordsworth.

Naturally, we, um, we follow the doings

of our own graduates with proprietorial interest.

The senior common room

are particularly keen admirers of your books.

Would it... would it be an impertinence

to inquire if you use real life

as inspiration for your mysteries?

Not in terms of plots, no.

But in terms of character, yes.

I try to deduce behaviour from my observations.

Yes, I think that's what makes them so real.

I don't ask in idle curiosity, Miss Vane.

The fact is that we, the college,

has a particular problem.

And you, with your particular insights and skills,

could very well help us.

If you would.

What... what is this problem?

Well, we have a prankster

of a disgusting turn of mind

who also writes anonymous notes

of a prurient nature.

In short, a poison pen.

Is that anything you should take terribly seriously?

Wouldn't it be better to ignore it?

One can't, I'm afraid.

These are not just jokes in bad taste.

The things that are written and drawn

are sometimes wicked and obscene,

and they are creating the most terrible atmosphere.

I do not wish to call in the police.

No, I quite understand that.

But, warden, I don't see how I can help, you know.

There must be plenty of women in this college

better equipped than I... who know the people.

Assuredly. But whom amongst them shall I ask?

No senior member of the common room

is free from suspicion.

But surely the Dean here...

no, not even Miss Martin.

You see, we have discussed this.

These things have happened at a time

when no one can clearly establish

a corroborated alibi.

Well, then I think you should get professional help.

Who's there?

It proves nothing.

No, you're quite right. It proves nothing.

Only that there is a loose floorboard

and someone trod on it.

But the place is increasingly on edge.

There is a rising note of emotional strain,

and I am very concerned where it might lead.

Will you help?

Come in.

The Dean's compliments, Miss,

and will you join her for sherry in the senior common room

at a quarter to 7:00?

I shall be delighted.

You're Annie Wilson, aren't you?

You were on the kitchen staff.

I was, Miss, yes,

but now I wait at hall and senior common room.

It's nice to see you. How are your children?

They're very well, thank you.

I'd have thought you'd have forgotten me.

Oh, no. You used to leave the buttery door unlocked.

Young ladies do tend to have good appetites, don't they?

They do, yes.

I'll tell the Dean, then.

Yes, then, do. Thank you. Fifteen minutes.

Constance Firbright...

Wasn't she up in '24 or '25?

She's not coming, is she?

Well, she's not on my list.

I wondered, had you read her Carlyle?

Carlyle and the protestant work ethic.

Popularist scholarship.

Little research and precious little critical judgment.

Slipshod, showy, and catchpenny.

I am really ashamed of her.

She was one of yours, was she?

Yes, alas.

But I do believe, poor dear, she's very hard up.

Oh, excuse me.

My dear, do come and meet people.

Now let me see.

I need hardly introduce you to your old tutor.

Though "former" tutor would perhaps be more felicitous.

Oh, no. "Old," warden. Definitely "old."

Miss Vane, how very nice to see you again.

And you, Miss Lydgate.

You remember the Dean, of course. Yes, we met earlier.

And Miss Devine, I don't think you do know.

How do you do, Miss Devine?

May I say your books have given me hours of pleasure.

Thank you very much.

Sherry, ma'am?

Miss Devine is the new Barraclough fellow.

Yes, I remember reading the announcement.

Wasn't the election last Christmas?

Ah, then you do follow our affairs

from the vantage of the real world.

Shrewsbury year book is read even there.

What is your research subject?

National finance under the Tudors.

We are very honoured to have her.

We stole her away from Flamborough.

You didn't have to try very hard.

I was the provost there for three years.

The prospect of a change was too intoxicating to miss.

Miss Hillyard, Miss Burrows.

How do you do? How do you do?

Welcome back to Shrewsbury. Thank you, Miss Hillyard.

From what I read in the newspapers,

you have encountered fame and fortune since leaving us.

The latter being preferable to the former.

Unfortunately, the two often go together, I observe.

And did I not also read

that you were involved in a real murder case?

The Wilvercombe murder, yes. A sad business.

A widow's chance of happiness destroyed by her own son

for the sake of her money.

Did it give you satisfaction that you were instrumental

in sending a man to the gallows?

Miss Barton. How do you do?

I think that's a little unfair, Miss Barton.

I found the body. I didn't solve the case.

Somebody else did that. I see.

Forgive me for saying this, Miss Vane,

but after your own terrible experience,

it interests me that you care to write

the kind of books you do at all.

Maybe you're thinking that anyone

with proper sensitive feeling

would rather scrub floors for a living.

Well, I should scrub floors very badly,

and I write detective stories rather well.

So I don't see that proper feeling

stops me doing my proper job.

Quite right.

Well, everyone, I think dinner awaits.

Gosh, I'd forgotten what this row was like.

I shall be hoarse as a crow tomorrow.

Anyway, apologies for bellowing.

Not at all.

Why did god give women such shrill voices?

Reminds me of a horde of starlings.

