The Mystery of Mr. E (2023) Movie Script
1
- What took you so long?
- I had to post a letter.
- Well, I'm ready when you are.
- The taxi should be
about five, ten minutes.
- Shall we?
Ooh.
- The door was open.
- They've never sent
anyone that quick before.
- No one has sent me.
- Do come in.
- I'm sorry, we don't actually
know each other, do we?
- Not yet.
Very nice.
Off to Idlewyld House, are you?
- How do you know we're
going to Idlewyld House?
- You two have it all
planned out, don't you?
- Our schedule for the day, yes.
Is there something wrong with that?
- Leaves no room for the unexpected.
- Look, we are in a bit of
a rush here, so who are you?
- Well, that's what I
came here to tell you.
I'm the murderer.
- Sorry?
- Sorry?
- I'm the murderer.
- Is this some kind of joke?
Who've you murdered?
- You two ever solve a murder?
I've heard you do all sorts of
jobs for all kinds of people.
You call yourselves The Generalists.
- Well, that's what it says on the door.
- John and George Danes.
Generalists.
- I wonder how one could make a career out
of something so vague.
But I've asked around and
everybody says you're very good.
Good at what, though?
Surely no one can be good at everything.
- Well, we're certainly not.
We're hopeless at things
other people are good at.
- And you've clearly
got the wrong end of the stick.
- I doubt you've ever solved a murder.
I suspect you'd like to catch me though?
Well, prepare to be disappointed.
We're going to do things
differently, you and I.
I came here to catch you.
- Catch us?
Well that doesn't make any sense.
- We're not criminals.
- Oh, there are many
ways to catch a person.
In the net of an obsession or a puzzle
that's impossible to solve.
- In the letter we received
from Idlewyld House
it doesn't mention anything about murders.
- Doesn't surprise me.
- I don't know about you, George,
but I'm growing very tired of this.
Either tell us who you are, or leave.
- Why don't I do both.
Thanks for the apple.
- Dear John and George Danes,
please arrive at Idlewyld House
on the 1st of July at 10 o'clock.
You will be received by Peter Landrigan,
son of Harriet Landrigan,
the best-selling romantic
novelist of all time.
As the guardian of
Harriet's estate and legacy,
Peter Landrigan has a proposal
he wishes to put to you.
- This way, gentlemen.
Welcome to Idlewyld House.
I'm Andrew Anderson,
director of operations.
- Mr. Anderson.
- Mr. Anderson.
- Everybody calls me Anders,
and you must do the same.
- Well, John and George Danes.
- Allow me.
- Oh, and sorry we're late,
we got lost in these grounds.
There's another large building.
- Oh yes, I could see how
that could be confusing.
That's Pffisham School.
Your host, Peter Landrigan,
is in that building
at this very moment.
And running a little late, I'm afraid.
- That's a relief, actually.
We're usually a lot more
punctual but we got help up with-
- With a visitor.
- Yes, a visitor.
- Its prize-giving day.
Oscar, Peter's 14-year-old
son won't have won a prize,
he never does, which means that Clemency,
Peter's wife, will at
this moment be berating
the poor headmaster as she always does.
- Oh dear.
- Oh dear.
- Yes, I'm afraid until
school creates a prize
for the student with the most
underemployed brain cells,
Oscar won't be winning any awards.
Don't tell Clemency I said
that or I'll lose my job.
Laziness, that's Oscar's problem.
Beyond the basics of eating and breathing
he's unwilling to exert himself.
I call it the Idlewyld Curse.
Until they change the name of this house,
every child born here will be either idle-
- Or wild.
- Exactly.
Take Peter, for example.
He was wild in his
youth, as was his mother,
the late great Harriet.
Wildness can be harnessed and channelled
into a powerful creative force,
whereas the idle, like young
Oscar, rarely achieve anything.
- I don't think you
should assume the poor boy
is doomed to failure if he's only 14.
- Don't you?
You will once you've met him.
- Can I ask you something, Anders?
You seem very indiscreet,
so perhaps you'll give
me an honest answer.
Has there been a murder here?
- Interesting question.
In the letter of invitation you received,
did it say anything about a murder?
- No.
- Then where did you get that idea from?
- Has there been a murder here?
- Officially? No.
But I've never been sure myself.
- That's a strange thing to say.
- Oh, you think that's strange.
Have you noticed these?
- Buh bye, cheerio.
Oh.
I thought everybody had gone.
I trust you had an enjoyable
afternoon, Mrs. Landrigan.
- I have not, Mr. Friend.
- Oh.
It's the awards thing again, isn't it?
- Or lack of, in Oscar's case sadly.
- Well maybe if he tried
just a little harder
he might stand a chance.
- You're going to have to expel Bethany Voss.
- Expel her?
- She can't keep winning
all the awards like this.
I've been lenient up until now,
but there's simply no other way.
- She works very hard and
she's our best student.
I mean, why would I expel her?
- Do not argue with me!
Having a child who does so
well creates the impression
that the teachers are good,
which is highly misleading.
You need to start firing people,
the French teacher especially, Mrs. Lapp.
- It's okay, Mrs. Lapp,
we were just discussing Oscar's work.
- Oh, how delightful, Your Honour.
- How many times?
This is a school not a court of law.
- Yes, Headmaster.
- What about her?
- She's hopeless.
All the French Oscar knows
he's learned from me.
Rive Gauche, Yves Saint Laurent.
And if I didn't happen
to be a perfume designer,
he wouldn't even know that much.
- Mrs. Landrigan-
- Also, Oscar finds
his walk to school intolerably tiring.
- Oh no, not this again.
Mrs. Landrigan, be reasonable.
We've already moved the
school into your lower gardens
because you refuse to drive across town.
We can't move it again.
- Yes you can and you will.
If this school is not 200
yards closer to my home
by this time next week,
there will be consequences.
Do you hear me, Mr. Friend? Consee-quences!
I'll have Anders move the old stables,
the school can go there.
That will be quite close enough, I expect.
Oscar, Peter.
- Ah.
Hello, there.
I'm Peter Landrigan.
Mr. Danes on both accounts, I presume.
- Uh, John.
- Uh, George.
- Sorry I'm late.
Award ceremonies do drag
on somewhat these days.
- That's okay, Anders
was looking after us.
- Excellent.
- Perhaps it'll be more
fitting if Peter explained.
I was showing them the books on the wall.
- I take it
you've heard of my mother.
- Who hasn't heard
of Harriet Landrigan?
- Her love stories have
sold in the billions.
She's only outsold by the
"Bible", Agatha Christie,
and who's the other one, Anders?
- William Shakespeare is the other one.
- That's the chap.
- That's very impressive.
- Shall I go and prepare
some refreshments?
- That'll be lovely, Anders. Yes.
Ah, please gentlemen, let me
show you some of the grounds.
This book is dedicated
to my devoted fans all over the world.
It is the last book I will publish,
though not the last book I will write.
I wish things could be different.
But they are not.
- Dearest Harriet,
I have returned from New
York to find a finished copy
of "The Heaviest Heart" on my desk.
It is your best novel yet, for sure,
and an object of great beauty.
But its dedication, which I must admit
I failed to notice at the copyedit stage,
incompetent publisher that I am,
its dedication, Harriet, is most alarming.
Why, on Earth, should you wish
to stop publishing your work?
Unless I've misunderstood,
you imply that you intend
to write more novels but not publish them.
Please assure me without delay
that this is some sort of joke.
Yours devotedly, Deevo.
- Dear
Deevo, it is no joke,
and now, I imagine, you will
batter away at my defences
until I have no choice but
to explain myself to you.
So, let me say emphatically,
that I do not wish to explain.
Not to you and not to anybody else.
Yours, Harriet.
- Dearest
Harriet, I demand to know
the background to this
sudden calamitous decision.
The world, and most of
all I, cannot live without
your wonderful love stories.
Yours dejected, baffled and determined
to change your mind, Deevo.
- So your mother kept writing books
but she refused to publish them.
- Or to let anyone read them.
- Did she say why?
- No and nothing anyone
said could persuade
her otherwise, not the
piles of begging letters
from fans nor the offer of
more money from her publisher.
She refused pointblank.
- How odd.
- Instead she hand-wrote each novel,
took them to a book binder who
would mount and frame them.
You may hand them on the walls-
- As if they
were works of art, Peter.
But that is all.
They are never to leave Idlewyld House,
never to be sold.
- Never to be sold.
And never to be read
- And never to be
read by anybody.
- By anybody.
- But why bother writing novels
that no one could read though?
- I really have no idea.
I expect Deevo's the
only one who understood,
but he's no longer with us and mother took
it to her grave when she died
in an unfortunate accident.
- Sorry for your loss.
- Sorry for your loss.
- It was many years ago now.
- Who was Deevo?
- As in Devaux Russell.
Her publisher.
You've never heard of Devaux Russell?
He was the greatest publisher
of the 20th century, some say.
Transformed the industry.
Founded the publishing
house Russell & Russell.
- I'm afraid we haven't heard of the name.
- Ah, well, thanks to my mother's books
his company was immensely profitable.
As a sideline he even wrote
a few thrillers of his own.
Rather violent for my taste.
Primarily, though, he was a publisher.
- So when your mother stopped publishing
it must have had a huge impact.
- Indeed.
The firm soon went bankrupt
without my mother's annual
contribution to its profits.
Poor Deevo lost everything.
Turned to drinking, gambling,
marriage broke down.
At his lowest ebb he was
caught spray painting graffiti
on the walls of other
publishers' office buildings.
Within five years he'd
died of liver failure.
- If only he could have got his hands
on the unpublished works.
- It could've saved his whole business.
- And more significantly, his life.
My father's workshop.
He was an engineer, could repair anything.
No one really asks about him though,
it was always Mother and her books.
I spent many happy hours in here with him
making and repairing things.
Mother was always writing, so uh,
I had plenty of time to run wild.
Ah, Dad used to take me out on this.
Mum would've killed him if she'd known.
Right.
That's the mini tour over,
and I expect you could
use that tea now.
The kitchen is back up this
way, do mind the steps.
- Thank you.
So now that Harriet's
dead, aren't you tempted
to smash the glass and see
what's inside the books?
- Of course I'm tempted.
- You know, to find out
what she was so determined
that no one should ever read.
- Well he could even publish them,
assuming that the contents
aren't too controversial.
- That would
be against my mother's
clearly stated wishes.
- When did Devaux Russell die?
Before or after Harriet?
- One year before, almost to the day.
My mother died on the 10th of July 2014,
and Deevo died on the 8th of July 2013.
- If you don't mind us asking,
how exactly did your mother die?
You mentioned an accident?
- Yes, it was indeed a tragic accident.
She fell down the stairs
and broke her neck
here at Idlewyld House.
The doctors did everything
they could to save her.
I subsequently donated a
significant amount of money
to the hospital to show how grateful
I was for their efforts.
Sadly, those efforts were in vain.
- It wasn't a tragic accident.
It was murder.
That ought to have been obvious,
but people are so unimaginative.
I'm surprised any crimes ever get solved.
DNA testing is no substitute
for logic and intuition.
And don't get me started on scene
of the crime reconstructions.
- Hello, you must be the Generalists.
How lovely to meet you.
- Ah, my wife, Clemency.
- John and George Danes.
- At your service.
- Tell me, what exactly is a Generalist?
I've never heard of the profession before.
- Oh, it's not a profession, it's just us.
- We made the job title up.
- We're the only ones.
- And they come highly recommended.
- How terribly exciting.
I do so love anything that's truly unique.
My son, Oscar, is unique.
You must meet him.
Oscar!
- Tell Clemency what it
is you actually do, gents.
- Well, all kinds of things.
We didn't really fit into
traditional job roles,
or want to go to university
or anything like that.
- So we do general stuff,
whatever odds and ends
people want us to do.
- How marvellous, general stuff.
You don't want an apprentice, do you?
I'm sure Oscar could do general stuff,
don't you think, Anders?
- I expect Oscar would be
as adept at the general
as he is at the specific.
- He absolutely would.
- Now, if you'll excuse
me, I must check the locks.
- I don't think I'd
like to be a generalist,
it sounds unpredictable.
- Well, it is, that's why we love it.
- Oh, go on then, give me
an example. I'm intrigued.
- Okay, well a women
offered offered to pay us
to hire a car, a different car each week,
and to park it in a
particular spot on her street.
- Why?
- To annoy a neighbour who
thought it was their spot
and vandalised her car
for leaving it there.
- Well was it a public road?
- Yes, he'd even bragged
to her that he did it.
- So why didn't she just go to the police?
- Well she did, and then he denied it
and the police said there
was nothing they could do.
- Did he vandalise any of
the ones you left there?
- Not one, but according to our client,
he stared at them out his
window for hours on end.
And on one occasion,
he cried.
- He cried.
- But our client was happy and paid us
a staggering amount of money.
- How fabulous. Do tell me another.
- Well, next week we're on a retreat
called Heal Your Inner Child.
We'll have to hold hands with
strangers and weep in public.
- All because our client,
the one whose inner child
needs healing, is too
shy to attend himself.
- He's paid for a detailed report
of everything that will
take place in hopes
that one he can heal
his inner child from the
comfort of his own home.
- Comfort of his own home.
