All language subtitles for The Unpleasantness At The Bellona Club E2

But my dear Lord Peter,
there are only 37 minutes in question.

His sister died at 10:37.

The General arrived at the club at 10am.

Then why no poppy in his lapel?

It was Armistice Day.

Everyone else in the club on that morning
was wearing a poppy. Everyone.

Except gallant old true blue General Fentiman.

And there are other interesting matters.

Examining the clothing he was wearing
on that day, do you know what I found?

A small tear in the trousers.

A piece of pile from a carpet
caught in one of the shoes

and varnish on the shoe itself.

Which I'm having analysed.
You may have to pay.

And then, in a blotter in the library at the club,

not in the General's rooms, mark you,

I found this piece of paper

with some figures written on it
in a rather shaky hand.

Now, I have examined the figures
in the General's chequebook.

Yes, it's his writing.

Exactly.

Now, we know he went from his sister's sick bed
to Dr Penberthy.

Dr Penberthy examined him, found him
overexcited and told him to go home to bed.

But he didn't go home to bed.

I've advertised to see if we can find a taxi driver
who took him to wherever he did go.

Because from the moment he left Penberthy

until 9pm
when the mysterious Mr Oliver telephoned,

we've no idea where he was.

He might have gone straight to Oliver.

He might. But then why not tell his man
he wouldn't be back to dinner?

Mm.

As for the poppy, if Oliver had driven him
straight to the club, then he...

He wouldn't have been able to buy one.
Oh, I absolutely agree.

Very obliging fellow, you know, is our Mr Oliver.

He meets old Fentiman accidentally.
It's not clear how.

And then he takes him back, so it would appear,

to spend the night at Harrow, Croydon,
Wimbledon, Hampton Wick...

We don't know where.
Then he drives him to his club in the morning,

just in time for the old boy to die peacefully
of a heart attack

in his most comfortable armchair by the fire.

What are you suggesting, Lord Peter?

What I said before.
I strongly advise your clients to settle.

But she won't settle.

The Dorland woman won't settle.

Then I suggest that we find Mr Oliver.

And one way of doing that, oddly enough,
may be through Miss Ann Dorland.

Because, unless she knows something,
it is very hard to understand

why she is so absolutely determined
not to agree to a settlement.

Why should I see him?

No reason, Miss Dorland,
unless you want to see him.

Then I shan't see him.

Mason, tell Lord Peter Wimsey
I don't want to see him. I'm not at home.

Very good, miss.

Wait.

- He won't think it odd?
- Ungracious, perhaps.

What's graciousness got to do with it?
This is 1922. I don't have to be gracious.

He is a gentleman, not a person.

Even in 1922 there are forms of politeness.

All right, you do it.

You're my solicitor. That's your business, isn't it?

My dear Miss Dorland, if you could contrive
not to be quite so liberated.

At least until you have the money.

Oh, very well.

I'll write a note.

- Presenting your compliments...
- (Groans)

..and regretting
that you're not able to grant him an interview.

I don't see that that's any more polite
than not at home.

"If Lord Peter has come to visit

as the representative of Major Robert
and Captain George Fentiman..."

We know he has!

"..Miss Dorland requests
that he will address himself to Mr Pritchard,

solicitor of Lincoln's Inn,

who acts on her behalf."

Anyway, why should you see him?
He's not a policeman.

- Nobody has to see him.
- Oh, I think somebody ought to see him.

It wouldn't do for him to imagine
that there was anything wrong.

I tell you, some bloody little man
keeps following me all the time.

Does he?

- Why should he do that?
- How should I know? He's just there, that's all.

Every time I look.

Is he?

That's a bit inconvenient.
You don't want that kind of thing.

- If you don't believe me, just say so.
- Of course I believe you. Why shouldn't I?

Then stop humouring me.

- More coffee, Robert?
- Oh, thanks, my dear.

Oh, sorry.

I may get a little nervy from time to time
but I'm not quite off my rocker.

If I tell you someone's following me,
then someone is following me.

- Sugar?
- No, thank you, my dear.

Will you for God's sake
stop behaving as if I weren't here?!

