Original subtitles

(theme music playing)

(honky-tonk piano playing)

Put an edge on this

like you've never seen before, sir.

Stroke that way, stroke that way,

little polish.

Fine steel, this, sir.

Yeah, very fine,

like a surgeon's scalpel.

Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.

Steed: Welcome, gentlemen.

My name is John Steed.

Mr. Haller, Mr. Straddlestoff,

Mr. Valarti, Mr. Grunner,

may I welcome you on behalf of the British government.

Has a steam pipe broken or something?

Eh? Oh, that's fog.

That's fog, Mr. Haller.

We still lead the world in that department.

Now I do want your stay to be a happy and secure one,

so if you are in any trouble,

all you have to do is to contact me.

- Good-bye. - No, no, no.

(speaking foreign language) Steedski.

- (speaking foreign language) - I apologize for the accent,

but you understand what I mean.

Now there's a car waiting for you to take you to your hotel.

(glass shatters)

Oh!

Mr. Haller, Valarti, Mr. Straddlestoff.

And where is Mr. Grunner?

What?

Oh, I don't know. I thought he was following us.

- See them back to the hotel. - What?

I'll try and find him.

(speaking foreign language)

Woman: Heather, lucky white heather,

lucky white heather.

Who will buy?

Please, Stablé Mews.

Lucky white heather, sir?

Stablé Mews.

Stable Mews.

Right over there, sir.

(speaking foreign language) Thank you too much.

- Hello. - Lucky white heather.

(honky-tonk piano playing)

(doorbell rings)

- Good-bye. - Good-bye.

Steedski, Steedski, Stablé Mews.

Oh, yes, Mr. Steed lives here,

but he's not in at the moment.

Pip pip, old chap.

- Uh, yes, won't you come in? - Thank you very much.

You see, he's not here at the moment, Steed, Steedski.

Steedski!

(speaking foreign language)

Now he's not here, and he might not be back.

He might be delayed by the fog.

Fog, fog. Fog.

Lovely weather we're having for time of year.

Good-bye.

What's your name?

Name... uh.

My name is Tara King.

- Me, Tara King. - King?

King, King!

- Buckingham Palace. - Buckingham Palace.

This could go on forever.

You see, Steed has gone to meet

a very important foreign delegation,

and he... The Disarmament Committee.

Are you a member of the Disarmament Committee?

Wait a minute, come here.

- (speaking foreign language) - No.

Now...

Disarmament Committee, you?

(speaking foreign language)

Good! Now you sit down there...

- (speaking foreign language) - No!

You sit down there, and I'll go and see Mother.

Yes? Now I'll find Steed.

Steedski! (speaking foreign language)

Or something.

- Right. Good-bye. - Hello.

Mother! Mother!

I'm here.

Oh, Mother, I just left Steed's apartment,

and there's this man there waiting for him.

Foreign fellow, speaks no English?

- Why, yes. - Oh, I shouldn't worry.

Steed has gone to collect him. You missed him by seconds.

Oh, thanks, Mother.

(telephone rings)

Good-bye.

(speaking foreign language)

(garbled speech)

Woman: Who will buy? Who will buy?

Lucky white heather, sir?

Lucky white heather.

(speaking foreign language)

Bless you, sir.

(speaking foreign language)

Man: (screams)

(hoofbeats)

A beard, top hat and cape.

And a cricket bag.

A Victorian swordstick, I'd say.

That ties in with the Hansom cab.

Yes, the Hansom cab. I'd forgotten about that.

You know, this has all the makings

of an international incident.

Grunner, a revered member of the Disarmament Committee,

only been in the country a half an hour and...

Mother, Tara, no sign of Grunner.

Grunner has been found.

Really? Where?

Gunthorpe Street.

Mother: No doubt, Steed, as a student of crime,

you will recall Gunthorpe Street.

Well, naturally.

It was the scene of the Gaslight Ghoul murders.

When was it?

October, November 1888.

And we're just entering the month of November now.