- That's such an inspiring story.
Gentlemen, would you mind
if I created a fragrance
for men and called it "The Generalist".
I hope my husband mentioned in his letter
that I'm a perfume designer.
- Uh, why did you ask how my mother died?
- Well, before we set off to come here,
a man, a complete stranger,
turned up at our house
saying he was the murderer,
of whom he didn't say,
nor did he mention his own name.
- He only left his card.
All it had on it was Mr. E.
Somehow he knew we were on
our way to Idlewyld House.
- A murder?
- Here?
- Yes.
We thought we might've been invited here
in the hope that we could solve it.
- No.
No, there's been no murder here.
It must be a practical joke.
I'd forget all about it if I were you.
- Well don't be an idiot, Peter,
who would forget something like that?
It sounds rather significant to me,
definitely worth remembering.
Anyway, I must go and
check on our other guests.
- Your other guests?
- I'm sure they'd love to meet you later.
- The French meanings are
missing from this list,
find them in the muddle below.
Oh,.
Well I think this is she plays the drums.
- Cool, do the next one.
- Everyone ok?
- Are they here?
- Yes.
- Who?
- The Danes brothers.
Peter's told me all about them,
I'm hoping to persuade them to, uh,
write their memoirs and
allow me to publish them.
- Why?
- They're quite fascinating
characters from what I hear,
call themselves The Generalists.
Could be a, uh, a big seller.
- Max, if it's a bestseller you want,
I'm not exactly chopped liver, am I?
I've got a tale or two to tell.
Why don't you get your
people to contact my people,
set up a lunch I know a lovely bistro,
run it up the drainpipe,
see if the guys on top want a taste.
- Fantastic idea, Swithun, yes.
- Oscar, what are you doing?
- I've got Miss Coggins to do
my French homework for me.
- Oh, you speak French as well.
- I know every language Harriet's books
are translated into.
How else would I check that the publishers
are printing it correctly?
- Irene is a guest,
Oscar, stop bothering her.
Go and hide your homework
in your book in the library,
we'll say we never saw
it and we'll pretend
that dreadful Mrs. Lapp
never gave it to you.
- Can't Anders hide it for me?
- Oscar, what sort of attitude is that?
- All right, I'll do it myself.
- Isn't it rather
irresponsible to encourage
your son to hide his homework?
- It would be, yes, if
he had a French teacher
who played fair.
Instead he has Gwen Lapp who, believe me,
deserves everything she gets.
And all the homework she doesn't get.
- Come now, surely she can't be that bad.
- Why not?
As an actor I know only
too well how revolting
some people can be.
When I won my first one of these...
It's a replica, I find
it easier to travel with.
I was filming up the Himalayas,
I was playing a mountaineer, death scene,
this horrible director,
horrible weasel of a man.
The light was fading, the
sherpas were pleading with us
to make the descent.
And as I got into
position to do my closeup,
that's the moment he decides is perfect
to rush across the set and scream,
"Swithun, your cagoule..."-
- Come off it.
You actors have it easy.
I'm constantly having to deal
with tortured genius authors.
They're the worst of all.
- May I remind you, Max,
that you're in the home
of the late great Harriet Landrigan.
- I wasn't including Harriet, of course.
- Irene Coggins, our resident superfan,
knows everything there is
to know about the books
and Harriet Landrigan and
all the personal trivia.
- And?
- Let's have a little game,
I think it's a starter
for 10 this time, Irene.
It's 1985, April the 10th,
what's Harriet having for breakfast?
- Easy, sardines on toast.
- Easy, sardines on toast.
- Oh.
- Anyone else want to try and catch her out?
- I don't suppose you know
the answer to the big mystery,
why Harriet stopped publishing
the books she wrote?
- No I don't and I don't want to.
If Harriet didn't want to tell us,
and she plainly didn't,
we shouldn't want to know.
It must remain a mystery in
accordance with her wishes.
- So what's wrong with
this Lapp woman anyway?
- What's wrong with
her is she doesn't want
to be a French teacher and
she keeps telling people.
- Well what does she want to be?
- An actor, like me, I expect.
Isn't that what everyone wants to be?
- Nothing so straightforward, I'm afraid.
She wants to be state attorney
for Pima County, Arizona in America.
- Goodness me, that's very specific.
- Despite being born in Yorkshire
and having lived all her life in England,
she feels it's her God-given mission,
her calling if you will,
to be a blowhard Arizona prosecutor.
She speaks barely a word of French.
- And have you spoken to the headmaster?
- Mr. Friend?
- Yes.
- He's far too tolerant, I'm afraid.
Fond of giving second chances even to
the most delusional teachers.
Genius authors have to be ...
- I can't help feeling uneasy about
this little gathering, Anders.
All these people poking their noses
into Harriet's private business.
How many of them know
about the missing letters?
- Well, you do, apparently.
Max, obviously, and I
expect Peter is telling
the Mr. Danes' about
them at this very moment.
- I hope they're never found.
Harriet's decision to
stop publishing her books
is no business of anybody's.
These guests of yours
clearly don't understand
anything about what
sort of person she was.
- And you do, I suppose.
- I believe so, yes.
- Yet you failed to take into account
something rather basic.
It's her last four books that Harriet didn't
want anyone to read.
- Sorry?
- As far as I know,
she never once tried to stop anyone
from reading the letters that she herself
gave to the Publishers' Archive.
And the missing letters
were stolen after her death,
therefore it must've been someone else
who didn't want those to
come to light, not Harriet.
- Oh.
Do you know what drink Harriet drank
immediately before she
had the terrible accident
that ended up killing her?
- No, I don't.
- I do, Earl grey tea
with a slice of lemon.
So now you can jolly well shut up!
- So, there's your silver lining, really.
Deevo's two sons and
nephew restarted the business
and now it's called
Russell, Russell & Russell.
- Catchy.
- Catchy.
- Pompous little twits.
- They still publish my
mother's back catalogue
apart from the ones on
the walls that no one's
allowed to read, of course.
But with Deevo's son, Max, at the helm
as managing director they once again enjoy
a thriving publishing business.
- So, where do these
missing letters fit in then?
- Max visited the firm's archive and found
that several letters had disappeared
from Harriet and Deevo's
extensive correspondence.
The ones they'd written to each other
over the course of a particular
month had gone missing.
Every last one.
- Hang on.
How did you know they were
there in the first place?
- Hm, maybe Harriet
and Deevo didn't write
to each other that month.
- Ah, but they did.
There was evidence of a break-in.
Max and I have spoken to the archivist,
she says the target was
clearly the Harriet Landrigan
material and the thief
took several letters.
- Which you believe to
hold vital information.
- Yes, the letter that she wrote to Deevo
after the ones that were stolen
leaves no room for doubt.
Now, she said that she refused
to keep going back-
- I refuse to keep
going back and forth with you.
For some weeks now I have
been trying to explain
why I will never again
publish another novel.
If you still don't understand,
then you never will.
You will simply have to
take no for an answer.
My feelings matter as much
as your company's profits,
at least to me.
I have told no one my
reason apart from you,
I shall leave it to you
to decide whether you wish
to share it with the world.
Regards, Harriet.
- So the missing letters
are Harriet's explanation
of why she was so determined to keep
those last four books behind glass
so that no one could ever read them.
- Exactly.
And whoever stole the
letters from the archive
didn't want the truth to come to light.
- Look, this is all very
fascinating stuff, Peter,
but why are we actually here?
If there's been no murder
then we can't solve it.
- There's no it to solve.
- Oh, I have given you a rather
confusing welcome, haven't I?
The reason I invited you
here, quite simply gentlemen,
is to make all my houseguests disappear.
Get rid of them.
- Would it have not been
easier to just not invite
them in the first place?
- Ah, they'd of turned up anyway.
They're obsessed with my mother.
Obsessed, I tell you.
And it drives me to despair.
- But you don't need us,
you can just ask them to leave.
It's your house, where's the problem?
- Don't you think I've tried that already?
They're tenacious and
Clemency loves holding court.
They follow her around like ducklings.
They turn up and bang on the door
and Clemency orders Anders to let them in.
- So who are they?
- Who are they?
- And what do they want?
- And what do they want?
- Well there's
Swithun Kirk, the actor.
- Not that talentless poser.
- I'm afraid so.
He wants me to sell him the film rights
to Harriet's last published novel,
"The Heaviest Heart" so that
he can play its romantic hero.
I've told him no till
I'm blue in the face.
Her creative vision for her novels
was fully realised in her books,
she didn't want anyone
messing about with them
or doing adaptations.
Then there's that blasted Irene Coggins.
A devoted fan of my mother's,
always under my feet,
trying to tell me how best
to protect her legacy.
As if she knows more about it than I do.
Laura Taylor, she constantly badgers me
to find the missing letters
for some university project
she's engaged in.
And then there's Deevo's
son, Max, the publisher.
- Let me guess, he'd
love for you to let him publish
the last of Harriet's books.
- Liberate them from
their frames, as he puts it.
- Anyone else?
- Ah yes, Terence Eastman, an art dealer.
He's not here today but
usually he's sniffing around
trying to convince me to broker a deal,
flog the framed books to
some pretentious gallery.
- So you want us to try and find a way
to get rid of them for you?
- I do, permanently.
You mentioned earlier that
you now know a murderer,
do you think he'd be interested?
- Have them murdered?
- Have them murdered?
- I'm just joking.
I just want them gone from my home,
and I'm willing to pay good
money to make it happen.
And then, when I'm rid of them,
I don't want to see anyone or do anything
for a jolly long while.
Especially not anything related to being
a famous writer's son.
- He's dead, Peter.
I mean, not even a tiny bit
alive, quite thoroughly dead.
- Who?
- The actor Swithun Kirk.
He's been murdered.
- Inspector Coode.
- You need to come to
Idlewyld House quickly.
Do you know it?
- Yes, I know where it is.
- There's been a murder.
Now, there are two
generalists here who think
they can solve it but they might need
a bit of help from you boys in blue.
- A murder you say?
- Yes.
- And a general what?
- John and George Danes,
they solve things,
you know, general stuff.
- No, I don't really.
Hang on, who is this?
- Clemency.
- Last name?
- Landrigan.
Oh for goodness sake,
surely you've heard of me.
- No, I'm afraid I haven't.
- The perfume designer.
- Well I wouldn't know
anything about that.
- Just hurry up and do
your job, you silly man.
- I beg your-
Hello?
There's been a murder at Idlewyld House.
Apparently there's two men there already
who believe they can solve
the crime without our help.
Do you wanna hear the
best part, Sergeant?
- Go on, guv.
- They are no sort of detectives,
they're not even amateurs.
John and George Danes,
and they call themselves The Generalists.
From the description given
to me by Clemency Landrigan,
they sound like tiresome imposters.
We'll soon put them in their place.
- Clemency Landrigan the perfume designer?
- You've heard of her then?
- Yeah.
- Well, as I was about to tell her before
she rudely hung up on me, the
names of perfume designers
are of no use to me.
- It's 'cause
you're a bloke, guv.
- I am a bloke, well observed, Sergeant.
But that's not what I meant.
I was referring to a rare
condition that I suffer from,
I've had it since birth,
it's called anosmia.
- That's all very well, guv,
but what if the culprit's not in the room,
what if they're elsewhere?
- Guv, shouldn't we be on our way
before The Generalists ruin everything
with their lack of official credentials?
- All your life, guv, you've been anosmic?
- There's no need to tell me
what I've just told you, Sergeant.
- Yeah, sorry, guv.
- Now, when we
get to Idlewyld House,
please try to be useful
and don't just repeat
everything I say.
- 'Course, 'course, guv.
- The police are on their way
and there's more bad news, I'm afraid.
- It's your hat and coat, John.
- They're ruined.
Swithun was wearing them
when he was stabbed.
- Both are covered in blood.
- Why would he wear my hat and coat?
- He's an actor.
Was an actor, I should say.
He loved trying on other people's clothes.
- Oh yes, he was forever
snatching my scarf
and draping it round his neck.
- Where was he stabbed?
- It looks as if he
was stabbed in the back
with great force.
The knife's blade went
right through his heart.
- Ew.
- Well, you asked.
- So, the killer didn't see Kirk's face,
and he stabbed him from behind.
So it was obviously me
he intended to kill.
He saw my hat and coat and
assumed it was me wearing them.
- How would he have known they were yours?
No one saw you wearing them apart from me.
And I definitely didn't kill anybody.
- That's where you're wrong, Anders.
- I didn't dislike his films that much.
- No, I mean about the hat and coat.
Someone else did see me
wearing them, a Mr. E.
- Who?
- Before we set off to come here,
a man arrived at our
house saying he was Mr. E,
the murderer, without
mentioning any more details.
We thought at first he was mad,
or he was talking about a murder that
he had actually committed.
- But there's a third option,
what if he was talking about a murder
he intended to commit in the future.
- Right.
- The mystery of Mr. E.
- Be quiet, Oscar,
darling, you're a child.
You shouldn't be hearing conversations
about brutal murders.
Be a good boy and pretend
you're not listening.
- John, George and I were together
at the time that Kirk was murdered,
so we're in the clear.
Where was everybody else?
- Before I heard Clemency
scream, I was in the kitchen
making Oscar a sandwich.