Of course you're here, George.
No doubt about that.

Will you have some more coffee?

It's very good.

You treat me like a child, both of you.

I'm sorry. We didn't mean anything.

But if you will go on talking about
little green men following you about.

I didn't say green and I didn't say men.

One man, Robert, following me.

Where?

I've been looking for a job.

Again.

A place in Great Portland Street
has been advertising...

Selling cars.

Shelia hasn't been well.

If you're really broke,
we could get an advance from Murbles.

- We can't have you making yourself ill.
- George exaggerates.

I do not exaggerate!

Steady on.

I'm sorry but I do not exaggerate. Sheila
has been having headaches. Haven't you?

I'm not the only one in this family
who has headaches.

George thinks this man is following him
and it upsets him.

I know this man is following me.

He was at the table behind me
in the ABC when I had lunch.

He was there at the show rooms
pretending to look at a Bentley.

The man wears paper collars.
He's hardly respectable.

He has tortoiseshell glasses, Robert.

And a small clipped moustache.

And a very blue chin.

And every time I look at him, he turns away.

LORD PETER:
Well, it's about this Fentiman business.

We're not alone.

I prefer my clerk to be present
at an interview of this sort.

Of what sort?

My move, eh?

Well, you'll have to wait for it.

Do you mind if I smoke?

- Would you have one yourself?
- Thank you, no.

I never smoke in business hours.

Very proper. Much more impressive.

Puts the wind up the clients, what?

(Match is struck)

Thank you.

So, your client won't see us.

Can you think of any reason why she should?

Establish the truth, perhaps.

Next to the good and the beautiful, the truth
is always said to be a proper object of service.

You've been making a few enquiries
of your own, I believe.

Useful to pool our information,
wouldn't you say?

No.

I shouldn't say that.

Well, I just thought I'd let you know
it's liable to be a close-ish thing.

Very difficult to say, to a minute, don't you know,
exactly when the old man died.

Could turn out one way, could turn out the other.

Could turn out to be absolutely baffling
and all that. You get me?

Indeed.

Oh, yes. Absolutely.

So don't you think it'd be rather a good idea

if the parties concerned
could be persuaded to come to terms?

Split the doings, share the proceeds.

Half a million pounds
is a goodish sum of money, after all.

Quite enough for three people to share
and all live on in a quiet way.

And it would save so much trouble in,
well, lawyers fees and things.

You don't agree.

Well, now, I wonder why.

Perhaps because
I've been expecting such a suggestion.

Well, exactly. It's common sense.

Mr Murbles has already
suggested something of the sort.

Yes, he has.

And the reiteration of his proposal by you,
Lord Peter,

leads me to believe that we are right to refuse it.

You will excuse me, I hope,

if I inform you that your doing so

after having been employed to investigate
the facts and the interests of the other party

might be thought to have
a highly undesirable construction.

What an acid man you are, Mr Pritchard.

No reverence, no faith.

Do lawyers ever go to heaven?

But you will excuse me, I hope, if I inform you
that I am not employed by anyone.

I have been asked to ascertain the facts.

I do it for friendship.

As it happens,
the facts are rather difficult to ascertain.

But friendship knows no bounds.

However, I have learnt one important thing
from you today.

I'm obliged to you for your service.

Good day to you.

Good day to you, Lord Peter.

Oh, by the way, have you heard anything
of Mr Oliver recently?

I don't think I quite understand you.

There are times, Mr Pritchard,
when I hardly understand myself.

Toodle-oo.

You'd better get me Miss Dorland
on the telephone.

Oliver?

He clearly thought it important.

Thank you. Goodbye.

Langham 0-9-2-9, please.

Thank you.

Hello, it's Ann.

Yes, I know, but I can telephone, can't I?

It doesn't do any harm to speak to you
on the phone.

But, Walter, I get so lonely.

They'd sawn the body up, rather perfunctorily...

Six pieces in all: head, arms, legs, trunk.

..wrapped it in the Northern Echo
and dispatched it, Sheffield to Euston,

in a crate labelled "York Ham".

Well, he was an actor.

(Laughs) Unkind joke.