Can you recall any other facts about those murders?

Of course. They never found the ghoul,

and he always got away in a Hansom cab.

And the weapon he used?

A swordstick,

a Victorian swordstick.

Tara found Grunner's body.

She will show you exactly where.

It'll be safer in there, Steed.

(gasps)

So now we know how, when and where.

Can I have my sword?

- We still don't know why. - Or who.

Oh, you've already found that out.

Top hat, beard, cape,

carrying a cricket bag, Hansom cab, whatever.

You don't believe me, do you?

If the Gaslight Ghoul was still riding around,

he would be, oh, I'd say, 150 years old by now.

Oh, it's no good. We'll never find him in the fog.

Well, at least, we're not left empty-handed.

- Has it got a label? - Yeah, look.

Mask and Face Theatrical Costumiers, 15 Corder Street,

what they call in the trade a clue.

- You better follow it up. - What are you gonna do?

I'm gonna find out where this came from.

Man: Knives to grind,

knives to grind.

(indiscernible)

Knives to grind.

(doorbell rings)

What do you want at this time of night?

I'm returning some of your property.

Bring it back tomorrow.

Oh, no, I can't do that.

All right, all right, you better come in.

You theatricals have no sense of time.

All this fog is bad for my chest.

What costume is it then?

Well, I was hoping you'd be able to tell me.

I found it in the street.

She found it in the street.

Gunthorpe Street, to be precise.

That's a coincidence.

- That's where the Gaslight Ghoul committed... - His first murder.

- Correct. - But I don't think it's been lying there

for the past 80 years.

No, no, no, of course not,

but it is part of one of our Gaslight Ghoul outfits.

You have more than one?

Oh, yes, very popular line, Miss.

The macabre element, you know.

Any way of telling which outfit this belongs to?

Of course.

Every garment is numbered.

Here we are.

This is number seven.

I don't suppose your records would show who hired it.

Yes, it's all in the book.

Let's see now.

The addresses aren't in this book,

but we should find the...

(chuckles) There we are,

Mr. C. Osgood.

Dr. Watson.

Mr. Holmes, what brings you to this neck of the woods?

Just followed the trail.

- All roads lead to Rome. - So it appears.

- Osgood's toga? - Part of it.

- Yes? - Ah, Mr. Osgood back yet?

Back? He hasn't been out, sir.

Are you sure?

He told me he was going to bed early.

And he's there now?

As far as I know, sir.

Then we'd like to see him.

I don't know about that, sir.

He doesn't like to be disturbed.

Do you recognize this?

Why, yes.

It looks like part of his Gaslight Ghoul costume.

Perhaps you'd be good enough to check for us.

- Come in. - Thank you.

Mr. Osgood?

Well, there's a strange thing.

Not here?

No, sir, and I never heard him go out.

Is he wearing his Gaslight Ghoul outfit?

I'll just see.

Thank you.

The old curiosity shop. Hello.

He moved.

"Hundred guineas reward for information leading"

to the arrest of the person known as the Gaslight Ghoul,

"perpetrator of many vile and grisly murders."

Steed, what year did the Gaslight Ghoul

commit his first crime?

- 1888, why? - Look.

His costume's not there, sir.

So I suppose he must be wearing it.

Ah, it's you again, sir.

We'll soon put an edge on this for you, sir.

Restore the luster for you.

There we are, sir,

as sharp and as keen as ever...

again, sir.

(piano playing)

- (speaks foreign language) - Evening.

- Man: (screams) - (music stops)

(piano plays)

Thank you.

- (footsteps) - Somebody coming.

Plan 14.

Subsection D, Gaslight Ghoul.

(footsteps)

Mr. Osgood.

- You again. - The proverbial bad penny.

Is it incumbent upon you to be so rough?

Better safe than sorry. Have a look in the bag.

- Well? - Hmm, quite an interesting assortment.

- Swords? - Sandwiches.

Ham, cheese, lettuce.