Mmm. The food's rather good, though, don't you think?

Not half. Always make a special effort for the gaudy.

My dear, she's gone absolutely potty

on some new religion.

Even wrote a book... the higher wisdom.

Full of beautiful thoughts. Full of bad syntax.

Sounds dire.

I can't think why fancy religions

should have such a debilitating effect on one's grammar.

It's a kind of intellectual rot

that sets in, I imagine.

What with Trummer's mental healing,

Henderson going nudist...

ghastly thought!

Fact. There she is at the next table.

That's why she's so brown.

And her frock! So badly cut.

If you can't be naked,

be as ill-dressed as possible, I suppose.

I sometimes wonder whether a little normal,

hearty wickedness wouldn't be good for a great many of us.

True.

I'm afraid I've been very, very tactless.

My mother always said to me,

"Sadie, you're the most tactless girl

I've ever had the bad luck to meet."

But I'm enthusiastic. I get carried away.

I don't stop and think.

I don't consider my own feelings.

I don't consider other people's feelings.

I just wade in and... oh, I'm so sorry.

Rumour has it that Miss Vane

has agreed to investigate our poison pen.

What do you think about that?

First thing I've heard about it.

Come on, Harriet, you've got to tell us.

Tell you what?

You know.

No, I don't.

It's just vulgar curiosity. Pay no heed.

Shut up. What's he like, for goodness sake?

Who?

Lord Peter Wimsey.

Well, he's...

I don't know.

Intelligent, naturally.

Why "naturally"?

He did get a first-class honours from Balliol,

so he can't be entirely stupid, can he?

He's not much to look at, I suppose.

He got a dso during the war.

He's musically knowledgeable, reasonably kindly.

Otherwise, he's entirely intolerable.

How's dog-breeding? Booming!

It's all a question of genetic selection, my dear.

Fellows, members of the college,

as no mere annual ritual,

but in genuine gratitude and respect,

I give you the founder.

The founder!

The loyal toast.

The king!

What are you staring at?

The scouts.

What they must think of us all, god only knows.

On behalf of all the fellows and myself,

I bid you welcome.

I sometimes feel, as must the parson in his pulpit,

approaching dismay at the annual obligation

to produce words of comfort and joy.

Let me today speak of Oxford,

which has been called the home of lost causes.

If the love of learning for its own sake

is a lost cause everywhere else in the world,

let us see to it that here, at least,

it finds its abiding home.

Hear, hear!

The last to leave. Disgraceful.

A bit like throwing-out time at the pub.

I must say, I rather enjoyed our conversation.

It must almost be term time.

Yes, and if you were to listen at those windows,

you'd find it's the middle-aged who are making all the noise.

The old ones have gone to bed.

The women of 40 are pretending to be undergraduates again

and finding it rather an effort.

Miss Vane, I admired you

for speaking as you did earlier this evening.

Detachment is a rare virtue,

and very few people find it lovable.

If you ever find a person who likes you in spite of it,

or, still more, because of it,

that liking has very great value

because it is particularly sincere,

and because with that person

you need never be anything but sincere yourself.

That's probably very true, but what makes you say it?

It's only that I imagine you've come across

a number of people who are disconcerted

by the difference between what you do feel

and what they fancy you ought to feel.

It is fatal to pay the slightest attention to them.

Yes, but I am one of those people.

I disconcert myself very much.

I never know what I do feel.

I don't think that matters,

provided one doesn't try to persuade oneself

into "appropriate" feelings.

Yes, but you have to make some sort of a choice.

And between one desire and another,

how is one to know what things really are

of overmastering importance?

We can only know when they have overmastered us.

Good night.

Good night.

Detachment is a rare virtue,

and very few people find it lovable.

I disconcert myself very much.

I never know what I do feel.

Damn!

Nonsense. You're doing beautifully.

Light as a feather.

Quite in the style of Fred and Adele, I think.

Your Fred, maybe. My Adele, no.

Have a cake. No, thank you.

I'd love some more tea, though.

Needs more water.

You know why I am so happy?

Are you?

Yes.

Good.

You know why? No.

Do you realize, Harriet...

I may if you continue.

Thank you.

Well...

Is it so difficult?

Yes.

You can't just start to say...

do you realize... you've said that.

Today you had the impulse to telephone me,

which can only mean that you felt relaxed and carefree

and ready for the wit and epigram

that only I can provide.

Tell me I'm right.

I've presumed too much, haven't I?

Only half presumed.

It would be nice if you could dissemble occasionally.

You're making me feel awful now.

At least I've stirred you to some emotion.

That's not fair. I'm paying you the compliment of having...

yes, yes, yes, yes.

My beastly spasm is over. Honestly.

Tell me, what's the matter?

I'm not sure I should.

Tell me or tango.

You know I can't tango.

Then you've no choice, have you?

This is in the strictest confidence.

Of course.

The gaudy... I didn't tell you what happened.

There have been some nasty goings-on.

Have there?