- And a very silly one.
- (Knock at door)

Yes?

It all points to someone in the same profession.

Wait a moment. You said "they'd" sawn him up.

Well, I'm fairly sure it was "they". Thank you.

In fact, I'm fairly sure which "they" it was.

But proving it may be a bit more difficult.

It's been running me off my feet,
I don't mind telling you.

- Then I'm in your debt, old Parker bird.
- For what?

Pestering you to trace a telephone call
when you're so busy.

Oh.

Well, Scotland Yard does have its uses.

Let's see...

It was 9:13, in fact, not 9pm,
from Charing Cross Station.

Damn.

One of those public boxes.

Unfortunately,
public boxes are disastrously private.

If he'd telephoned from
an hotel or a public house,

we might have found someone
who recognised him.

Still, it's something.

I'm uncommonly grateful to you, Charles.

- You're disappointed?
- Not unduly.

A little miffed.

It would have made matters too easy

if our Mr Oliver had been telephoning
from a villa in Surbiton.

- Is this anything in my line of country?
- Well, I'm not sure. Yet.

Explain.

Well, it's not criminal.

Not yet.

I have been asked to find out when a man died,
of natural causes.

But it's beginning to look more interesting
every day.

(Nautical horn honks)

(Footsteps plodding)

(Man whispers and woman giggles)

(Horn toots in distance)

Ah!

This is Mr Hinkins, a taxi driver.

I'm glad to meet you, Mr Hinkins.

To do with your advert, sir.

He appears to have collected the General
from Dr Penberthy's rooms.

- Splendid, splendid, splendid.
- That's right, sir.

A very old gentleman, he was.

Took my taxi at approximately 5:30
at 43 Harley Street.

I remember the day very well.

It remains in my memory, being as it was
precisely the day before Armistice Day.

November the 10th it was.

And shortly afterwards
my magneto commenced to give trouble,

the consequence being that
I lost the use of my cab on Armistice Day itself.

Which was a considerable loss,

Armistice Day being not merely a sad occasion
but a good day for us.

Well, naturally, naturally.

Oh, sit down, sit down, sit down.

And you then drove him to...?

Not where he asked.

No?

Well, eventually,
I did set him down at the destination

but it was not where he asked to go at first.

27 Dover Street, he said.

- He was going home, then.
- He never went.

Just as we was coming out
into Cavendish Square,

he sees this gentleman
passing on the pavement.

"Stop," he says, "halt,"
and commences waving his hand,

the upshot being that the gentleman
joins him in the cab,

whereupon "Drive round Regent's Park,"
says the old gentleman.

"Round and round till I tell you to stop."

Describe this other gentleman.

Tallish, sir.

Fairish.

30-ish, as to age.

Suit?

Greyish.

- Overcoat?
- Darkish.

And he had this butter-coloured moustache.

Good quality New Zealand.

George.

What?

George. His name.

Because after we'd gone twice round the park
with me driving particularly careful

so as not to interrupt the conversation,

"Put me down at Gloucester Gate,"
says the younger gentleman.

And when I does so,
the old gentleman calls out after him,

"Goodbye, George. Bear in mind what I've said."

Then where did you take him,
if not back to his flat in Dover Street?

Bellona Club, sir, Piccadilly.

- The time?
- Getting on for half past six.

Thank you, Mr Hinkins.
You have been most helpful.

Yes, yes. Indeed, yes.
Thank you very much, Mr...

- There you are.
- Oh, thank you, sir.

Did the old gentleman seem at all upset
when speaking to this...this George?

No, sir, I wouldn't say that.

Not agitated, sir, by no means.

Thank you, Mr Hinkins.

- This way.
- Oh.

Sharpish.

You might say sharpish.

Sharp in his manner.

What you might call telling him off, sir.

Thank you, Mr Hinkins.

The Bellona Club.

Well, we've learnt one thing, at any rate.

You remember that piece of paper I showed you
with some figures written on it?

In General Fentiman's writing.

Yes. You found it concealed in the blotter...

Not concealed.
No, no, no. I never said concealed.

I found it in the library at the Bellona Club
tucked away in a blotter, as if...

As if what?