If you're some species of cutpurse,

you're welcome to my wallet.

I detest violence.

Seems we're at cross purposes, Mr. Osgood.

Let's give you a hand.

Glad to hear, upon my life, I am.

Why were you running away in Gunthorpe Street?

Well, did you expect me to do otherwise?

Some dissolute dog and his accomplice,

advancing menacingly towards me in a dark alley.

Why did you attack me?

Well, we thought you were the Gaslight Ghoul.

Oh, I see.

(laughs)

How exceedingly droll.

May we share the joke?

My card.

Charles H. Osgood, Gaslight Ghoul Club.

Formed to investigate the unsolved murders

of the Gaslight Ghoul.

Bit late in the day, don't you think?

Well, the identity of the ghoul has remained a source

of constant fascination through the years, Miss King.

Tonight, it seems he stalks again

through the alleys of the East End.

It seems... with somebody else's weapon.

Where on earth did you get that?

- Gunthorpe Street. - When?

Tonight after the murder.

- But it's mine. - I know.

Can you explain it?

Well, I didn't even know it was missing.

It's kept in the club's Black Museum.

Then any of the members could have taken it?

You're surely not suggesting that one...

No, all we're suggesting

is that you take more personal care

of your possessions, Mr. Osgood.

Have a good night.

Good night, sir, Mr. Steed.

I'm obliged to you.

Was it a good idea to leave the sword with him?

- I doubt if he's our man. - Why?

No murderer in his right mind

would return to the scene of the crime an hour later.

Man: (screams)

(hoofbeats)

The Gaslight Ghoul Club?

Society of harmless eccentrics.

- Harmless? - So far.

- You were thinking of joining? - Steed: Yes.

But it won't be easy. Restricted membership.

My great Aunt Florence will smooth the way.

She kept a diary.

Did she?

No, she didn't. I made it up.

It contains an account of a Gaslight Ghoul murder,

hitherto undiscovered.

It goes something like this...

"Twas the very witching hour of midnight..."

"And I passed a disheveled maiden

of no more than 17 summers."

"And she was hurrying in the direction

of Great Tower Street."

"At the entrance to the Saddle of Mutton Public House."

"A monster in a black beard, a top hat, and a cape,

carrying a cricket bag."

"Dragged his victim into Millers Yard,"

her bloodcurdling scream

"echoed over the cobbled streets."

Mother, I don't suppose we need to take it...

"As his knife flashed in the gaslight..."

Mother, we need to take...

"Her crumpled body fell like a broken doll

upon the place beneath."

Mother.

I'm sorry, Steed. I was carried away.

It'll be delivered to your apartment

within the hour.

How is your breaking and entering?

Hmm. Rusty.

- Here's a chance to brush it up. - Where?

Home of Mr. Geoffrey Armstrong,

president of the Gaslight Ghoul Club.

And what am I looking for?

I have no idea.

- Well, that could be difficult. - I know,

but as my Aunt Clara used to say...

"Life is not a bowl of cherries."

I didn't know you'd met her.

Well, your aunts are all so predictable.

But where are you going?

Well, as they always say, life is not a bowl of cherries.

If you can't beat them, join them.

All that glitters is not gold.

What's that?

Steed: My entry card.

Bearded in the den.

May I direct your attention to the notice outside?

These are private premises.

So I should hope.

I'm not in the habit of frequenting public houses.

No.

When I say private, I mean exclusive.

Oh, quite right.

We don't want any Tom, Dick, or Harry wandering in do we?

- "We"? - We members.

I didn't know the club was open for new membership.

- Well, didn't poor old Charles put you in the picture? - Charles?

Charlie Osgood, he's dead, you know.

Yes, we just heard. Tragic news, tragic.

Ah, well, it's an ill wind and all that.

Here I am.

- Well, Mister... - Steed, John Steed.

Steed, perhaps you'd like to explain why.

To drop a bombshell.

Ah, a bombshell.

This, my favorite auntie's diary,

page 194, paragraph two.

