Holmes & Watson: Madrid Days (2012) - full transcript

Thinking of Sherlock Holmes
from time to time

is one of the good habits we still have.

Jorge Luis Borges, "The Conspirators"

Not for their statuesque beauty,

but because they arrived here
after fleeing

from the great harem
of the Vizier of Baghdad,

Ali Khan Munuza, aided by the darkness

and the narcotic they gave
to the Grand Eunuch of the Palace.

Having travelled half the world,
they are now in Madrid

to present their incomparable belly dance!

Jalili, jalala!



Which means: music, maestro!

Give me one of those cards
that tell the future.

Good luck, sweetheart.

Thank you.

Here, prince of doormen.

THERE IS A LONG JOURNEY
AHEAD OF YOU

(To Jose Luis Tafur, in memoriam)

Angela, let Scott in.

Signore Holmes!

Angela.

You're still the same.

I think you mean that after... two years?

I seem as pleasant as ever.

Avanti.



You were overwhelming in
"Les tringles des sistres tintaient".

Thank you for the lilies

and for the incredible blue jar
full of honey.

I know you saw my "Traviata" in Paris.

By the way, Scott,

how is Mrs. Hudson?

I often think of her.

Mrs. Hudson still maintains both
her physical features

and the perfect state
of daily destruction at 221 B.

She too thinks frequently of you.

And, indeed,

I was in Paris some time ago
and very busy with a case,

but I greatly enjoyed
your "Amami Alfredo".

Please, take off your coat.

Make yourself comfortable.

Relax.

And Watson?

Watson remarried last year.

Again?

In St. Mark's Church, Camberwell,
with Miss Mary Morstan.

29 years of age, very attractive,

delicate but firm gestures, intelligent,
and with a nice voice.

We have breakfast together occasionally.
Watson and I.

"La Traviata".

The same year your wedding became
the social event of the season.

It was all the talk at Maxim's.

And Mr. Adler?

You only need know
that he's not here now.

Tomorrow I'm going on tour.

I know.

I knew that you knew.

And that's why you'd only come
on the last day.

You always fear the dawn
when we're together.

We could meet in Madrid next month.

Do you know Madrid?

No.

You'll like it.

They have an old saying there:
"From Madrid to Heaven".

But I think it's more appropriate to say,

"Madrid is Heaven".

Why?

Because it's hot,
especially in autumn.

You are the most idiotic genius
in the world.

Tell me, detective,
what is the mystery?

Why is someone like me capable
of losing her common sense,

even her dignity,

over someone like you?

Good morning, Mr. Holmes.

Good morning, Mrs. Hudson.

I'll bring up your breakfast
and the "Times" right away.

Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.

Mr. Holmes,

you haven't played the violin
in over three weeks.

And...?

And... And... And...
And you barely eat.

I bet your brain is plotting something.

I know those silences very well,

and your disregard
for my stews even better.

You have an idea going around
in your head these days,

haven't you, Mr. Holmes?

Either I'm very much mistaken
or case habemus.

Well,

it's nothing.

A spoonful of this cough syrup at night
and another in the morning.

It isn't very nice, but you...

Three at night and three in the morning.
Good evening.

False alarm. Parents overreact.

They don't understand that children
can have a fever one day

and be jumping around the next.

To Mrs. Watson
and her magnificent supper!

To Mrs. Watson!

Thank you.

Well, Holmes, what was that surprise?

What do you think of dreams, Watson?

Dreams?

What kind of dreams?

Do you think they can be premonitory?

No.

I don't think we can dream
of something that will happen later.

Occasionally, perhaps.

A mere coincidence.
But I'm not an expert in the matter.

My dear, I think Mr. Holmes
may be referring to

what the lamas call meditation,
or the unconscious.

L'inconscient! Das Unbewusste!

No.

I've always thought "the unconscious"
to be nonsense.

A magic word to explain the only mystery

worthy of remaining inexplicable.

In the last few weeks,

I've dreamed of crimes
occurring in streets I've never seen,

in places where they speak
another language.

Where?

Spain. Madrid.

My dear, I think you two will be
going hunting soon.

By the way,
how's your Spanish?

It will allow me to get by very well
in day to day matters.