Well, as if someone hadn't finished with it.

"R, 150,000.

G, 300,000."

And then some smaller amounts with initials.

Lady Dormer had told him that afternoon
about her will.

He was trying to decide
how to dispose of the money.

He knew that she was dying.

But he didn't know that he was.

- So he must have met Mr Oliver at the club.
- Accidentally, because he didn't intend to.

He'd no intention of going to the Bellona Club
when he left Penberthy.

And yet Oliver ain't a member.

Not by that name, at any rate.

Interesting.

- And George...
- Hm?

It must have been George.

What, tallish? Butter-coloured...
Oh, well, it's clearly George.

He er...

He hasn't mentioned it.

- The taxi ride?
- Mm.

No.

No, that's interesting too.

(Footsteps above)

Ann!

Hello, Marjorie. I've been walking about.

My dear, I see you have.

I thought I'd look in.

But of course!

What a lovely surprise!

I was saying the other day to one of the crowd...
I was saying...

I shouldn't think they remembered who I was.

I was saying we hadn't seen you lately.

You haven't been to any of the...places.

You weren't at Naomi's party.

She's taken up glands, you know.

I've been staying in.

Working?

How lovely.

I'll make some tea.

- Unless you'd rather...
- I didn't come to be fed.

I just wanted to talk to someone.

Oh.

- I've not been working.
- Oh?

I've been reading detective stories.

Oh.

I don't know why I came.

For company.

One gets tired of being alone.

It's not as if we were friends.

I was nearby, you see.

I saw the boat.

Dear Ann, do sit down, now you have come.

You really don't need a reason for dropping in.
You know that.

Marjorie Phelps, amateur potter, that's me.

I loathe working and I love interruptions.

Yes.

Is it your aunt's death?

I didn't know you were close.

We weren't.

- It isn't.
- Ah.

Do you remember that time I got involved with...

Ambrose?

Everyone in the crowd
had to be involved with him sooner or later.

I didn't know that at the time.

I was an easy conquest. Very ignorant.

Innocent.

Ambrose said I didn't know my way around.

Everyone knew about him, he said,
and not knowing was my fault.

Anyway, he'd given me pleasure, he said,

so I ought to be grateful to him
instead of nagging at him.

Yes, I remember.

You were kind to me then.

I remember coming to you and crying a lot.

Oh, my dear. Everyone in our set
comes to me and cries a lot.

I wasn't particularly kind.

I thought so.

Because I'm not really in your set.

Not really one of the crowd.

It's happened again, then?

Not with Ambrose?

Oh, no, no. That's well over.

And you couldn't exactly say
that it happened again.

I mean, I haven't been given pleasure.
Or not in that sense.

Who's that?

Oh, it's a friend of mine.

A sort of friend.

He's a Lord, as a matter of fact,
though you couldn't call him grand.

I made it as a present. Peter Wimsey.

A friend?

You could call it
a rather on and off arrangement.

Ann, my dear, there's pleasure.

I'm sorry I interrupted you.

I won't stay for tea.

Ann!

Oh, dear.

Mr Oliver, my lord?

No, my lord.

You seem very certain.

Oh, I am, my lord.

I have consulted our reservation list over
the last six months and questioned the staff.

- You amaze me.
- My lord...

- What's all this about?
LORD PETER: Mm?

Oh, a mysterious Mr Oliver
who's been said to lunch here.

Oliver?

But not recently, it seems.

You know I only get 90 minutes for lunch.

Barbarous arrangement, isn't it?

You're regretting your new job already?

Captain Fentiman will have the mussels
and so shall I.

Moules.

Someone else has been making enquiries
about Mr Oliver, I take it?

- Major Robert Fentiman, my lord.
- Robert?

Described him, did he?

An old gentleman, my lord,
with grey hair and spectacles.

Exact, as far as it goes,
but not particularly helpful.

If he'd been lunching here
under an assumed name,

you'd have had difficulty
tracking him down, what?

(Laughs)

And to follow les moules, my lord?

Oh, something simple.

- Share a Chateaubriand, George?
- Mm. Yes. Delighted.

- Rare?
- Thank you.