Mm-hmm.

My dear fellow,

this is a fantastic revelation!

Yes, it is, isn't it. I thought you'd be interested.

Interested? Another Ghoul murder?

This will give the old club a new lease of life.

Gentlemen, this is Mr. Steed,

who has unearthed a tenth Gaslight Ghoul murder.

Would you like to sit down?

Thank you.

The club was first founded about 80 years ago

after the first Ghoul murders.

When it became apparent

the police were getting nowhere,

several amateur detectives decided to form a society

to bring the murderer to justice.

- And you're carrying on the good work? - Yes.

Of course, nowadays the chances of discovering anything new

are remote, but the motto of the club is...

Never say die.

Geoffrey: Ah, Travers.

Meet our new member, Mr. Steed.

Mark Travers, our secretary and black sheep.

- Always glad to welcome a fresh face. - How do you do?

Mr. Travers treats the society

with a little less respect than one could wish.

Well, it doesn't do to get too involved.

One must keep a sense of proportion.

Come along and I'll show you the nasty things

in our woodshed.

It's a cozy little place, isn't it?

Right out of the pages of my favorite author.

Edgar Allan Poe would have approved of this.

Quite a home from home.

Take a look at this.

Some of these figures

are remarkably life-like, aren't they?

- Gave me quite shock, sir. - Me, too.

Now, Wellbeloved, this is Mr. Steed, a new member.

- Pleased to meet you, sir. - How do you do?

Wellbeloved is the curator of the museum.

Now this'll interest you, Steed.

What do you think of that?

- Absolutely ripping. - Victorian scalpel.

They don't make them like that anymore.

I should hope not.

Can you imagine that in the wrong hands?

Clean, quick, and efficient.

19th century dueling pistols, aren't they beauties?

Depends which way you're looking at them.

Guaranteed accurate at 50 paces.

Hello.

Something missing?

Swords and some of them quite valuable.

- Wellbeloved. - Yes, sir.

- Have you seen this? - Gracious.

- When did you last check the swords? - This morning.

They were all present and correct then.

Then they must have been stolen earlier this evening.

I don't see how.

Sir Geoffrey was here all the time.

Rowley, where is the president?

- Gone home. - When?

Ten minutes ago,

sent his apologies.

Does Sir Geoffrey often dash off like this?

It happens quite often. He is permanently on call.

You know how it is with these surgeons.

Perhaps you'd like to explain what you're doing.

Just admiring your toys.

But they are not toys for little girls to play with.

Just when I was having such a good time.

Now put them down.

There's a good girl.

- I'm a ghoul! - Steed.

Didn't fool you, eh?

No, I'd recognize you anywhere.

How?

Oh, the nape of the neck, unmistakably primitive.

That's a family characteristic.

- All the Steeds have it. - Oh.

It's a bit hard on the Steed girls, though.

Did you find out anything at Sir Geoffrey's place?

No, just that the furniture is breakable.

- Trouble? - Nothing a healthy girl couldn't handle.

Why the disguise?

The Gaslight Ghoul Club.

That's the standard kit.

Oh, so Auntie's diary worked a treat.

They welcomed me with open arms.

- There's been another murder. - Anyone we know?

A chap called Valarti,

another member of the World Disarmament Committee.

- Where? - Near the scene of the other killing.

Several people say that they heard a Hansom cab driving away.

Well, I mean, how many Hansom cabs can there be in London?

We can only find out. Here's the address.

Bartholomew Sanders, Conveyances of Quality.

It's a Hansom cab hire service.

It should be a mine of information.

- What's that? - These are the remaining two names

of the Disarmament Committee.

I've got to get to them before the ghoul.

Morning, Mr. Haller.

Not much chance of a cab tonight.

I walk.

Well, I'll see about that later.

Steed: Excuse me.

Can I help you, sir?

I'm looking for Mr. Haller.

Oh, you only just missed him, sir.

He went down that passageway a minute or so ago.