- Were you?
- Yes, ham and pickle.
- Oh yeah, more pickle next time.
- Well all right, so we
know where John, George,
Peter, Oscar and Anders were at the time
of the murder, and the rest of us,
Laura, Max and Irene were
in the drawing room with me.
I was telling them about Oscar's school.
- That's right, nobody left the room.
- So nobody could've killed him.
You're all accounted for,
apart from our Mr. E.
- How would your Mr. E have got in?
All the windows and doors
were closed and locked.
- Are you sure?
- Absolutely, I check all the
locks on the hour every hour.
- I insist upon it.
- Unless Peter, John and George,
they could've done it together.
You've never liked him, Peter.
Or perhaps Oscar and Anders,
they could have done it.
- If I were to pick a partner in crime,
it wouldn't be Oscar.
- Don't be ridiculous, man.
It could be you, Max.
- Yeah, Max, you
really didn't want to do
his memoirs, did you?
- Yeah,
what have you got to say
about that accusing everyone else?
- Very funny, Oscar.
Well, we know that it wasn't
one of our group, of course,
but then those that
weren't part of our group
don't know that.
- You're all discounting
Mr. E. too easily.
This man came to our house and
told us he was the murderer.
- It won't be him then,
that's too obvious.
- It's not obvious at
all, we have no idea who he is.
He knew about this place and our visit.
- Who actually found the body?
- I did.
- Oh, perhaps it was Clemency then.
She left the room, stabbed Swithun,
and then found his body.
- How dare you.
- No, impossible.
She walked over, checked
the door to the basement,
and then immediately screamed.
We all saw her the whole time,
hurried over and saw
Swithun Kirk laying lifeless
at the bottom of the stairs.
- No more free perfume samples for you.
- He was annoying, but no
one would actually have
the motive to kill him.
And there's this book
and I think it's-
- Oscar, run along
to the library and have a
go at that French homework.
- I hid it in a book like you told me to.
- Great, so off you trot.
- But I've forgotten which book.
- Oh, do other homework then.
- But I want to help solve
the mystery of Mr. E.
And there's this book-
- No!
Sorry, darling, but murder isn't something
an innocent young boy
should be thinking about.
If you don't want to do homework,
then go and have a snappy
chat with your friends
or whatever it is you call it.
- Why are parents so annoying?
- What about the murder weapon?
Was it there at the scene of the crime?
- The basement is full of
potential lethal weapons.
- There was no sign of a knife
or anything sharp near the body.
- Tell me, what made you
go and open the door,
and why wasn't Swithun
with the rest of you?
What made him leave the room?
- He'd gone in
search of booze, as usual,
but he'd closed the drawing
room door to the hall behind him.
I opened it because, well I
didn't think of it till now,
but I heard the front door lock or unlock,
definitely the front door though,
and we weren't expecting anyone else
so I wondered who it was.
That's when I noticed the
basement door was adjar.
Well, there he was all crumpled
up like a sack of spuds.
- You might have heard
the murderer leaving.
- Goodness me, that's
significant, isn't it?
- Let's say he took the weapon with him,
closed and locked the doors
to make himself scarce.
However, he'd of needed a key.
- What?
- Come on, George.
Where are you going?
- For a walk.
- It helps us think.
- What about us?
- The rest of you stay here together,
see if you can come up
with anything useful.
- Present a puzzle
that's impossible to solve,
therefore we'd become obsessed.
- But if he kills
one of us on the same day,
there's no time for that.
- It doesn't make sense,
why would he want to kill us though?
What's his motive?
- Or whose murderer was he
trying to imply that he was?
Until Swithun Kirk there was no victim.
- Excuse me, Mr. Danes?
- Which one?
- Either, or both.
- And you are?
- Laura Taylor, you can
call me Prof if you like.
- You're a bit young for a professor.
- Well, it's a nickname,
I'm an undergraduate.
- How can we help you?
- I don't think Harriet
Landrigan fell down
the stairs by accident,
I think she was murdered.
- What makes you think that?
- Well, she obviously had a secret,
one that she wrote about to her publishers
in the letters that were
stolen from the archive.
- And?
- Well, that's it.
I mean, people who have secrets
often get murdered, don't they?
- It's hardly proof.
- And then there's your Mr. E
claiming to be the murderer,
I think it's Harriet's
murder he's talking about
and now he's killed Swithun Kirk.
- So, Mr. E is a double murderer then.
- Maybe.
- Again, where's the proof?
- You need to find the proof.
- Okay, we're just asking.
Why do you care so much?
- I need Harriet to have been murdered
or else my whole dissertation's ruined.
- Sorry?
- I'm arguing that crime
writers are more likely
to fall in love whereas romantic novelists
are more likely to get murdered.
- Aren't you approaching
it the wrong way 'round?
Shouldn't you look for your
data and evidence, whatever,
and then formulate a theory?
- Don't be silly, you wouldn't
last five minutes in academia.
- Look, why don't you wait until we find
the truth in this case and then write
a dissertation about that?
- I bet you could get a
brilliant book out of it.
- You could interview me extensively.
- And me.
- And him.
- Gee thanks, you're too kind.
- What's up with her?
- Are you okay?
Was it something we said?
- No, it's just me, a professor?
I'm just fooling myself,
it's never gonna happen.
- Well why not?
You can achieve anything
if you believe in yourself
and you work at it.
- What's the point in kidding myself?
Might as well face the facts.
- Who, me? Or him?
- Oscar.
His mum encourages him to hide
his homework in the library.
Maybe I should hide my unfinished
dissertation in there too.
- I won't tell anyone.
- I'm an adult, it's
hardly the same thing.
- Oh no, old people hide
things in there all the time.
- Old?
- I was only trying to help.
- Oscar, what do you mean about old people
hiding things in the library?
- Well, I was trying to hide
my homework in this book
and there were tonnes of letters in there.
- Letters?
- Yes, inside the book called
"The Mystery of Mr. E",
same as your visitor, right?
- Right.
- I knew it!
I thought it might have a connection.
- Oscar, can we see this book.
- Of course.
- The police will be
cordoning off the area soon.
Laura, can you go back
and make sure everyone
stays together for me now please?
- Did I say you could call me Laura?
- No, but I've managed to do it anyway.
Come on, George.
- Ouch.
What do we have here?
- That looks a bit, a bit nasty.
Yeah.
- What do you think?
- It's a dead body, guv.
- So, someone hid the letters
in one of Deevo's thrillers.
- Good old Deevo.
If it wasn't for him, I'd have
nowhere to hide my homework.
- And why is that?
- He built this library
for Harriet as a surprise.
- That's a very big gesture.
- For what reason?
- To celebrate her selling
her first 10 million books.
Well, that's 10 million copies,
she obviously didn't
write 10 million books.
- And when exactly was this?
- Before I was born.
Mum and Dad went on holiday with Anders,
when they got back, the
library was here full of books.
- Oscar, have you
read this particular book?
- No, CBA.
- Sorry?
- Can't be arsed.
- What about these letters?
- No.
- Let me guess, CBA.
Well I suppose it is safer that he didn't.
The secret contained in the letters
has already caused at least one murder.
Oscar, when the family
and Anders were away,
was it just Deevo here left by himself?
- I think so.
- So he would've needed access.
Why would the most
popular romantic novelist
in the world decide to
never publish a book again
even though she kept writing them?
- Maybe she didn't keep writing them,
what if it's just blank
pages in those frames?
- We need to find out.
Oscar, do you fancy turning your hand
to a spot of vandalism?
- Like what?
- Your grandmother's framed
books, the unpublished ones,
we need you to smash the
glass and get them out.
- I would get grounded like forever.
- Really?
I think your mum would let
you get away with anything.
- Mum would, but Dad wouldn't.
- It could hold the key to everything.
- Really?
Actually, I think I might
know just the person we need.
- You're The Generalists?
- In general, we say that's true.
John and George Danes,
nice to meet you, Officer.
- Uh, Inspector Coode.
This is Sergeant Wilderspin.
- John, George.
Where's Paul and Ringo?
Sorry, guv, just trying
to lighten the mood.
- I'm sorry, Inspector, but
you've had a wasted trip.
- Wasted trip?
I was told there'd been a murder.
- The Generalists say we've
had a wasted trip, guv.
- Well there has indeed
been a murder here,
but we have just solved it.
- So, the murderer's been detained then?
- Oh, uh, no.
Sorry, we forgot about
the admin side of things,
that need to happen when the mystery's
actually been solved.
- Excuse me?
- We don't have the
authority to arrest anyone,
we were hoping you two
could deal with that part.
- They want us to arrest the killer, guv.
- I've never heard of a generalist
solving a murder before.
- Actually, we've solved two murders.
- The Generalists reckon
they've solved two murders, guv.
- I doubt you'd ever even
heard of a generalist at all,
well, until you heard about us.
- No, I had not.
And I'll admit, that
was a state of affairs
that I enjoyed greatly.
Two murders, you say?
So, is there another body?
- There was.
Swithun Kirk, over there
was not the first victim.
That was Harriet Landrigan in 2014.
- We believe she did not fall
down the stairs by accident,
she was pushed to her death
by a determined killer.
- Who!
I'll rip his heart out with my bare hands.
- Come on, Irene.
- Oh, shut up, Peter.
You have no idea of the agonies I suffer.
I'm a lifelong devoted
fan, you're only her son.
- Oh now look here!
I've had to put up with
you for long enough-
- Everybody just shoosh, please,
until I've been apprised of all the facts.
Tell me everything you know, Mr. Danes.
First of all, who is the murderer?
- We don't know his name,
but we will very soon.
But I can tell you that Harriet Landrigan
and Swithun Kirk were both
killed by the same person,
a man who announced himself
to us as the murderer.
- And his name is?
- Let's call him Mr. E,
although arguably he lied
about that being his actual name.
- What do you mean arguably?
- Normally we'd assume
someone going by Mr. E
would have E as the first
letter of his last name.
- Like the art dealer
desperate to get his hands
on the books, Peter.
- You think Terence
Eastman's behind this?
- No, he has nothing to do with this.
- Our Mr. E's last name begins
with a different letter of the alphabet.
E is the first letter of his first name.
- But surely if you know all that,
then you must know who he is.
- We sort of know who the killer is, yes.
- But not quite.
- The Generalists sorta
know who the killer is, guv,
but not quite.
- I heard them, Sergeant.
As I suspected, their methods appear
to be laughably haphazard.
I didn't get where I am
today by sort of knowing
who the killer is.
Do you know what we in
the Major Crimes Unit
call sort-of solved crimes?
Tell him, Sergeant.
- We call 'em unsolved
crimes, don't we, guv?
- That's correct.
We call them unsolved.
- Give us a minute,
Inspector, I'm getting there.
Perhaps Mr. Russell could help me out
with this next part.
- Me?
- Peter told me that one of the people
running your publishing
firm is your cousin,
Deevo Russell's nephew.
Does his first name begin with an E?
- No, his name is Frederick,
Freddie we call him.
- Okay, thank you, Mr. Russell.
Inspector, I can now tell you
exactly who the murderer is,
although we still don't
know his first name.
- So, it's not Frederick Russell then.
- Definitely not.
- Definitely not Frederick Russell.
Generalists don't think
it's Frederick Russell, guv.
- I heard him, Sergeant.
I am, in fact, in the room and I have ears
just as you are, just as you do.
Tell us who the killer is then, Mr. Danes,
so that I know whom to arrest.
- A man arrived at our house uninvited
saying that he was a murderer.
He then revealed to us that he knew
we were coming to Idlewyld House.
We thought that we may find a murder here
waiting for us to solve it.
When we arrived we were told that nothing
of the sort had actually occurred.
- This threw us, at first, until we heard
that Harriet Landrigan
had died by accident.
- Naturally, we wondered if
the supposedly accidental death
of Harriet Landrigan was the murder
that we were meant to solve.
- We then discovered that
Deevo Russell had died
one year before, almost
exactly to the date.
- That's what you
said, isn't it, Peter?
- My mother died on the 10th of July 2014,
Deevo Russell died on
the 8th of July 2013.
I don't see how this is relevant.
- You also told
us you made a donation
to the hospital where
they took your mother
because you knew the doctors did all
they could to try and save her.
- Also true.
- From this, ladies and
gentlemen, we have deduced
that Harriet Landrigan
did not die immediately
after falling down those stairs.
Well, if she did, then why would
she need all those doctors?
- She would've been taken
to a morgue, not a hospital.
- Exactly.
So if Harriet died on the 10th of July,
when did she have her so-called accident?
A few days earlier, perhaps,
maybe the 8th of July, Peter.
- Yes. Yes, it was.
- What a coincidence.
- Or let's say Mr. E
perhaps violently pushed
her down the stairs on the anniversary
of Deevo Russell's death.
- Who could get into the
house without anyone noticing,
perhaps someone with a key.
- What?
Have I missed anything important?
- Where were you at the
time of the murder, sir?
- Me?
- Oh, he's accounted for, Inspector.
I was just telling everyone how Oscar's
been helping us piece things
together in this case.
- Oh, he's done something useful at last.
I'll break out the
special biscuits, shall I?