A green salad. And a bottle of Chablis.

Vailon '21 with the mussels,
Château Margaux with the steak.

Excellent.

Merci, my lord. Monsieur.

By Jove, Peter. You do a fellow well.

When I want some information, yes.

What information?

What did your grandfather
have to say to you in the taxi

on the afternoon of November the 10th,
driving around Regent's Park?

Out to lunch, sir.

Well, His Lordship usually does lunch
at about this hour.

No, sir.

There's a small matter engaging my attention
in the dark room but there's nothing to spoil.

I will get a pencil, sir,
and write this down carefully as you suggest.

Yes, sir.

..about the purity and courage of a good woman

and how he'd cut me out of his will
if I didn't reform my domestic behaviour.

Silly old man. Anyone would think
I was carrying on with another woman.

I know I row with Sheila sometimes
but I don't mean half I say.

I'm very fond of her, really.

I bought her some flowers this morning.
Freesias.

I thought they looked rather jolly.
I've got them back at the show rooms.

Cut you out of his will?

Did he say that in the taxi?

I shouldn't think he meant it.

But he knew about the money
Lady Dormer was leaving him?

Well, if he did he didn't say so.

- He never mentioned it?
- No, not a word.

I don't imagine he knew about it.

Oh, he knew.

At least I'm pretty sure he knew.

Did he?

That probably explains it, then.
I thought he was just being pompous.

No, if he knew he had half a million to leave,
no wonder he kept on rubbing it in.

About how I didn't appreciate
a good woman's love.

How I ought to cherish her.

What good would cherishing be to Sheila?

She'd think I was sickening for something.

I'm surprised he didn't mention it.

I'm not.
I thought he was turning over in his mind

whether he wouldn't do better
to leave my share to Sheila.

Just as well he popped off when he did.
That'd cut me off with a shilling.

You've got soup on your moustache.

Major Robert Fentiman, my lord,
in a state of high excitement.

Yes?

It appears that he'd seen Mr Oliver
at Charing Cross.

- Charing Cross?
- The station.

That seems to be a haunt of Mr Oliver's.

Major Fentiman was in the process of returning
home to Richmond via Waterloo Junction

when he observed Mr Oliver at the barrier.

He tore after him, my lord,
but some people got in the way

and Mr Oliver bolted.

Bolted?

Bolted onto a train to Gravesend.

That hardly seems the action
of an innocent man.

And Major Fentiman
was left on the platform cursing.

The mind boggles.

He abandoned his journey to Richmond

and took the next train in the same direction,
hoping to spot Mr Oliver on a platform.

In this he failed.

Gravesend... He could be anywhere.

- New Cross, Blackheath.
- Even Peckham, my lord.

I think the best thing that we can do, Bunter,
is to put Major Fentiman to work.

There's very little to do in the regular army
these days. He ought to be able to find time.

We shall send him to Charing Cross, Bunter.

There he shall watch out for Mr Oliver. And
we must have someone else there to help him.

To follow Mr Oliver when Major Fentiman
points him out.

What do you think about that?

Not...

Oh, no, no, not you, old lad.
You're far too valuable where you are.

Some professional johnny. A private detective.

It'll make a change from divorce.
Hire me somebody.

Very good, my lord.

I don't often prophesy, Bunter,
but I intend to do so now.

Indeed, my lord?

My crystal ball, Bunter.

I see Mr Oliver.

I see him taking a journey

in which he will cross water.

And I see trouble, Bunter.

I see the ace of spades.

Upside down.

Ah, thank you.

That's all right.

Ah.

I must say, I feel like a fool.

- I don't know. You get used to it.
- What?

- I don't think we shall find him.
- You never know your luck.

I'll tell Wimsey. It's a waste of time and money.

- You're not complaining. You're getting paid.
- That's right, sir.

At least we could wait at the times
he's most likely to be here.

Going to the office in the morning,
home in the evening.

Say, an hour at 10. An hour at five.

As it is, I'm not getting any lunch
and the army's going to pot.

I understood Mr Oliver had retired
from business life.

What?

Oh, that's right, yes.

These things must be five years old at least.