Mr. Haller?

Mr. Haller!

- (screams) - Mr. Haller?

- Mr. Haller. - Thank heaven you come.

- You saved my life. - (door slams)

- For the moment. - (hoofbeats)

Now, look, I'll send my security people to you,

but I think it would be wise until then

to go to your hotel.

Surrounded by bright lights and lots of people.

She's a little beauty, Miss King.

Trim and easy to handle.

Oh, I'm sure she is, Mr. Sanders.

It's just that I've got my heart set on another one.

Oh, what does she look like?

Oh, that's the trouble. I haven't seen her.

You've set your heart on something you haven't seen?

Oh, but I've heard her.

She just sounds so luxurious.

The door shut with such a satisfying click.

Hmm, well, that's not much of a description to go on.

Here.

- Anything like that? - No.

- What about that? - No.

- Ring a bell? - I'm afraid not.

It's obviously still out on hire.

Well, where did you hear it?

Just about everywhere really.

I just can't find anyone who's actually seen it.

- That's odd. - It is, isn't it?

You'd have thought something as large as a Hansom cab

would be difficult to miss.

I can't see how I can help you, Miss King.

I see.

Well, if you do hear of any cab owners

who've been driving around an awful lot lately,

will you let me know?

- With pleasure. - Thank you.

Never seen it, only heard it.

Only heard it?

Oh, good evening, sir.

Sanders here.

I'm sorry to trouble you at this time of night.

You remember that cab you hired from me the other day?

You wanted it for a special purpose, you said.

Do you mean to tell me he drove away in a horse-drawn vehicle

- and you couldn't catch him? - I can't understand it.

He seemed to disappear into thin air.

I don't know what the department's coming to.

- Any suspects? - Too many.

All the members of the Gaslight Ghoul Club for a start.

What do you know about Sir Geoffrey Armstrong?

Eminent surgeon, served as a fighter pilot

in the Battle of Britain,

politically extreme right wing

and a member of the SADOB.

Eh?

The Society Against the Disintegration

of the British Empire.

- Interesting. - Why?

What would constitute to him a threat to the British Empire?

Defense pacts, trade agreements.

Disarmament conferences?

Yes, I see what you mean.

I suggest you put a round-the-clock guard

on the other delegates.

Power thinking, Steed.

And I'll keep an eye on Sir Geoffrey.

Travers: It's not cricket, is it, Steed?

Is it, Steed?

No, it isn't, but I'm a rowing man.

What were you looking for?

A wolf in wolf's clothing.

Burning the midnight oil, eh, Sir Geoffrey?

What?

Oh, hello, Steed.

I didn't recognize you.

It's time you grow a beard.

- Successful operation? - Beg your pardon?

The one you were called away to perform.

No complications?

Oh, no, no, went like clockwork.

I just came back here to relax

half an hour before going home, you know.

Our profession plays absolute havoc on the nerves.

Oh, I can imagine.

Well, I'm off.

- You're going? - Soon.

I think I'll just soak up the atmosphere a bit.

A brave man.

I wouldn't care to be left alone in here for a night.

Lock after you go, will you?

And don't forget to turn the gas off.

And fog.

Of course.

- Good night, Steed. - Good night.

(hoofbeats)

(phone rings)

Hello?

Oh, it's Sanders here, Miss King.

You asked me to telephone you

if I discovered anything about your elusive cab.

Yes?

Well, I think I can explain the mystery,

only it's a little more complicated than you thought.

Could you come 'round and see me?

Be there in five minutes.

Oh, it's you, sir.

Come to hire another...

(gasps)

Mr. Sanders?

Mr. Sanders?

(door slams and hoofbeats)

Man: Where to, miss?

Oh, Steed. What are you doing here?

Making sure the fox doesn't break cover.

- Oh. - Any news?

- Yes, Sanders. - Dead?

Yes.

Found this in his garage.

Mm-hmm, looks as though we're barking up the right tree.