- It seems Deevo went off the rails
after Harriet told him he couldn't publish
any more of her books,
so someone close to him
might have decided to blame her
for his death and punish her.
- And what better day
than the first anniversary
of his passing?
- Who would care so
passionately about avenging
Deevo Russell's death that
they may commit murder though?
- His son Max, it must be him.
I've always thought there's
something very funny
about Max, I'm sure I'm not the only one.
- Irene, I was in the room with you
when Swithun was stabbed, remember?
Mr. Danes-
- Max is innocent.
- Thank you.
- I, on the other hand, do
have a guilty conscience
and need to get something off my chest.
- Ooh, how thrilling.
- I took Harriet Landrigan's
unpublished books
out the frames and had a
quick skim read of them.
- You did what!
This is outrageous!
- We had an expert helper on the case
who has already put them back
to their original condition
with museum-grade glass,
no damage was done.
- John, that was very naughty of you.
Harriet really didn't want
anyone to read those books.
Were they terribly
scandalous and offensive?
- No, they're quite inoffensive
and ordinary romantic almost.
- How dare you!
Nothing Harriet wrote was ordinary.
- My point is there's
nothing in any of the books
that offers anything secret or private.
- This led us to wonder
why was she so adamant
that they must never be published.
- And more importantly,
who suffered as a result
of her peculiar choice?
- Only Deevo really.
Sure, her fans must
have been disappointed,
but Deevo's the one who lost everything.
- Maybe that's all Harriet
wanted, for Deevo to suffer,
to make it all about him.
- Correct.
It was Oscar, you see,
who led us to the book
in the library called
"The Mystery of Mr. E".
It's a thriller written and
published by Deevo Russell.
That's important,
Inspector, write that down.
Inside the book we found
the missing letters
from the Russell, Russell
& Russell archive.
A month's correspondence
between Harriet Landrigan
and Deevo Russell.
If I may share the contents.
"Dear Deevo,
- Dear Deevo,
all right then.
If you insist on knowing
why I shall never again
give you one of my books to
publish, I shall tell you.
You have yourself recently written a book,
you're now a writer as
well as a publisher.
No doubt in your heart of hearts
you are a writer first and foremost.
I wish you every success
in your new career
churning out these who-done-it yarns
and trust you will require
no further explanation.
You should be able to work
out the rest for yourself.
Regards, Harriet.
Dear Harriet, apologies,
but I seem to be missing something here.
What is my writing and publishing a novel
got to do with your books?
Nothing could affect my
commitment to you and your work.
Please let me assure you that I remain
as devoted to your novels and to you
as I have always been.
- Dear
Deevo, no devoted publisher
would compel his most valued author
to accept a fellow author,
some might even say a rival author,
as her main ally and advocate
in her writing endeavours.
Any credible publisher
would know that when
he utters the words 'my
books' his authors expect him
to be referring to their books,
which he loves as if they were his own.
He believes in them, nurtures them,
shares them with the world.
As soon as the words 'my books' take on
a different meaning for him,
the books he has written,
not the ones he publishes,
then that publisher has, I'm afraid,
lost the right to call himself devoted.
I hope this clarifies things for you.
- Harriet, my dear,
what on earth are you talking about?
This is quite mad.
Please tell me you're
not threatening to move
to another publisher.
Yours anxiously, Deevo.
No, you needn't worry.
There will be no need for a new publisher.
I have just finished my latest work
and no one will ever read it.
Not even you.
I shall continue to write, of course,
writing is my greatest joy,
but I shall never again
publish a single word.
Regards, Harriet.
- Dear Harriet,
you're making a tragedy out of something
that needn't be a problem at all!
I can't live without you or your books
and I don't believe you
can live without me.
This will also affect Russell
& Russell as a business
and my livelihood.
I'm begging you to change your mind.
Yours desperately, Deevo.
- So it seems Harriet
couldn't forgive Deevo
for becoming a writer.
She saw it as a betrayal
of her and her books.
- Well I can understand that,
it's a huge conflict of interest.
- He was hardly a rival author.
He was crime and she was romance.
- I suppose there's
only room for one person
to be number one in the
overall book charts.
- Yes, that's right.
- So it appears Harriet
showed her disproval
in the only way she could,
by putting all of her future
work beyond his reach.
- Why didn't she just
find a new publisher?
- We believe preventing
him from publishing
her future books wasn't enough.
- She also wanted him to
never be able to read them.
- And to know that by
publishing and writing
his own novels he'd be
deprived of all of hers.
- We think she wanted him to believe
he'd done a terrible thing.
- Then forgive me, Peter,
but she must have been
a silly, vain and selfish woman.
- Piffle!
Take that back immediately.
- Come on, Irene.
It was a vindictive overreaction.
- Have I missed something?
Have we been told yet who the murderer is?
- No, we haven't, guv,
unless I've missed something.
- Oh, get on with it.
Not all of us are fascinated
by literary gossip,
nor by the emotional intricacies
of the author/publisher relationship.
- Well I am a little bit, guv.
- Who is the murderer?
Where is the murderer?
- We're getting there, Inspector.
- Max, when you restarted the family firm
after your father died,
it wasn't Russell &
Russell anymore, was it?
It was Russell, Russell & Russell.
- That's right.
- So there's you, and
there's your cousin, Freddie.
Deevo's two sons and his nephew.
Tell me, what's the
name of the third member
of the Russell family
currently running the firm?
Your brother.
I bet you everything we own his first name
begins with an E.
- What are you saying?
- Who else but a close
relative of Deevo Russell
would blame Harriet
Landrigan for his death
and may have a first name
that begins with an E?
- No, not Edmund.
He wouldn't do something like that.
- Edmund, so we were right.
Deevo built the library
while the residents
of Idlewyld House were on holiday.
- So you must
have left him a key.
Is that right, Peter?
- Temporarily, yes.
In fact, we had a spare made but I assumed
he'd given it to you when we returned.
- Well I assumed he'd
given it to you or Anders.
- You know what they say
about assuming things.
- We thought to ourselves what if this key
was still in his possession when he died
and one of his sons may have found it?
- Remember, Clemency
Landrigan heard the front door
being locked when the
murderer left the house
after having killed Swithun Kirk.
- Realistically, how
could the killer be anyone
other than the Russell
brother whose first name
begins with an E?
- Max, you were the only guest who knew
John and George would
be here, weren't you?
- Yes, yes, I was hoping to persuade you
to write your memoirs, case
notes of The Generalists
or some such, a fabulous
title, don't you think?
- So if you were the only one
that knew we were coming here
and were clearly excited
about a prospective book,
you may have mentioned it to your brother
and business partner Edmund Russell?
- I expect I did, yes.
- So Mr. E knew we were coming here.
- It has to be him.
- Well done, John and George Danes.
The Generalists.
And your little band of sleuths.
- Edmund, why are you here?
- Sorry, Max old boy, they're quite right.
I am Edmund Russell, also known as Mr. E.
And I am indeed the murderer.
- You killed my mother.
- If only I had a
knife I'd stab you to death!
- Be my guest.
- Don't!
- Drop the knife!
- No, Peter!
No!
- Here you go, guv.
- Just as I thought, a knife.
- If anyone wants to use it, feel free.
Death would probably be
preferable to years in prison.
- Knife.
- So, we were right
about your identity then.
Mr. E is Edmund Russell.
However, I really don't
understand your motive.
- Yes you do, Mr. Danes.
You've just explained it to them.
Strong desire to avenge the death
of tragically deceased
father, et cetera.
- I understand that part,
but why would you introduce
yourself to us as the guilty party
and reveal that you knew
we were coming here.
Obviously that would make us suspect you.
- And then you killed Swithun
Kirk thinking he was John
because you feared we were onto you.
- But the person putting
us onto you was you.
- Oh dear, you really
don't get it, do you?
How disappointing.
- I think he wanted to get caught.
- Clever boy.
I witnessed what Harriet's
decision did to my father.
She knew more than anyone how
to use words like weapons.
And so I watched helpless as
my father fell into despair.
My mother left because of his drinking.
His business went to ruin.
Our home was repossessed.
A kind and proud man, who
just wanted to be free
to express his own creativity.
He lost everything, destroyed by a cruel,
manipulative, petty minded narcissist.
- Oh, how dare you.
- You didn't have to kill her.
- My father would still be alive today
if it wasn't for that selfish monster.
Can't you all see that?
- He was my father too.
- But you've always been so weak, Max.
Look at you, still fawning
around the Landrigans
like a loyal puppy.
- I only ever wanted to finish
what our father started,
to publish Harriet Landrigan's books
and share them with the world.
Without the murder.
- Maybe you shoulda talked
more to your brother, sir.
- Not at all.
I wanted revenge.
And I wanted to get away with killing her.
And I did.
I was pleased with myself for awhile.
I stole the most revealing
letters from the company archive.
Anyone who read the poison
words Harriet wrote to my father
and knew about his tragic
decline would've worked out
that somebody close to him
had a powerful motive for revenge.
- Or murder.
- Exactly.
So, I made those words
disappear to cover my tracks.
- So why contrive all this
now when you'd gotten away
with it all this time?
- The strangest thing happened.
It started to bother me
that my great achievement,
a successful murder, had gone unnoticed.
If years pass and one gets no credit
for one's ingenuity,
well, it's pretty galling.
- What kind of sick individual are you?
- Eventually I thought to myself,
what if I were to turn it into a game?
Find a likely opponent
and set them a challenge.
Tell them only that I'd murdered someone,
no more than that.
I did not kill Swithun Kirk
thinking he was you, Mr. Danes,
his posture's quite different from yours.
I'd have never mixed you up.
I killed him because I knew
you weren't going to catch me
unless I provided further clues.
By committing a second
murder under your nose
I gave you a crucial clue;
that the killer must have
a key to Idlewyld House.
You were immediately convinced
that the second murder
was committed to cover up the first,
when in fact the opposite was true.
The second murder was
committed because without it
you'd of believed the
tragic accident line.
- So Swithun Kirk dressing
up in my hat and coat
was a stroke of luck for you.
- Yes.
- Stand by your beds, you honourable lot!
No, I'm not feeling that today, Swithun.
What can you bring me?
Ooh loose and jaunty, I like it.
A top.
Cagoule, no, I know I shouldn't.
It's tempting.
Matching blazer.
And perfect, now all we need is a walk.
I'm strolling down the
boulevard in Paris, oh yes.
I'm probably at a cafe with all my chums.
- I let myself
into the house intending
to kill a random guest, possibly Anders,
just to make sure you were in no doubt
that there was a killer here to be caught.
- Lunch I will have, I think-
Who are you?
- I'm new here, sir.
- Are you?
- How may I assist you?
- Actually, they've been
hiding the booze from me,
so if you could help me locate
some, that would be good.
- Well, we keep our best
vintage in the basement, sir.
- Really?
Well let's go and have a look, shall we?
Where's the light?
- When I saw Mr. Kirk
dressed in your clothes,
I thought how perfect,
I knew you'd assume
I was trying to kill either one of you,
and that you would thereafter be convinced
that an attempt to cover
up a murder was under way.
- Right, well, that's
more than enough for me.
Come on, Mr. E, the murderer.
- Double murderer.
Now I'm doomed to live
in a confined space,
just like one of Harriet
Landrigan's last four novels.
Except I haven't been framed.
I say, that was rather good, wasn't it?
- And now the final award,
for those of you still here,
the Outstanding Achievement
Award goes to Oscar Landrigan
for services to justice.
Well done, Oscar.
- Can I do my speech?
- No, no, it's not the BAFTA's I'm afraid.
Off you pop, there's a good chap.
- Nice one, Oscar.
- Outstanding Achievement
Award for services to justice.
Peter, at last.
- Well done, Oscar.
- Do you think the Vosses saw?
I think they left in rather a hurry.
- Yes, I should think the whole town saw,
or at least heard your
reaction, Mrs. Landrigan.
- Everyone, you're all welcome to come
and celebrate with us
back at Idlewyld House.
Anders has made sandwiches.
Salz Garcon esta impostur!
- Your son, he never
hands in his homework,
he doesn't deserve that award.
- How dare you!
- Sorry, what homework, Miss?
Please don't make a scene Gwen.
- Objection, your honour.
- Overruled.
Let's let the Landrigans
have their moment, shall we?
Are we still on for dinner?
- Depends how many of her sandwiches
you shove down your gob.
- Dear John and George
Danes, please accept payment
for advising Peter Landrigan
on how to rid himself
of his unwanted guests.
As a result, Irene Coggins
is busy translating
the recovered letters into every language,
which she will then take on tour.
Max Russell is enjoying great success
with Swithun Kirk's diaries.
"One Man & His Cagoule" is selling well
up the Himalayas apparently.
I believe John is very much
in touch with Laura Taylor,
so I won't go into that.
The section of floor where
Swithun met his demise
was bought by Terence Eastman,
who then sold it as Modern Art
for a figure that has
enabled him to retire.
Following Oscar's assistance
with solving the mystery of Mr. E
I understand he's interested in becoming
your apprentice at some point.
Mr. Morrison, the woodwork teacher,
has offered to give him a reference.
I shall miss his presence
terribly at the estate
as you can imagine.
Peter Landrigan and all
of us at Idlewyld House
send our sincere thanks and
best wishes to the Generalists.