The whole thing's a wild-goose chase.

How can you hope to spot a fellow
on Charing Cross Station?

As I understand it, sir, you already have.

What?

Oh, yes, yes.

(Plays delicate tune)

(Telephone rings)

- From Charing Cross, my lord. The detective.
- Oh, thank you, Bunter.

Hello?

Am I speaking to His Lordship in person?

Very good, my lord. One likes to be certain.

I have to report, my lord,
that Major Fentiman is in full cry.

Your metaphor, I take it,
is drawn from the hounds?

Whither?

"Whither," my lord?

Whither, old lad.

Whither away?

Oh.

Southampton, my lord.

I'll make my report in due form, my lord,
if I may.

Being obliged by the purposes of nature

to leave Major Fentiman alone
for 12 minutes 30 seconds precisely,

in the waiting room of Charing Cross Station...

Left alone "for the purposes of nature"...

As instructed, my lord, his "purposes of nature"
have been more frequent than is natural.

Excellent, Bunter.

I'm so sorry, do go on.

Thank you, my grace.

Lord.

I was then handed a note by the ticket collector.

Major Fentiman informed me
that he'd observed Mr Oliver entering a taxi

and he was following in another taxi.

At the end of 20 minutes, I received a further
message by telephone from Waterloo,

to the effect that Mr Oliver
had boarded the Southampton train.

And Major Fentiman?

Was following, my lord.

And our second man?

Following Major Fentiman, my lord.

Stout fella.

Thank you. You've done well. Keep it up.

(Click)

Southampton, Bunter.

"A journey across water," my lord.

The crystal never lies, Bunter.

- Excuse me, sir, would you?
- Sorry.

Just running into Southampton Docks.

- Got any luggage, sir?
- No, I haven't, no.

Allow me, madam.

STATION MASTER: Southampton Dock.

Southampton Dock.

Southampton Dock.

I'm sorry, sir.
I'm afraid you have to get out down the corridor.

Porter...

- Excuse me?
- Yes?

Mr Oliver, I think?

No, I don't think so.

Just a minute... Excuse me, my lord.

Just a minute, sir.

Excuse me, madam.

- I said, "Excuse me."
- Yes, yes, I heard you.

But you've clearly made a mistake.

Porter.

My name is Fentiman.

You knew my grandfather General Fentiman.

I'm sorry to interrupt.

Have you seen a small boy
in a green school cap?

I'm sorry, no.

What I want to know is, where my grandfather
spent the night of November 10th.

He was wearing a luggage label
with his name on it.

Madam, I'm sorry. Sir, excuse me. Porter...

Wait a minute, sir. I haven't finished.

Excuse me, madam. I'm sorry.

Porter...

Excuse me. Forgive me, please.

- May I pass, sir, please?
- Sorry.

Sir.

You are Oliver. I am Fentiman.

I am not Oliver.

I do not know who Oliver is.

I do not know who you are.

And I do not desire to know.

I have a great deal of luggage in the van
and I wish to find a porter.

I said excuse me.

Sir...

Now, look here.
Don't think that you can get away.

- Take your hand from my arm!
- Not until you answer my question.

I didn't follow you all the way here
to be shrugged off like a beggar in the street.

Help! Help! This man's assaulting me!

Help! Porter! Guard! Help!

Help! This man's assaulting me!

Help! Help!

He was wearing a luggage label
with his name on it.

What is all this?

In the end, he showed me his passport.

A Mr Postlethwaite, I understand?

Lived in Kew.

- Say when.
- When.

I must say, I felt a fool.
But it was Oliver. I could have sworn it.

- Oh, I believe you.
- What?

If it were Oliver and he were going off like that
abroad with a forged passport,

he must have had something pretty important
to hide.

You don't think there was anything funny
about grandfather's death?

There must be something pretty funny
about Mr Oliver.

He disappeared from Gatty's almost
immediately after your grandfather's death

and now he's hell-bent on leaving the country.

But what could he have to do with the death?

I don't know. But we ought to try and find out.

How?

Apply for an exhumation order.

Dig him up?

It's a bit disrespectful, isn't it?