Now are you sure Sir Geoffrey's at home?

He arrived a few minutes ago.

(door creaks)

Who's there?

The next thing I knew I was lying

on some very hard cobblestones and there was no sign of him.

So you waited for him here?

Well, he must've be on his way to deal with Sanders

when you lost him.

When you arrived, he ran away.

That fellow has the luck of the...

Shh.

Steed: He's got some more business at hand.

My car's down there. Take it and follow him.

- I'll look around the house. - Right.

Sir Geoffrey. What happened?

Stabbed.

Do you see who did it?

No, but he took a file from the cabinet.

What file?

See which number is missing.

One, two, three, four, five, seven.

Six is missing.

What was in it?

Names and addresses of club members.

And professions?

Yes, but what do you mean?

His profession could have been the clue to his motive.

Yes.

He said something curious.

What was it?

Said, "That's the cure for your fever."

Fever?

Fever, fever, of course.

Is there a duplicate? Is there a duplicate file?

- At the club. - I was afraid of that.

We haven't much time. I must get you a doctor.

Can you find out who did it?

I know who did it.

- Lucky white heather, lady? - No, thank you.

(door slams and hoofbeats)

(screams)

(screams)

(gasps)

I warned you not to interfere.

I can't allow anyone to come between me and my objective.

The disruption of the Disarmament Conference?

Of course.

Why? What did you think you'd achieve?

Protection of my livelihood, armaments, guns, ammunitions,

all the trappings of war.

These fools want to disarm the world.

A bunch of wooden-headed idealists

who make me as extinct as the dodo.

I couldn't have that, could I?

I'm conducting my own fight for survival.

But this club is a perfect cover.

Until you and Steed appeared.

(hoofbeats)

Steed!

Ah, not so good at long range, eh, Travers?

- We shall see. - We will.

But I don't think you'll be curing my fever.

You know you gave yourself away when you said

that you could cure Sir Geoffrey's fever for him.

How does the poem go?

"The lingering illness is over at last."

" And the fever called 'living' is conquered."

That's it! That's it.

Edgar Allan Poe.

I remember you saying that Poe was your favorite author.

Not so effective at long range, aren't I?

I have another poem, "The Couplet".

"Contrive to stay alive."

Kazorkia of the Russian Imperial Guard

taught me the saber, Travers.

He was unique.

He used to fire darts,

faster than the eye could see.

Instinctive reflex training he used to call it.

If those darts stuck, they hurt.

I wasn't often hurt. Now that's a problem.

Easily solved.

Ah! Phew.

Well, I saved you from a fate worse than...

- Do you mind? - Not at all.

I think I prefer you with an umbrella.

Oh, Steed, you're a gentleman and a scholar.

Thank you very much.

How's your ankle?

I just can't bear traps.

Ooh.

- All right? - Hmm.

I'll take you out into the...

Oh, bright clear daylight.

No fog.

Wow, that's marvelous. Makes life a lot easier.

For everyone. Hey, including Mother.

Oh, poor, Mother.

Wonder how she's getting on.

Steed: Tara?

Over here, Steed.

Steed: Is your glass full?

I can't see. Wait a minute.

No, it's empty.

I'll recharge it for you.

I can't seem to locate the drinks table.

Straight ahead.

- But look out for... - (shatters)

my favorite china ornament.

Ah, here we are.

Pity about your air-conditioning system.

Great pity.

Going into reverse on a foggy day like this.

Now where are you?

Tara: Over here.

Keep talking, keep talking. I'll soon find you.

What shall we talk about?

Oh, that reminds me, Mother.

I wonder if his navigation systems work.

Ooh, undoubtedly.

- Mother is bound to... - (horn honks, engine approaches)

Mother: That's it, Rhonda.

Left here, then on we go.

We're on the home straight now.

(horn honks, tires squeal)

(glass clatters)

(horn honks)

- (glass shatters) - Steed: Tara?

- Yes? - I think you left the front door open.

(theme music plays)