- What took you so long?
- I had to post a letter.
- Well, I'm ready when you are.
- The taxi should be
about five, ten minutes.
- Shall we?
Ooh.
- The door was open.
- They've never sent
anyone that quick before.
- No one has sent me.
- Do come in.
- I'm sorry, we don't actually
know each other, do we?
- Not yet.
Very nice.
Off to Idlewyld House, are you?
- How do you know we're
going to Idlewyld House?
- You two have it all
planned out, don't you?
- Our schedule for the day, yes.
Is there something wrong with that?
- Leaves no room for the unexpected.
- Look, we are in a bit of
a rush here, so who are you?
- Well, that's what I
came here to tell you.
I'm the murderer.
- Sorry?
- Sorry?
- I'm the murderer.
- Is this some kind of joke?
Who've you murdered?
- You two ever solve a murder?
I've heard you do all sorts of
jobs for all kinds of people.
You call yourselves The Generalists.
- Well, that's what it says on the door.
- John and George Danes.
Generalists.
- I wonder how one could make a career out
of something so vague.
But I've asked around and
everybody says you're very good.
Good at what, though?
Surely no one can be good at everything.
- Well, we're certainly not.
We're hopeless at things
other people are good at.
- And you've clearly
got the wrong end of the stick.
- I doubt you've ever solved a murder.
I suspect you'd like to catch me though?
Well, prepare to be disappointed.
We're going to do things
differently, you and I.
I came here to catch you.
- Catch us?
Well that doesn't make any sense.
- We're not criminals.
- Oh, there are many
ways to catch a person.
In the net of an obsession or a puzzle
that's impossible to solve.
- In the letter we received
from Idlewyld House
it doesn't mention anything about murders.
- Doesn't surprise me.
- I don't know about you, George,
but I'm growing very tired of this.
Either tell us who you are, or leave.
- Why don't I do both.
Thanks for the apple.
- Dear John and George Danes,
please arrive at Idlewyld House
on the 1st of July at 10 o'clock.
You will be received by Peter Landrigan,
son of Harriet Landrigan,
the best-selling romantic
novelist of all time.
As the guardian of
Harriet's estate and legacy,
Peter Landrigan has a proposal
he wishes to put to you.
- This way, gentlemen.
Welcome to Idlewyld House.
I'm Andrew Anderson,
director of operations.
- Mr. Anderson.
- Mr. Anderson.
- Everybody calls me Anders,
and you must do the same.
- Well, John and George Danes.
- Allow me.
- Oh, and sorry we're late,
we got lost in these grounds.
There's another large building.
- Oh yes, I could see how
that could be confusing.
That's Pffisham School.
Your host, Peter Landrigan,
is in that building
at this very moment.
And running a little late, I'm afraid.
- That's a relief, actually.
We're usually a lot more
punctual but we got help up with-
- With a visitor.
- Yes, a visitor.
- Its prize-giving day.
Oscar, Peter's 14-year-old
son won't have won a prize,
he never does, which means that Clemency,
Peter's wife, will at
this moment be berating
the poor headmaster as she always does.
- Oh dear.
- Oh dear.
- Yes, I'm afraid until
school creates a prize
for the student with the most
underemployed brain cells,
Oscar won't be winning any awards.
Don't tell Clemency I said
that or I'll lose my job.
Laziness, that's Oscar's problem.
Beyond the basics of eating and breathing
he's unwilling to exert himself.
I call it the Idlewyld Curse.
Until they change the name of this house,
every child born here will be either idle-
- Or wild.
- Exactly.
Take Peter, for example.
He was wild in his
youth, as was his mother,
the late great Harriet.
Wildness can be harnessed and channelled
into a powerful creative force,
whereas the idle, like young
Oscar, rarely achieve anything.
- I don't think you
should assume the poor boy
is doomed to failure if he's only 14.
- Don't you?
You will once you've met him.
- Can I ask you something, Anders?
You seem very indiscreet,
so perhaps you'll give
me an honest answer.
Has there been a murder here?
- Interesting question.
In the letter of invitation you received,
did it say anything about a murder?
- No.
- Then where did you get that idea from?
- Has there been a murder here?
- Officially? No.
But I've never been sure myself.
- That's a strange thing to say.
- Oh, you think that's strange.
Have you noticed these?
- Buh bye, cheerio.
Oh.
I thought everybody had gone.
I trust you had an enjoyable
afternoon, Mrs. Landrigan.
- I have not, Mr. Friend.
- Oh.
It's the awards thing again, isn't it?
- Or lack of, in Oscar's case sadly.
- Well maybe if he tried
just a little harder
he might stand a chance.
- You're going to have to expel Bethany Voss.
- Expel her?
- She can't keep winning
all the awards like this.
I've been lenient up until now,
but there's simply no other way.
- She works very hard and
she's our best student.
I mean, why would I expel her?
- Do not argue with me!
Having a child who does so
well creates the impression
that the teachers are good,
which is highly misleading.
You need to start firing people,
the French teacher especially, Mrs. Lapp.
- It's okay, Mrs. Lapp,
we were just discussing Oscar's work.
- Oh, how delightful, Your Honour.
- How many times?
This is a school not a court of law.
- Yes, Headmaster.
- What about her?
- She's hopeless.
All the French Oscar knows
he's learned from me.
Rive Gauche, Yves Saint Laurent.
And if I didn't happen
to be a perfume designer,
he wouldn't even know that much.
- Mrs. Landrigan-
- Also, Oscar finds
his walk to school intolerably tiring.
- Oh no, not this again.
Mrs. Landrigan, be reasonable.
We've already moved the
school into your lower gardens
because you refuse to drive across town.
We can't move it again.
- Yes you can and you will.
If this school is not 200
yards closer to my home
by this time next week,
there will be consequences.
Do you hear me, Mr. Friend? Consee-quences!
I'll have Anders move the old stables,
the school can go there.
That will be quite close enough, I expect.
Oscar, Peter.
- Ah.
Hello, there.
I'm Peter Landrigan.
Mr. Danes on both accounts, I presume.
- Uh, John.
- Uh, George.
- Sorry I'm late.
Award ceremonies do drag
on somewhat these days.
- That's okay, Anders
was looking after us.
- Excellent.
- Perhaps it'll be more
fitting if Peter explained.
I was showing them the books on the wall.
- I take it
you've heard of my mother.
- Who hasn't heard
of Harriet Landrigan?
- Her love stories have
sold in the billions.
She's only outsold by the
"Bible", Agatha Christie,
and who's the other one, Anders?
- William Shakespeare is the other one.
- That's the chap.
- That's very impressive.
- Shall I go and prepare
some refreshments?
- That'll be lovely, Anders. Yes.
Ah, please gentlemen, let me
show you some of the grounds.
This book is dedicated
to my devoted fans all over the world.
It is the last book I will publish,
though not the last book I will write.
I wish things could be different.
But they are not.
- Dearest Harriet,
I have returned from New
York to find a finished copy
of "The Heaviest Heart" on my desk.
It is your best novel yet, for sure,
and an object of great beauty.
But its dedication, which I must admit
I failed to notice at the copyedit stage,
incompetent publisher that I am,
its dedication, Harriet, is most alarming.
Why, on Earth, should you wish
to stop publishing your work?
Unless I've misunderstood,
you imply that you intend
to write more novels but not publish them.
Please assure me without delay
that this is some sort of joke.
Yours devotedly, Deevo.
- Dear
Deevo, it is no joke,
and now, I imagine, you will
batter away at my defences
until I have no choice but
to explain myself to you.
So, let me say emphatically,
that I do not wish to explain.
Not to you and not to anybody else.
Yours, Harriet.
- Dearest
Harriet, I demand to know
the background to this
sudden calamitous decision.
The world, and most of
all I, cannot live without
your wonderful love stories.
Yours dejected, baffled and determined
to change your mind, Deevo.
- So your mother kept writing books
but she refused to publish them.
- Or to let anyone read them.
- Did she say why?
- No and nothing anyone
said could persuade
her otherwise, not the
piles of begging letters
from fans nor the offer of
more money from her publisher.
She refused pointblank.
- How odd.
- Instead she hand-wrote each novel,
took them to a book binder who
would mount and frame them.
You may hand them on the walls-
- As if they
were works of art, Peter.
But that is all.
They are never to leave Idlewyld House,
never to be sold.
- Never to be sold.
And never to be read
- And never to be
read by anybody.
- By anybody.
- But why bother writing novels
that no one could read though?
- I really have no idea.
I expect Deevo's the
only one who understood,
but he's no longer with us and mother took
it to her grave when she died
in an unfortunate accident.
- Sorry for your loss.
- Sorry for your loss.
- It was many years ago now.
- Who was Deevo?
- As in Devaux Russell.
Her publisher.
You've never heard of Devaux Russell?
He was the greatest publisher
of the 20th century, some say.
Transformed the industry.
Founded the publishing
house Russell & Russell.
- I'm afraid we haven't heard of the name.
- Ah, well, thanks to my mother's books
his company was immensely profitable.
As a sideline he even wrote
a few thrillers of his own.
Rather violent for my taste.
Primarily, though, he was a publisher.
- So when your mother stopped publishing
it must have had a huge impact.
- Indeed.
The firm soon went bankrupt
without my mother's annual
contribution to its profits.
Poor Deevo lost everything.
Turned to drinking, gambling,
marriage broke down.
At his lowest ebb he was
caught spray painting graffiti
on the walls of other
publishers' office buildings.
Within five years he'd
died of liver failure.
- If only he could have got his hands
on the unpublished works.
- It could've saved his whole business.
- And more significantly, his life.
My father's workshop.
He was an engineer, could repair anything.
No one really asks about him though,
it was always Mother and her books.
I spent many happy hours in here with him
making and repairing things.
Mother was always writing, so uh,
I had plenty of time to run wild.
Ah, Dad used to take me out on this.
Mum would've killed him if she'd known.
Right.
That's the mini tour over,
and I expect you could
use that tea now.
The kitchen is back up this
way, do mind the steps.
- Thank you.
So now that Harriet's
dead, aren't you tempted
to smash the glass and see
what's inside the books?
- Of course I'm tempted.
- You know, to find out
what she was so determined
that no one should ever read.
- Well he could even publish them,
assuming that the contents
aren't too controversial.
- That would
be against my mother's
clearly stated wishes.
- When did Devaux Russell die?
Before or after Harriet?
- One year before, almost to the day.
My mother died on the 10th of July 2014,
and Deevo died on the 8th of July 2013.
- If you don't mind us asking,
how exactly did your mother die?
You mentioned an accident?
- Yes, it was indeed a tragic accident.
She fell down the stairs
and broke her neck
here at Idlewyld House.
The doctors did everything
they could to save her.
I subsequently donated a
significant amount of money
to the hospital to show how grateful
I was for their efforts.
Sadly, those efforts were in vain.
- It wasn't a tragic accident.
It was murder.
That ought to have been obvious,
but people are so unimaginative.
I'm surprised any crimes ever get solved.
DNA testing is no substitute
for logic and intuition.
And don't get me started on scene
of the crime reconstructions.
- Hello, you must be the Generalists.
How lovely to meet you.
- Ah, my wife, Clemency.
- John and George Danes.
- At your service.
- Tell me, what exactly is a Generalist?
I've never heard of the profession before.
- Oh, it's not a profession, it's just us.
- We made the job title up.
- We're the only ones.
- And they come highly recommended.
- How terribly exciting.
I do so love anything that's truly unique.
My son, Oscar, is unique.
You must meet him.
Oscar!
- Tell Clemency what it
is you actually do, gents.
- Well, all kinds of things.
We didn't really fit into
traditional job roles,
or want to go to university
or anything like that.
- So we do general stuff,
whatever odds and ends
people want us to do.
- How marvellous, general stuff.
You don't want an apprentice, do you?
I'm sure Oscar could do general stuff,
don't you think, Anders?
- I expect Oscar would be
as adept at the general
as he is at the specific.
- He absolutely would.
- Now, if you'll excuse
me, I must check the locks.
- I don't think I'd
like to be a generalist,
it sounds unpredictable.
- Well, it is, that's why we love it.
- Oh, go on then, give me
an example. I'm intrigued.
- Okay, well a women
offered offered to pay us
to hire a car, a different car each week,
and to park it in a
particular spot on her street.
- Why?
- To annoy a neighbour who
thought it was their spot
and vandalised her car
for leaving it there.
- Well was it a public road?
- Yes, he'd even bragged
to her that he did it.
- So why didn't she just go to the police?
- Well she did, and then he denied it
and the police said there
was nothing they could do.
- Did he vandalise any of
the ones you left there?
- Not one, but according to our client,
he stared at them out his
window for hours on end.
And on one occasion,
he cried.
- He cried.
- But our client was happy and paid us
a staggering amount of money.
- How fabulous. Do tell me another.
- Well, next week we're on a retreat
called Heal Your Inner Child.
We'll have to hold hands with
strangers and weep in public.
- All because our client,
the one whose inner child
needs healing, is too
shy to attend himself.
- He's paid for a detailed report
of everything that will
take place in hopes
that one he can heal
his inner child from the
comfort of his own home.
- Comfort of his own home.
- That's such an inspiring story.