Anonymous letters, obscene drawings...

that kind of nonsense.

Directed against you?

Only partly. It's been going on for some months.

And then this morning when I woke up,

I found this on my bed.

God, what muck.

The warden thinks that because I write mystery novels,

I can somehow pinpoint the culprit.

But I feel dreadfully ill-equipped.

After all, I'm no criminologist.

So, you may in time have to come to your wise old uncle.

Yes, with great reluctance I may.

Happenings like this at a ladies' college.

It's hardly surprising, is it?

Ladies' college? What do you mean?

Academic ladies cloistered together,

celibate, some sexually ambivalent...

bound to throw up the odd hysteric.

I don't believe what I'm hearing.

Harriet.

No. This male... this mighty male attitude.

I knew I shouldn't have told you.

I express no male bias. You know me better than that.

I'd say the same about public schools,

monasteries, any closed society.

I'm sorry. Maybe I'm oversensitive on the subject.

Of course, if it comes to it, I'll help,

though I do have to go away.

Away?

Day after tomorrow. Paris, Rome.

It's, uh, it's rather important.

Is this the foreign office?

Of course, if you need me,

you can always get me through the embassies.

Now teach me to tango.

Who's that?

Who's there?

I do hope I don't disturb you, Miss Vane,

but things have taken a turn for the worse here, I'm afraid.

Could you?

I can't tell you how grateful we would all be.

Midday, then.

Good-bye.

She's motoring down.

Oh, I do hope we are wise.

It's either Harriet Vane or the police.

If this gets out, the place will be thick with reporters.

Do we really want that?

Excuse me, my Lord. Will you be requiring

the correspondent shoes in Paris?

My Lord?

You have a cough, Bunter. I don't think so, my Lord.

I distinctly heard it.

Cab driver's linctus... just the thing for it.

I shall bear it in mind should I ever get one.

See it off in no time.

The shoes, my Lord... will you be requiring them?

Bunter, I know that when sorting out imbroglios abroad

for the foreign office, I am required

to adopt the role of professional funny man.

But high comedy is the required style.

Funny footwear in this context would be appropriate

only for the end of the pier.

Might we not be weekending with the first secretary

in Menton, my Lord?

Does Menton have a pier?

Be that as it may,

I think, given the grim nature of this particular assignment,

it is highly unlikely that we'll be weekending at all.

However, let's be optimistic

and reserve them for the Oxford high.

So we are going to Oxford as well, my Lord?

The thought occurs.

Given a fair wind and a following sea.

Very good, my Lord.

I shall remember to pack the seasick pills.

Bunter.

That is bordering. Bordering.

Academic ladies,

cloistered together,

celibate, some sexually ambivalent...

bound to throw up the odd hysteric.

It's enormously disturbing.

Well, at first one might have dismissed such things

as too trivial to be much concerned about,

but they've become more audacious every time.

Last night someone could have been killed.

And you still haven't called in the police?

No. Padgett extinguished the flames,

but, of course, the whole college knows about it.

I don't know how much longer we can contain the matter.

Or should, if matters continue to get any worse.

If we don't take action now ourselves,

soon it'll be out of our control.

You are asking a lot of me, warden.

I write detective stories.

That doesn't make me a criminologist.

But you were at this college.

You know some of the tutors and some of the domestic staff.

You're intelligent and observant

and, well, you are a woman.

You think it's a woman?

Well, the circumstances seem rather to exclude men

from the inquiry.

Men running about the college at night... is it likely?

I can't agree with you. Just look at that book.

It is sacrilegious to do that.

Yes, I see your point, Dean.

It is a distinguished polemic against the accepted view

of women in a male-dominated society.

And all the other things that have happened...

they all point to masculine spite

against the educated woman.

Yes, but even so, the difficulty remains.

A man here... conspicuous.

He could always disguise himself as a woman.

Yes, and he could easily hide in the grounds

before the main gate was locked at night

and get away in the morning.

It has to be a possibility.

But it doesn't quite have the male touch.

What do you mean by that?

Well, there is a quality

of what one might consider feminine insight

to these happenings.

The female of the species is more deadly than the male?

Kipling had it nicely...

"speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons..."

Even though he was referring to a female cobra.

Or do we disparage our own sex, Dean?

It's fair poetic comment, I suppose.

But what woman would want to destroy a book like that?

Unhappily, all we have is questions.

It occurs to me

that if I were to be of any use to you as an investigator,

I should need some plausible excuse

for spending time here.

Yes, of course.

Oh, what about Miss Lydgate and her book?

A very plausible excuse.

She's always in need of editorial assistance.

She's writing a book on the metaphysical poets.

That's a possibility.

Well, thank goodness it's the long vac,

so there isn't much going on.

Um, well...

Yes, I'm afraid there will be.

We have an event fast approaching.

My illustrious predecessor's portrait

is being unveiled in the library.

By the chancellor, no less.

I see.

Well, maybe I'd better start asking questions.

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