I suppose yours
is as good as your Swahili.

Watson,

I see that you've married
an extraordinary woman.

You thought I'd object to the journey?

My dear Mrs. Watson,

amorous relationships
are the true high politics.

The other great competition
played without rules.

The heart and brain of a woman...

are, for me, a greater enigma
than that of the unconscious.

Perhaps because that is the only mystery
you've never tackled.

It would be hypocritical
not to admit that, like most women,

I have a certain ascendancy
over the other party.

But I've never had the slightest interest
in using that power.

What's more,

I prefer that my "adversary",

whom I love,

is master at all times of his wishes.

Not out of female generosity,
but to defend my own.

Tea, Holmes?

With two lumps.

And you, my dear? Tea?
An infusion?

Yes.

Yes, what?

Yes, you too want tea,
yes, with two lumps,

or yes, you want an infusion.

Yes, I love you.

To Mrs. Watson!

To Mrs. Watson!

Whatever the papers say,

the new Scotland Yard isn't ready yet.

But crime doesn't stop,

and we have to work amidst rubble,

and freezing to death.

As you know,
paint fumes are very harmful.

Indeed. Thank you.

You're welcome.

Of the aromatic carbohydrates,

benzene in reaction
to sulphur oxide derivative

could produce an effect similar
to that in the Swandam Lane opium den

that we both know so well.

Gentlemen,

could you please leave for a moment,
and close the door. Thank you.

One.

There was never fog.
Not on any night.

Two.

The shadow armed with a butcher's knife,
the murderer in the top hat,

and the black briefcase

were all invented
by the sensationalist press,

as was the man in the leather apron.
Three. The letters received here

and signed by Jack the Ripper

were sent by reporters from
the Central News Agency.

Four. Perhaps the note accompanied
by half a human kidney,

I say "perhaps", was from Jack.

One.
Walter Sickert.

As an artist, a horror.
As a suspect, he's clean.

A strange man.

I'm sure he was delighted that
some people thought he was Jack.

Two. William Gull.

Our eternal Queen Victoria's
honorable doctor is clean too.

Three. Michael Ostrog.

Russian criminals like him,
or Poles, or Hungarians,

who may have seemed suspicious,
are all clean.

We never found anything.

Four, and perhaps you don't know this,

but our dear Sir Melville Macnaughter

and Matthews, from the Home Office,

are still convinced that Jack was
Montague John Druiff,

a mediocre pettifogger.

He did commit suicide after the crimes,
but I can guarantee, Holmes,

that he was clean.

Believe me,

the Royal Family is clean.
So is Parliament. And the Government,

with our third Marquis of Salisbury.
Even Scotland Yard,

although you may think it strange.

What do you know about
the Madrid crimes?

So that's it.

How is Watson enjoying newly wedded life,

for the second time?

Two marriages! Such enthusiasm!

I hear he's rented
an extraordinary house in Paddington

and has his surgery there.

A package appeared in the Ten Bells pub,
with clothes for a baby

of six or seven months slashed
by a Bowie knife.

A Bowie knife slit the throat
of one of the girls in Madrid.

How do you know that?

It was never published
and no one has ever mentioned it.

What are you looking for, Holmes?

I've been wondering that
since you came into my office.

Why, after two years,

are you concerned about some whores
murdered in another country?

Do you really think Jack is in Madrid?
Or that he's Spanish?

You call them whores.
I call them victims.

The most complex, mysterious case
of our time deserves more than your scorn,

Abberline.

And it confirms that everyone,

I still don't know how many
or who they are, but everyone,

including those whom you say
are not involved,

Parliament, Scotland Yard,

our Prime Minister Salisbury,
the Queen, everyone...

You and I know they are hiding
a lot of things.

If anyone was directly involved
with hunting Jack, it was I.

I see the cold you're incubating
has spoiled your appetite.

A shame you can't pay the tribute
it deserves to our national dish,

fish and chips.

Yes, Mr. Holmes?

Mrs. Hudson, could you please
bring me up some woolen socks?

Right away, Mr. Holmes.

Yes, Mr. Holmes?

Forget the woolen socks.

The woolen socks
are forgotten, Mr. Holmes.

Yes, Mr. Holmes?