Gentlemen, would you mind
if I created a fragrance
for men and called it "The Generalist".
I hope my husband mentioned in his letter
that I'm a perfume designer.
- Uh, why did you ask how my mother died?
- Well, before we set off to come here,
a man, a complete stranger,
turned up at our house
saying he was the murderer,
of whom he didn't say,
nor did he mention his own name.
- He only left his card.
All it had on it was Mr. E.
Somehow he knew we were on
our way to Idlewyld House.
- A murder?
- Here?
- Yes.
We thought we might've been invited here
in the hope that we could solve it.
- No.
No, there's been no murder here.
It must be a practical joke.
I'd forget all about it if I were you.
- Well don't be an idiot, Peter,
who would forget something like that?
It sounds rather significant to me,
definitely worth remembering.
Anyway, I must go and
check on our other guests.
- Your other guests?
- I'm sure they'd love to meet you later.
- The French meanings are
missing from this list,
find them in the muddle below.
Oh,.
Well I think this is she plays the drums.
- Cool, do the next one.
- Everyone ok?
- Are they here?
- Yes.
- Who?
- The Danes brothers.
Peter's told me all about them,
I'm hoping to persuade them to, uh,
write their memoirs and
allow me to publish them.
- Why?
- They're quite fascinating
characters from what I hear,
call themselves The Generalists.
Could be a, uh, a big seller.
- Max, if it's a bestseller you want,
I'm not exactly chopped liver, am I?
I've got a tale or two to tell.
Why don't you get your
people to contact my people,
set up a lunch I know a lovely bistro,
run it up the drainpipe,
see if the guys on top want a taste.
- Fantastic idea, Swithun, yes.
- Oscar, what are you doing?
- I've got Miss Coggins to do
my French homework for me.
- Oh, you speak French as well.
- I know every language Harriet's books
are translated into.
How else would I check that the publishers
are printing it correctly?
- Irene is a guest,
Oscar, stop bothering her.
Go and hide your homework
in your book in the library,
we'll say we never saw
it and we'll pretend
that dreadful Mrs. Lapp
never gave it to you.
- Can't Anders hide it for me?
- Oscar, what sort of attitude is that?
- All right, I'll do it myself.
- Isn't it rather
irresponsible to encourage
your son to hide his homework?
- It would be, yes, if
he had a French teacher
who played fair.
Instead he has Gwen Lapp who, believe me,
deserves everything she gets.
And all the homework she doesn't get.
- Come now, surely she can't be that bad.
- Why not?
As an actor I know only
too well how revolting
some people can be.
When I won my first one of these...
It's a replica, I find
it easier to travel with.
I was filming up the Himalayas,
I was playing a mountaineer, death scene,
this horrible director,
horrible weasel of a man.
The light was fading, the
sherpas were pleading with us
to make the descent.
And as I got into
position to do my closeup,
that's the moment he decides is perfect
to rush across the set and scream,
"Swithun, your cagoule..."-
- Come off it.
You actors have it easy.
I'm constantly having to deal
with tortured genius authors.
They're the worst of all.
- May I remind you, Max,
that you're in the home
of the late great Harriet Landrigan.
- I wasn't including Harriet, of course.
- Irene Coggins, our resident superfan,
knows everything there is
to know about the books
and Harriet Landrigan and
all the personal trivia.
- And?
- Let's have a little game,
I think it's a starter
for 10 this time, Irene.
It's 1985, April the 10th,
what's Harriet having for breakfast?
- Easy, sardines on toast.
- Easy, sardines on toast.
- Oh.
- Anyone else want to try and catch her out?
- I don't suppose you know
the answer to the big mystery,
why Harriet stopped publishing
the books she wrote?
- No I don't and I don't want to.
If Harriet didn't want to tell us,
and she plainly didn't,
we shouldn't want to know.
It must remain a mystery in
accordance with her wishes.
- So what's wrong with
this Lapp woman anyway?
- What's wrong with
her is she doesn't want
to be a French teacher and
she keeps telling people.
- Well what does she want to be?
- An actor, like me, I expect.
Isn't that what everyone wants to be?
- Nothing so straightforward, I'm afraid.
She wants to be state attorney
for Pima County, Arizona in America.
- Goodness me, that's very specific.
- Despite being born in Yorkshire
and having lived all her life in England,
she feels it's her God-given mission,
her calling if you will,
to be a blowhard Arizona prosecutor.
She speaks barely a word of French.
- And have you spoken to the headmaster?
- Mr. Friend?
- Yes.
- He's far too tolerant, I'm afraid.
Fond of giving second chances even to
the most delusional teachers.
Genius authors have to be ...
- I can't help feeling uneasy about
this little gathering, Anders.
All these people poking their noses
into Harriet's private business.
How many of them know
about the missing letters?
- Well, you do, apparently.
Max, obviously, and I
expect Peter is telling
the Mr. Danes' about
them at this very moment.
- I hope they're never found.
Harriet's decision to
stop publishing her books
is no business of anybody's.
These guests of yours
clearly don't understand
anything about what
sort of person she was.
- And you do, I suppose.
- I believe so, yes.
- Yet you failed to take into account
something rather basic.
It's her last four books that Harriet didn't
want anyone to read.
- Sorry?
- As far as I know,
she never once tried to stop anyone
from reading the letters that she herself
gave to the Publishers' Archive.
And the missing letters
were stolen after her death,
therefore it must've been someone else
who didn't want those to
come to light, not Harriet.
- Oh.
Do you know what drink Harriet drank
immediately before she
had the terrible accident
that ended up killing her?
- No, I don't.
- I do, Earl grey tea
with a slice of lemon.
So now you can jolly well shut up!
- So, there's your silver lining, really.
Deevo's two sons and
nephew restarted the business
and now it's called
Russell, Russell & Russell.
- Catchy.
- Catchy.
- Pompous little twits.
- They still publish my
mother's back catalogue
apart from the ones on
the walls that no one's
allowed to read, of course.
But with Deevo's son, Max, at the helm
as managing director they once again enjoy
a thriving publishing business.
- So, where do these
missing letters fit in then?
- Max visited the firm's archive and found
that several letters had disappeared
from Harriet and Deevo's
extensive correspondence.
The ones they'd written to each other
over the course of a particular
month had gone missing.
Every last one.
- Hang on.
How did you know they were
there in the first place?
- Hm, maybe Harriet
and Deevo didn't write
to each other that month.
- Ah, but they did.
There was evidence of a break-in.
Max and I have spoken to the archivist,
she says the target was
clearly the Harriet Landrigan
material and the thief
took several letters.
- Which you believe to
hold vital information.
- Yes, the letter that she wrote to Deevo
after the ones that were stolen
leaves no room for doubt.
Now, she said that she refused
to keep going back-
- I refuse to keep
going back and forth with you.
For some weeks now I have
been trying to explain
why I will never again
publish another novel.
If you still don't understand,
then you never will.
You will simply have to
take no for an answer.
My feelings matter as much
as your company's profits,
at least to me.
I have told no one my
reason apart from you,
I shall leave it to you
to decide whether you wish
to share it with the world.
Regards, Harriet.
- So the missing letters
are Harriet's explanation
of why she was so determined to keep
those last four books behind glass
so that no one could ever read them.
- Exactly.
And whoever stole the
letters from the archive
didn't want the truth to come to light.
- Look, this is all very
fascinating stuff, Peter,
but why are we actually here?
If there's been no murder
then we can't solve it.
- There's no it to solve.
- Oh, I have given you a rather
confusing welcome, haven't I?
The reason I invited you
here, quite simply gentlemen,
is to make all my houseguests disappear.
Get rid of them.
- Would it have not been
easier to just not invite
them in the first place?
- Ah, they'd of turned up anyway.
They're obsessed with my mother.
Obsessed, I tell you.
And it drives me to despair.
- But you don't need us,
you can just ask them to leave.
It's your house, where's the problem?
- Don't you think I've tried that already?
They're tenacious and
Clemency loves holding court.
They follow her around like ducklings.
They turn up and bang on the door
and Clemency orders Anders to let them in.
- So who are they?
- Who are they?
- And what do they want?
- And what do they want?
- Well there's
Swithun Kirk, the actor.
- Not that talentless poser.
- I'm afraid so.
He wants me to sell him the film rights
to Harriet's last published novel,
"The Heaviest Heart" so that
he can play its romantic hero.
I've told him no till
I'm blue in the face.
Her creative vision for her novels
was fully realised in her books,
she didn't want anyone
messing about with them
or doing adaptations.
Then there's that blasted Irene Coggins.
A devoted fan of my mother's,
always under my feet,
trying to tell me how best
to protect her legacy.
As if she knows more about it than I do.
Laura Taylor, she constantly badgers me
to find the missing letters
for some university project
she's engaged in.
And then there's Deevo's
son, Max, the publisher.
- Let me guess, he'd
love for you to let him publish
the last of Harriet's books.
- Liberate them from
their frames, as he puts it.
- Anyone else?
- Ah yes, Terence Eastman, an art dealer.
He's not here today but
usually he's sniffing around
trying to convince me to broker a deal,
flog the framed books to
some pretentious gallery.
- So you want us to try and find a way
to get rid of them for you?
- I do, permanently.
You mentioned earlier that
you now know a murderer,
do you think he'd be interested?
- Have them murdered?
- Have them murdered?
- I'm just joking.
I just want them gone from my home,
and I'm willing to pay good
money to make it happen.
And then, when I'm rid of them,
I don't want to see anyone or do anything
for a jolly long while.
Especially not anything related to being
a famous writer's son.
- He's dead, Peter.
I mean, not even a tiny bit
alive, quite thoroughly dead.
- Who?
- The actor Swithun Kirk.
He's been murdered.
- Inspector Coode.
- You need to come to
Idlewyld House quickly.
Do you know it?
- Yes, I know where it is.
- There's been a murder.
Now, there are two
generalists here who think
they can solve it but they might need
a bit of help from you boys in blue.
- A murder you say?
- Yes.
- And a general what?
- John and George Danes,
they solve things,
you know, general stuff.
- No, I don't really.
Hang on, who is this?
- Clemency.
- Last name?
- Landrigan.
Oh for goodness sake,
surely you've heard of me.
- No, I'm afraid I haven't.
- The perfume designer.
- Well I wouldn't know
anything about that.
- Just hurry up and do
your job, you silly man.
- I beg your-
Hello?
There's been a murder at Idlewyld House.
Apparently there's two men there already
who believe they can solve
the crime without our help.
Do you wanna hear the
best part, Sergeant?
- Go on, guv.
- They are no sort of detectives,
they're not even amateurs.
John and George Danes,
and they call themselves The Generalists.
From the description given
to me by Clemency Landrigan,
they sound like tiresome imposters.
We'll soon put them in their place.
- Clemency Landrigan the perfume designer?
- You've heard of her then?
- Yeah.
- Well, as I was about to tell her before
she rudely hung up on me, the
names of perfume designers
are of no use to me.
- It's 'cause
you're a bloke, guv.
- I am a bloke, well observed, Sergeant.
But that's not what I meant.
I was referring to a rare
condition that I suffer from,
I've had it since birth,
it's called anosmia.
- That's all very well, guv,
but what if the culprit's not in the room,
what if they're elsewhere?
- Guv, shouldn't we be on our way
before The Generalists ruin everything
with their lack of official credentials?
- All your life, guv, you've been anosmic?
- There's no need to tell me
what I've just told you, Sergeant.
- Yeah, sorry, guv.
- Now, when we
get to Idlewyld House,
please try to be useful
and don't just repeat
everything I say.
- 'Course, 'course, guv.
- The police are on their way
and there's more bad news, I'm afraid.
- It's your hat and coat, John.
- They're ruined.
Swithun was wearing them
when he was stabbed.
- Both are covered in blood.
- Why would he wear my hat and coat?
- He's an actor.
Was an actor, I should say.
He loved trying on other people's clothes.
- Oh yes, he was forever
snatching my scarf
and draping it round his neck.
- Where was he stabbed?
- It looks as if he
was stabbed in the back
with great force.
The knife's blade went
right through his heart.
- Ew.
- Well, you asked.
- So, the killer didn't see Kirk's face,
and he stabbed him from behind.
So it was obviously me
he intended to kill.
He saw my hat and coat and
assumed it was me wearing them.
- How would he have known they were yours?
No one saw you wearing them apart from me.
And I definitely didn't kill anybody.
- That's where you're wrong, Anders.
- I didn't dislike his films that much.
- No, I mean about the hat and coat.
Someone else did see me
wearing them, a Mr. E.
- Who?
- Before we set off to come here,
a man arrived at our
house saying he was Mr. E,
the murderer, without
mentioning any more details.
We thought at first he was mad,
or he was talking about a murder that
he had actually committed.
- But there's a third option,
what if he was talking about a murder
he intended to commit in the future.
- Right.
- The mystery of Mr. E.
- Be quiet, Oscar,
darling, you're a child.
You shouldn't be hearing conversations
about brutal murders.
Be a good boy and pretend
you're not listening.
- John, George and I were together
at the time that Kirk was murdered,
so we're in the clear.
Where was everybody else?
- Before I heard Clemency
scream, I was in the kitchen
making Oscar a sandwich.