Well, he is dead, Fentiman.

- And there was no postmortem.
- Penberthy gave a certificate.

At that time there was no reason
to suspect anything was wrong.

- Well, there isn't now.
- Well, there are some peculiar circumstances.

Peculiar?

The contents of the viscera might give us a clue
as to when he died.

You mean you can tell when a fella died
by looking into his tummy?

Not exactly, of course,
but one might get an idea.

For instance, if we discovered
he'd only that moment swallowed his brekker,

it would show that he died
not long after arriving at the club.

I don't like it, Wimsey.

Why can't we come to some settlement?

Because Ann Dorland won't settle.

For some reason.

I shall ask Murbles to suggest an exhumation
to her solicitors.

If she's honest, she'll support our application.
If not...

- They can't dig him up without my permission.
- But if you're honest, you'll give it.

You've nothing to conceal, I suppose?

What?

Oh, no, of course not, no.

They already suspect us
of some sort of dirty work.

Your brother's been followed around by
someone I suspect of being Pritchard's clerk.

They've been making enquiries at the club.

They're looking for something
but they don't as yet know what it is.

And that is why they won't settle.

Now, then, do you want to get at the facts
or are you just out to collar the cash?

- You may as well tell me which it is.
- Of course I want the facts.

Then come and I'll dictate
the letter of application to the Home Office.

After all your experience during the war,
you oughtn't to be so sensitive about corpses.

You and I have seen many things

far less seemly than a nice quiet little
resurrection in a respectable cemetery.

An exhumation?

We understand so.

On what grounds?

We wondered, Dr Penberthy,
if you could think of any?

We've been making enquiries ourselves.

Without any conspicuous success.

It's very embarrassing.
I signed the death certificate.

There was no reason to think
it was anything other than heart failure.

His heart was very weak.

Embarrassing?

Well, it's always embarrassing
when one has stated the cause of death

and somebody wants to dig the body up again.

This Mr Oliver seems a very elusive gentleman.

Ain't he, though.

Like the Cheshire Cat.

Would it surprise you to learn that when I made
a few discreet enquiries at Gatty's,

I discovered that nobody
had the slightest recollection of him?

- Nobody?
- Nobody.

Except...

Major Fentiman.

You intimate that this Mr Oliver
has no real existence?

That's right.

But what exactly has Major Fentiman
been doing?

This is a very distressing business, Lord Peter.

I knew something odd had happened

the moment I pulled the Morning Post
out of the General's hands so easily.

You see, if he'd died clutching it,

rigor mortis would have made the fingers so stiff,
you wouldn't be able to take it out of his hands.

- Then there was the knee joint.
- Don't follow you.

Well, it was loose.

If during the period of rigor mortis
you loosen one of the joints by force,

it remains loose, it don't stiffen up again.

Which is why, in a hospital,

if the nurses carelessly let a patient die
and stiffen with his knees up,

they call on the largest
and fattest member of staff

to sit on the corpse's knees
and break the joint loose again.

It was obvious from the start
that the corpse had been tampered with.

Did Dr Penberthy know?

Of course, but he wasn't going to make
an indiscreet fuss.

That don't pay for a doctor.
He had no doubt about the cause of death.

- He might have let me know.
- I warned you not to stir up mud.

So you think General Fentiman
spent the night at the club?

Yes.

- Dead?
- Yes.

Robert Fentiman spent that night at the club too.

Good God!

Well...it's a pretty theory, Peter.

But where was the body?

I mean, it would have been a little noticeable,
lying about.

- In Robert's bedroom?
- I doubt it.

The staircase was in full view of the hall.

It'd have been too risky carrying a body up it.

The General's hat and coat might have spent
the night in Robert's bedroom, that's all.

Well, where, then?

Telephone cabinet.

Remember there'd been some complaints
about it being labelled "out of order"?

But think of the risk!

There was no risk.

If anybody had opened the door,
there was old General Fentiman,

who'd gone in and died of fury
at not being able to get his number.

I've been back there since,
and had a look at the telephone box.

CHARLES: I thought you were
looking pleased with yourself.

(Telephone rings)

Shall I tell you what you found?