- Were you?
- Yes, ham and pickle.
- Oh yeah, more pickle next time.
- Well all right, so we
know where John, George,
Peter, Oscar and Anders were at the time
of the murder, and the rest of us,
Laura, Max and Irene were
in the drawing room with me.
I was telling them about Oscar's school.
- That's right, nobody left the room.
- So nobody could've killed him.
You're all accounted for,
apart from our Mr. E.
- How would your Mr. E have got in?
All the windows and doors
were closed and locked.
- Are you sure?
- Absolutely, I check all the
locks on the hour every hour.
- I insist upon it.
- Unless Peter, John and George,
they could've done it together.
You've never liked him, Peter.
Or perhaps Oscar and Anders,
they could have done it.
- If I were to pick a partner in crime,
it wouldn't be Oscar.
- Don't be ridiculous, man.
It could be you, Max.
- Yeah, Max, you
really didn't want to do
his memoirs, did you?
- Yeah,
what have you got to say
about that accusing everyone else?
- Very funny, Oscar.
Well, we know that it wasn't
one of our group, of course,
but then those that
weren't part of our group
don't know that.
- You're all discounting
Mr. E. too easily.
This man came to our house and
told us he was the murderer.
- It won't be him then,
that's too obvious.
- It's not obvious at
all, we have no idea who he is.
He knew about this place and our visit.
- Who actually found the body?
- I did.
- Oh, perhaps it was Clemency then.
She left the room, stabbed Swithun,
and then found his body.
- How dare you.
- No, impossible.
She walked over, checked
the door to the basement,
and then immediately screamed.
We all saw her the whole time,
hurried over and saw
Swithun Kirk laying lifeless
at the bottom of the stairs.
- No more free perfume samples for you.
- He was annoying, but no
one would actually have
the motive to kill him.
And there's this book
and I think it's-
- Oscar, run along
to the library and have a
go at that French homework.
- I hid it in a book like you told me to.
- Great, so off you trot.
- But I've forgotten which book.
- Oh, do other homework then.
- But I want to help solve
the mystery of Mr. E.
And there's this book-
- No!
Sorry, darling, but murder isn't something
an innocent young boy
should be thinking about.
If you don't want to do homework,
then go and have a snappy
chat with your friends
or whatever it is you call it.
- Why are parents so annoying?
- What about the murder weapon?
Was it there at the scene of the crime?
- The basement is full of
potential lethal weapons.
- There was no sign of a knife
or anything sharp near the body.
- Tell me, what made you
go and open the door,
and why wasn't Swithun
with the rest of you?
What made him leave the room?
- He'd gone in
search of booze, as usual,
but he'd closed the drawing
room door to the hall behind him.
I opened it because, well I
didn't think of it till now,
but I heard the front door lock or unlock,
definitely the front door though,
and we weren't expecting anyone else
so I wondered who it was.
That's when I noticed the
basement door was adjar.
Well, there he was all crumpled
up like a sack of spuds.
- You might have heard
the murderer leaving.
- Goodness me, that's
significant, isn't it?
- Let's say he took the weapon with him,
closed and locked the doors
to make himself scarce.
However, he'd of needed a key.
- What?
- Come on, George.
Where are you going?
- For a walk.
- It helps us think.
- What about us?
- The rest of you stay here together,
see if you can come up
with anything useful.
- Present a puzzle
that's impossible to solve,
therefore we'd become obsessed.
- But if he kills
one of us on the same day,
there's no time for that.
- It doesn't make sense,
why would he want to kill us though?
What's his motive?
- Or whose murderer was he
trying to imply that he was?
Until Swithun Kirk there was no victim.
- Excuse me, Mr. Danes?
- Which one?
- Either, or both.
- And you are?
- Laura Taylor, you can
call me Prof if you like.
- You're a bit young for a professor.
- Well, it's a nickname,
I'm an undergraduate.
- How can we help you?
- I don't think Harriet
Landrigan fell down
the stairs by accident,
I think she was murdered.
- What makes you think that?
- Well, she obviously had a secret,
one that she wrote about to her publishers
in the letters that were
stolen from the archive.
- And?
- Well, that's it.
I mean, people who have secrets
often get murdered, don't they?
- It's hardly proof.
- And then there's your Mr. E
claiming to be the murderer,
I think it's Harriet's
murder he's talking about
and now he's killed Swithun Kirk.
- So, Mr. E is a double murderer then.
- Maybe.
- Again, where's the proof?
- You need to find the proof.
- Okay, we're just asking.
Why do you care so much?
- I need Harriet to have been murdered
or else my whole dissertation's ruined.
- Sorry?
- I'm arguing that crime
writers are more likely
to fall in love whereas romantic novelists
are more likely to get murdered.
- Aren't you approaching
it the wrong way 'round?
Shouldn't you look for your
data and evidence, whatever,
and then formulate a theory?
- Don't be silly, you wouldn't
last five minutes in academia.
- Look, why don't you wait until we find
the truth in this case and then write
a dissertation about that?
- I bet you could get a
brilliant book out of it.
- You could interview me extensively.
- And me.
- And him.
- Gee thanks, you're too kind.
- What's up with her?
- Are you okay?
Was it something we said?
- No, it's just me, a professor?
I'm just fooling myself,
it's never gonna happen.
- Well why not?
You can achieve anything
if you believe in yourself
and you work at it.
- What's the point in kidding myself?
Might as well face the facts.
- Who, me? Or him?
- Oscar.
His mum encourages him to hide
his homework in the library.
Maybe I should hide my unfinished
dissertation in there too.
- I won't tell anyone.
- I'm an adult, it's
hardly the same thing.
- Oh no, old people hide
things in there all the time.
- Old?
- I was only trying to help.
- Oscar, what do you mean about old people
hiding things in the library?
- Well, I was trying to hide
my homework in this book
and there were tonnes of letters in there.
- Letters?
- Yes, inside the book called
"The Mystery of Mr. E",
same as your visitor, right?
- Right.
- I knew it!
I thought it might have a connection.
- Oscar, can we see this book.
- Of course.
- The police will be
cordoning off the area soon.
Laura, can you go back
and make sure everyone
stays together for me now please?
- Did I say you could call me Laura?
- No, but I've managed to do it anyway.
Come on, George.
- Ouch.
What do we have here?
- That looks a bit, a bit nasty.
Yeah.
- What do you think?
- It's a dead body, guv.
- So, someone hid the letters
in one of Deevo's thrillers.
- Good old Deevo.
If it wasn't for him, I'd have
nowhere to hide my homework.
- And why is that?
- He built this library
for Harriet as a surprise.
- That's a very big gesture.
- For what reason?
- To celebrate her selling
her first 10 million books.
Well, that's 10 million copies,
she obviously didn't
write 10 million books.
- And when exactly was this?
- Before I was born.
Mum and Dad went on holiday with Anders,
when they got back, the
library was here full of books.
- Oscar, have you
read this particular book?
- No, CBA.
- Sorry?
- Can't be arsed.
- What about these letters?
- No.
- Let me guess, CBA.
Well I suppose it is safer that he didn't.
The secret contained in the letters
has already caused at least one murder.
Oscar, when the family
and Anders were away,
was it just Deevo here left by himself?
- I think so.
- So he would've needed access.
Why would the most
popular romantic novelist
in the world decide to
never publish a book again
even though she kept writing them?
- Maybe she didn't keep writing them,
what if it's just blank
pages in those frames?
- We need to find out.
Oscar, do you fancy turning your hand
to a spot of vandalism?
- Like what?
- Your grandmother's framed
books, the unpublished ones,
we need you to smash the
glass and get them out.
- I would get grounded like forever.
- Really?
I think your mum would let
you get away with anything.
- Mum would, but Dad wouldn't.
- It could hold the key to everything.
- Really?
Actually, I think I might
know just the person we need.
- You're The Generalists?
- In general, we say that's true.
John and George Danes,
nice to meet you, Officer.
- Uh, Inspector Coode.
This is Sergeant Wilderspin.
- John, George.
Where's Paul and Ringo?
Sorry, guv, just trying
to lighten the mood.
- I'm sorry, Inspector, but
you've had a wasted trip.
- Wasted trip?
I was told there'd been a murder.
- The Generalists say we've
had a wasted trip, guv.
- Well there has indeed
been a murder here,
but we have just solved it.
- So, the murderer's been detained then?
- Oh, uh, no.
Sorry, we forgot about
the admin side of things,
that need to happen when the mystery's
actually been solved.
- Excuse me?
- We don't have the
authority to arrest anyone,
we were hoping you two
could deal with that part.
- They want us to arrest the killer, guv.
- I've never heard of a generalist
solving a murder before.
- Actually, we've solved two murders.
- The Generalists reckon
they've solved two murders, guv.
- I doubt you'd ever even
heard of a generalist at all,
well, until you heard about us.
- No, I had not.
And I'll admit, that
was a state of affairs
that I enjoyed greatly.
Two murders, you say?
So, is there another body?
- There was.
Swithun Kirk, over there
was not the first victim.
That was Harriet Landrigan in 2014.
- We believe she did not fall
down the stairs by accident,
she was pushed to her death
by a determined killer.
- Who!
I'll rip his heart out with my bare hands.
- Come on, Irene.
- Oh, shut up, Peter.
You have no idea of the agonies I suffer.
I'm a lifelong devoted
fan, you're only her son.
- Oh now look here!
I've had to put up with
you for long enough-
- Everybody just shoosh, please,
until I've been apprised of all the facts.
Tell me everything you know, Mr. Danes.
First of all, who is the murderer?
- We don't know his name,
but we will very soon.
But I can tell you that Harriet Landrigan
and Swithun Kirk were both
killed by the same person,
a man who announced himself
to us as the murderer.
- And his name is?
- Let's call him Mr. E,
although arguably he lied
about that being his actual name.
- What do you mean arguably?
- Normally we'd assume
someone going by Mr. E
would have E as the first
letter of his last name.
- Like the art dealer
desperate to get his hands
on the books, Peter.
- You think Terence
Eastman's behind this?
- No, he has nothing to do with this.
- Our Mr. E's last name begins
with a different letter of the alphabet.
E is the first letter of his first name.
- But surely if you know all that,
then you must know who he is.
- We sort of know who the killer is, yes.
- But not quite.
- The Generalists sorta
know who the killer is, guv,
but not quite.
- I heard them, Sergeant.
As I suspected, their methods appear
to be laughably haphazard.
I didn't get where I am
today by sort of knowing
who the killer is.
Do you know what we in
the Major Crimes Unit
call sort-of solved crimes?
Tell him, Sergeant.
- We call 'em unsolved
crimes, don't we, guv?
- That's correct.
We call them unsolved.
- Give us a minute,
Inspector, I'm getting there.
Perhaps Mr. Russell could help me out
with this next part.
- Me?
- Peter told me that one of the people
running your publishing
firm is your cousin,
Deevo Russell's nephew.
Does his first name begin with an E?
- No, his name is Frederick,
Freddie we call him.
- Okay, thank you, Mr. Russell.
Inspector, I can now tell you
exactly who the murderer is,
although we still don't
know his first name.
- So, it's not Frederick Russell then.
- Definitely not.
- Definitely not Frederick Russell.
Generalists don't think
it's Frederick Russell, guv.
- I heard him, Sergeant.
I am, in fact, in the room and I have ears
just as you are, just as you do.
Tell us who the killer is then, Mr. Danes,
so that I know whom to arrest.
- A man arrived at our house uninvited
saying that he was a murderer.
He then revealed to us that he knew
we were coming to Idlewyld House.
We thought that we may find a murder here
waiting for us to solve it.
When we arrived we were told that nothing
of the sort had actually occurred.
- This threw us, at first, until we heard
that Harriet Landrigan
had died by accident.
- Naturally, we wondered if
the supposedly accidental death
of Harriet Landrigan was the murder
that we were meant to solve.
- We then discovered that
Deevo Russell had died
one year before, almost
exactly to the date.
- That's what you
said, isn't it, Peter?
- My mother died on the 10th of July 2014,
Deevo Russell died on
the 8th of July 2013.
I don't see how this is relevant.
- You also told
us you made a donation
to the hospital where
they took your mother
because you knew the doctors did all
they could to try and save her.
- Also true.
- From this, ladies and
gentlemen, we have deduced
that Harriet Landrigan
did not die immediately
after falling down those stairs.
Well, if she did, then why would
she need all those doctors?
- She would've been taken
to a morgue, not a hospital.
- Exactly.
So if Harriet died on the 10th of July,
when did she have her so-called accident?
A few days earlier, perhaps,
maybe the 8th of July, Peter.
- Yes. Yes, it was.
- What a coincidence.
- Or let's say Mr. E
perhaps violently pushed
her down the stairs on the anniversary
of Deevo Russell's death.
- Who could get into the
house without anyone noticing,
perhaps someone with a key.
- What?
Have I missed anything important?
- Where were you at the
time of the murder, sir?
- Me?
- Oh, he's accounted for, Inspector.
I was just telling everyone how Oscar's
been helping us piece things
together in this case.
- Oh, he's done something useful at last.
I'll break out the
special biscuits, shall I?
- It seems Deevo went off the rails
after Harriet told him he couldn't publish
any more of her books,
so someone close to him
might have decided to blame her
for his death and punish her.
- And what better day
than the first anniversary
of his passing?
- Who would care so
passionately about avenging
Deevo Russell's death that
they may commit murder though?
- His son Max, it must be him.
I've always thought there's
something very funny
about Max, I'm sure I'm not the only one.
- Irene, I was in the room with you
when Swithun was stabbed, remember?
Mr. Danes-
- Max is innocent.
- Thank you.
- I, on the other hand, do
have a guilty conscience
and need to get something off my chest.
- Ooh, how thrilling.
- I took Harriet Landrigan's
unpublished books
out the frames and had a
quick skim read of them.
- You did what!
This is outrageous!
- We had an expert helper on the case
who has already put them back
to their original condition
with museum-grade glass,
no damage was done.
- John, that was very naughty of you.
Harriet really didn't want
anyone to read those books.
Were they terribly
scandalous and offensive?
- No, they're quite inoffensive
and ordinary romantic almost.
- How dare you!
Nothing Harriet wrote was ordinary.
- My point is there's
nothing in any of the books
that offers anything secret or private.
- This led us to wonder
why was she so adamant
that they must never be published.
- And more importantly,
who suffered as a result
of her peculiar choice?
- Only Deevo really.
Sure, her fans must
have been disappointed,
but Deevo's the one who lost everything.
- Maybe that's all Harriet
wanted, for Deevo to suffer,
to make it all about him.
- Correct.
It was Oscar, you see,
who led us to the book
in the library called
"The Mystery of Mr. E".
It's a thriller written and
published by Deevo Russell.
That's important,
Inspector, write that down.
Inside the book we found
the missing letters
from the Russell, Russell
& Russell archive.
A month's correspondence
between Harriet Landrigan
and Deevo Russell.
If I may share the contents.
"Dear Deevo,
- Dear Deevo,
all right then.
If you insist on knowing
why I shall never again
give you one of my books to
publish, I shall tell you.
You have yourself recently written a book,
you're now a writer as
well as a publisher.
No doubt in your heart of hearts
you are a writer first and foremost.
I wish you every success
in your new career
churning out these who-done-it yarns
and trust you will require
no further explanation.
You should be able to work
out the rest for yourself.
Regards, Harriet.
Dear Harriet, apologies,
but I seem to be missing something here.
What is my writing and publishing a novel
got to do with your books?
Nothing could affect my
commitment to you and your work.
Please let me assure you that I remain
as devoted to your novels and to you
as I have always been.
- Dear
Deevo, no devoted publisher
would compel his most valued author
to accept a fellow author,
some might even say a rival author,
as her main ally and advocate
in her writing endeavours.
Any credible publisher
would know that when
he utters the words 'my
books' his authors expect him
to be referring to their books,
which he loves as if they were his own.
He believes in them, nurtures them,
shares them with the world.
As soon as the words 'my books' take on
a different meaning for him,
the books he has written,
not the ones he publishes,
then that publisher has, I'm afraid,
lost the right to call himself devoted.
I hope this clarifies things for you.
- Harriet, my dear,
what on earth are you talking about?
This is quite mad.
Please tell me you're
not threatening to move
to another publisher.
Yours anxiously, Deevo.
No, you needn't worry.
There will be no need for a new publisher.
I have just finished my latest work
and no one will ever read it.
Not even you.
I shall continue to write, of course,
writing is my greatest joy,
but I shall never again
publish a single word.
Regards, Harriet.
- Dear Harriet,
you're making a tragedy out of something
that needn't be a problem at all!
I can't live without you or your books
and I don't believe you
can live without me.
This will also affect Russell
& Russell as a business
and my livelihood.
I'm begging you to change your mind.
Yours desperately, Deevo.
- So it seems Harriet
couldn't forgive Deevo
for becoming a writer.
She saw it as a betrayal
of her and her books.
- Well I can understand that,
it's a huge conflict of interest.
- He was hardly a rival author.
He was crime and she was romance.
- I suppose there's
only room for one person
to be number one in the
overall book charts.
- Yes, that's right.
- So it appears Harriet
showed her disproval
in the only way she could,
by putting all of her future
work beyond his reach.
- Why didn't she just
find a new publisher?
- We believe preventing
him from publishing
her future books wasn't enough.
- She also wanted him to
never be able to read them.
- And to know that by
publishing and writing
his own novels he'd be
deprived of all of hers.
- We think she wanted him to believe
he'd done a terrible thing.
- Then forgive me, Peter,
but she must have been
a silly, vain and selfish woman.
- Piffle!
Take that back immediately.
- Come on, Irene.
It was a vindictive overreaction.
- Have I missed something?
Have we been told yet who the murderer is?
- No, we haven't, guv,
unless I've missed something.
- Oh, get on with it.
Not all of us are fascinated
by literary gossip,
nor by the emotional intricacies
of the author/publisher relationship.
- Well I am a little bit, guv.
- Who is the murderer?
Where is the murderer?
- We're getting there, Inspector.
- Max, when you restarted the family firm
after your father died,
it wasn't Russell &
Russell anymore, was it?
It was Russell, Russell & Russell.
- That's right.
- So there's you, and
there's your cousin, Freddie.
Deevo's two sons and his nephew.
Tell me, what's the
name of the third member
of the Russell family
currently running the firm?
Your brother.
I bet you everything we own his first name
begins with an E.
- What are you saying?
- Who else but a close
relative of Deevo Russell
would blame Harriet
Landrigan for his death
and may have a first name
that begins with an E?
- No, not Edmund.
He wouldn't do something like that.
- Edmund, so we were right.
Deevo built the library
while the residents
of Idlewyld House were on holiday.
- So you must
have left him a key.
Is that right, Peter?
- Temporarily, yes.
In fact, we had a spare made but I assumed
he'd given it to you when we returned.
- Well I assumed he'd
given it to you or Anders.
- You know what they say
about assuming things.
- We thought to ourselves what if this key
was still in his possession when he died
and one of his sons may have found it?
- Remember, Clemency
Landrigan heard the front door
being locked when the
murderer left the house
after having killed Swithun Kirk.
- Realistically, how
could the killer be anyone
other than the Russell
brother whose first name
begins with an E?
- Max, you were the only guest who knew
John and George would
be here, weren't you?
- Yes, yes, I was hoping to persuade you
to write your memoirs, case
notes of The Generalists
or some such, a fabulous
title, don't you think?
- So if you were the only one
that knew we were coming here
and were clearly excited
about a prospective book,
you may have mentioned it to your brother
and business partner Edmund Russell?
- I expect I did, yes.
- So Mr. E knew we were coming here.
- It has to be him.
- Well done, John and George Danes.
The Generalists.
And your little band of sleuths.
- Edmund, why are you here?
- Sorry, Max old boy, they're quite right.
I am Edmund Russell, also known as Mr. E.
And I am indeed the murderer.
- You killed my mother.
- If only I had a
knife I'd stab you to death!
- Be my guest.
- Don't!
- Drop the knife!
- No, Peter!
No!
- Here you go, guv.
- Just as I thought, a knife.
- If anyone wants to use it, feel free.
Death would probably be
preferable to years in prison.
- Knife.
- So, we were right
about your identity then.
Mr. E is Edmund Russell.
However, I really don't
understand your motive.
- Yes you do, Mr. Danes.
You've just explained it to them.
Strong desire to avenge the death
of tragically deceased
father, et cetera.
- I understand that part,
but why would you introduce
yourself to us as the guilty party
and reveal that you knew
we were coming here.
Obviously that would make us suspect you.
- And then you killed Swithun
Kirk thinking he was John
because you feared we were onto you.
- But the person putting
us onto you was you.
- Oh dear, you really
don't get it, do you?
How disappointing.
- I think he wanted to get caught.
- Clever boy.
I witnessed what Harriet's
decision did to my father.
She knew more than anyone how
to use words like weapons.
And so I watched helpless as
my father fell into despair.
My mother left because of his drinking.
His business went to ruin.
Our home was repossessed.
A kind and proud man, who
just wanted to be free
to express his own creativity.
He lost everything, destroyed by a cruel,
manipulative, petty minded narcissist.
- Oh, how dare you.
- You didn't have to kill her.
- My father would still be alive today
if it wasn't for that selfish monster.
Can't you all see that?
- He was my father too.
- But you've always been so weak, Max.
Look at you, still fawning
around the Landrigans
like a loyal puppy.
- I only ever wanted to finish
what our father started,
to publish Harriet Landrigan's books
and share them with the world.
Without the murder.
- Maybe you shoulda talked
more to your brother, sir.
- Not at all.
I wanted revenge.
And I wanted to get away with killing her.
And I did.
I was pleased with myself for awhile.
I stole the most revealing
letters from the company archive.
Anyone who read the poison
words Harriet wrote to my father
and knew about his tragic
decline would've worked out
that somebody close to him
had a powerful motive for revenge.
- Or murder.
- Exactly.
So, I made those words
disappear to cover my tracks.
- So why contrive all this
now when you'd gotten away
with it all this time?
- The strangest thing happened.
It started to bother me
that my great achievement,
a successful murder, had gone unnoticed.
If years pass and one gets no credit
for one's ingenuity,
well, it's pretty galling.
- What kind of sick individual are you?
- Eventually I thought to myself,
what if I were to turn it into a game?
Find a likely opponent
and set them a challenge.
Tell them only that I'd murdered someone,
no more than that.
I did not kill Swithun Kirk
thinking he was you, Mr. Danes,
his posture's quite different from yours.
I'd have never mixed you up.
I killed him because I knew
you weren't going to catch me
unless I provided further clues.
By committing a second
murder under your nose
I gave you a crucial clue;
that the killer must have
a key to Idlewyld House.
You were immediately convinced
that the second murder
was committed to cover up the first,
when in fact the opposite was true.
The second murder was
committed because without it
you'd of believed the
tragic accident line.
- So Swithun Kirk dressing
up in my hat and coat
was a stroke of luck for you.
- Yes.
- Stand by your beds, you honourable lot!
No, I'm not feeling that today, Swithun.
What can you bring me?
Ooh loose and jaunty, I like it.
A top.
Cagoule, no, I know I shouldn't.
It's tempting.
Matching blazer.
And perfect, now all we need is a walk.
I'm strolling down the
boulevard in Paris, oh yes.
I'm probably at a cafe with all my chums.
- I let myself
into the house intending
to kill a random guest, possibly Anders,
just to make sure you were in no doubt
that there was a killer here to be caught.
- Lunch I will have, I think-
Who are you?
- I'm new here, sir.
- Are you?
- How may I assist you?
- Actually, they've been
hiding the booze from me,
so if you could help me locate
some, that would be good.
- Well, we keep our best
vintage in the basement, sir.
- Really?
Well let's go and have a look, shall we?
Where's the light?
- When I saw Mr. Kirk
dressed in your clothes,
I thought how perfect,
I knew you'd assume
I was trying to kill either one of you,
and that you would thereafter be convinced
that an attempt to cover
up a murder was under way.
- Right, well, that's
more than enough for me.
Come on, Mr. E, the murderer.
- Double murderer.
Now I'm doomed to live
in a confined space,
just like one of Harriet
Landrigan's last four novels.
Except I haven't been framed.
I say, that was rather good, wasn't it?
- And now the final award,
for those of you still here,
the Outstanding Achievement
Award goes to Oscar Landrigan
for services to justice.
Well done, Oscar.
- Can I do my speech?
- No, no, it's not the BAFTA's I'm afraid.
Off you pop, there's a good chap.
- Nice one, Oscar.
- Outstanding Achievement
Award for services to justice.
Peter, at last.
- Well done, Oscar.
- Do you think the Vosses saw?
I think they left in rather a hurry.
- Yes, I should think the whole town saw,
or at least heard your
reaction, Mrs. Landrigan.
- Everyone, you're all welcome to come
and celebrate with us
back at Idlewyld House.
Anders has made sandwiches.
Salz Garcon esta impostur!
- Your son, he never
hands in his homework,
he doesn't deserve that award.
- How dare you!
- Sorry, what homework, Miss?
Please don't make a scene Gwen.
- Objection, your honour.
- Overruled.
Let's let the Landrigans
have their moment, shall we?
Are we still on for dinner?
- Depends how many of her sandwiches
you shove down your gob.
- Dear John and George
Danes, please accept payment
for advising Peter Landrigan
on how to rid himself
of his unwanted guests.
As a result, Irene Coggins
is busy translating
the recovered letters into every language,
which she will then take on tour.
Max Russell is enjoying great success
with Swithun Kirk's diaries.
"One Man & His Cagoule" is selling well
up the Himalayas apparently.
I believe John is very much
in touch with Laura Taylor,
so I won't go into that.
The section of floor where
Swithun met his demise
was bought by Terence Eastman,
who then sold it as Modern Art
for a figure that has
enabled him to retire.
Following Oscar's assistance
with solving the mystery of Mr. E
I understand he's interested in becoming
your apprentice at some point.
Mr. Morrison, the woodwork teacher,
has offered to give him a reference.
I shall miss his presence
terribly at the estate
as you can imagine.
Peter Landrigan and all
of us at Idlewyld House
send our sincere thanks and
best wishes to the Generalists.