Pray, do tell me.

A seat inside the cabinet, because the body
was found in a sitting position.

Quite right.

And a scratch, perhaps, on the paintwork,

where the foot had rested
and stiffened in that position.

Very good. I told you I was having
the varnish from the shoe analysed.

Anything else, Charles?

Carpet, perhaps,
matching something else from the shoe.

Right again.

And a projecting nail, in the exact right position

to cause a small tear in the dead man's trousers.

I'm at Newhaven.
I haven't much time, the boat's leaving soon.

His Lordship is dining with guests.
Of course, I could summon him.

Don't bother.

Just tell him I'm on the trail, Bunter.

The trail?

Yeah, we found him. Oliver.

One final question, gentlemen.

How did Robert Fentiman
get his grandfather's body

out of the telephone cabinet and into the
armchair, when the club was full of members?

Yes, of course.

How very ingenious.

Very good, Peter.

Am I not to be told?

Well, Armistice Day -

two minutes' silence.

They'd all have been out on the balcony,
standing to attention.

What a terrible thing.

What an abominable action
at a time of national mourning!

When I got back to Charing Cross,
he wasn't there, this detective johnny.

But he'd left this message saying he'd found
traces of Oliver and was following him to Paris.

He asked me to come and make
the identification.

Just tell His Lordship what's happened
and I'll cable from Paris.

I will inform His Lordship, of course.

You must admit, coming from a military man...

Oh, decidedly. I think that...

CHARLES: It's against the law too.
- Precisely.

(Whistles cheerily)

# ..I'm the Galloping Major

But Mr Oliver doesn't exist.

You've just told us that.

I've taken the liberty
of phoning the detective agency.

They confirm the truth of Major Fentiman's story.

Well, there's an ingenious theory
gone whistling down the wind.

Not necessarily, Peter. It fits the facts.

It just means Mr Oliver is now your villain
and not Robert Fentiman.

Well, we must stop the exhumation.

Why?

Now we know when the General died, there
hardly seems any point disturbing his remains.

Unfortunately, Robert signed the application.

So you have to get Robert to stop it.

And you heard what Bunter said.

Robert has gone to Paris.

So we can't stop it.

Peter...

you are up to something.

I'm afraid it can't be stopped.

Apparently, Major Robert Fentiman
can't be reached. He's abroad.

I don't understand it.

I've changed my mind. I'm prepared to settle.

It doesn't make any difference, Miss Dorland.

They'll dig the old man up in any case.

Who's he?

The one with the lamp.

Home Office johnny.

(Timber creaking)

I really don't see the point of all this.

(Bat screeches)

Well, cheer up.

At least it ain't raining.

How long do you say he'd been buried -
three weeks, four?

Doesn't look it.

Would you wait outside?

Now, where did I put my um...

Ah, yes. Thank you very much.

Thank you.

(Clears throat)

I think I'll go and have a smoke.

I'll wait for you outside.

Yes, of course.

Heart trouble, I think you said.

Well, I don't see any unusual appearance.

Do you?

No.

I think we'd better
secure the stomach as it stands.

We ought to be able to get
a pretty good idea of what you want to know.

Decomposition is very little advanced.

Pass me that, will you, Mr erm...?

Mr...

That.

Thank you.

I er... I don't think you need me here any longer,
Murbles.

My dear fellow, this is not a social occasion.

We are here as witnesses.

But my client's agreed to settle.

Rather too late, I fear.

You sign this one.

I've been wanting to ask you.

Did you discover any explanation
of that leg business?

I did have an idea about it.

You think the body was interfered with?

Yes.

And so do you.

Penworthy...or whatever your name is.

Excuse me.

Better have a look at the brain
while we're about it, Doctor.

We shall need your help.

Right, over.

All over?

- Nearly.
- Have they found anything?

They don't start looking till they get everything
back to the laboratory.

I don't like it.

I suppose it had to be done.

(Sneezing)

What's that?

Somebody sneezing, I think.

There are always people in graveyards,
whatever the time of night.

Shall I tell you something very interesting,
George?

Ann Dorland is prepared to settle.

Don't you find that interesting?