Mrs. Hudson, I see my magnetic cufflinks
but not the Tiffany ones.

I'm going to miss you.

And I you.

But if you didn't go,
you'd make my life unbearable.

I didn't know I was an ogre.

No.

You're my husband, and I love you.

But trust me,

it's very healthy that from time to time
we have a holiday from each other.

So soon?

My love,

I'll never be an obstacle
to you enjoying your passions.

Literature, travel, medicine.

How can you see so clearly inside me?

If we were in the Middle Ages,

you'd be burned at the stake as a witch.

And you like that, don't you?
It lights a spark.

More than that. It inflames me.

Wipe that look of happiness
from your face,

or I'll change my mind and lock you up.

Lock me up?
Yes!

It will be a magnificent journey.

We'll leave on Monday
at 9:00 from Victoria Station.

The Flèche d'Or will take us to Dover.

There we'll catch the ferry.

We'll arrive at Calais
in the early hours.

And from there, to Paris.

The last time we were there
we could barely enjoy it, remember?

How could I forget! The disappearance
of those letters from the Chancellery,

revealing the state secrets
of four countries,

could have caused a European war.

A world war, Watson.
We'll go up the Eiffel Tower.

We'll walk through the Place Vendöme
and the Champs Elysées.

Then we'll have lunch
in one of those restaurants

that have become fashionable
in Montmartre,

where they eat on the footpath,
in the middle of the street.

From Paris
we'll go down to San Sebastian,

which is in Spain,
and from there to Madrid.

When I was a houseman at Barts.

I had a great friend, Luis Delgado.

I took the liberty of informing him
of our arrival. He's very well connected

and will be a great help.

We're in Miranda, Miranda de Ebro.

I'm told we'll be stopped here

until the train required for the rails
comes from Madrid.

What do you know of Spain, Holmes?

And don't go back
to poor Catherine of Aragon.

It's an enigma.

For some, it's still anchored
in the 18th century, but for others,

like Richard Ford or Washington Irving,
it's a unique place.

Seductive, unpredictable,
like Japan, or India.

Bullfights, flamenco...

Good evening. Tickets, please.

Mozart! Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

Turkish March.

Spain, Holmes.

Where were we? Oh, yes! Bullfights.

I feel I'm going to like them.

Their roots are sunk
in ancient traditions and religions,

like Crete and Greece

They are both rites and myths.

Acreed that moves the simplest
and the most learned minds.

The bullfights, the bullfighters,
the actual fighting bulls

have for years given prestige
to a variety of artistic expressions:

Novels, painting, opera...

We are in agreement.

Rejecting bullfights as a barbaric event
could be reasonable,

but it is also so, and more,
to defend them.

I imagine Spain very linked
to the history of bullfighting.

I have the feeling, Holmes,

that, with or without bulls,

Spain will fill your mind
more than thrice daily,

perhaps at all hours.

Let's say a 70% solution.

So Spain is a drug too?

Yes.

Magnificent.

You look wonderful!

We both look wonderful.
We were the life and soul of every party.

We called them beans.
And your second wife?

Very well, thank you.
And your sweethearts?

Very well, thank you.

Allow me to introduce a friend.
Sherlock Holmes, Luis Delgado.

Mr. Holmes.

Mr. Delgado.

I haven't seen Johnny for years
but I've read all his chronicles

so I'm aware of your great achievements.

I have to say I admire you greatly.

Thank you.

Welcome to Madrid, Mr. Holmes.

Thank you, Mr. Delgado.

But as you've known your friend
since those days at Barts,

you're aware that most of his tales
are the product of his imagination.

Your luggage is loaded.
Let's abandon this mare magnum.

Have it delivered now.

Yes, Sir Alfred.

Worried?

Changes worry me.

The area of unforeseen events
is always important, Ambassador.

Yes, yes.

The first one to step on me,
I'll push her off the stage.

It was Four-Eyes.

Don't "Four-Eyes" me!
You've got two left feet.

Let's all calm down. Hello, my love.

Always arguing.

Smell that!

I just wanted to say
I can't pick you up tonight.

Why not?

I have to work. Who'll see you home?

Don't worry, we'll all go
with Paqui's brother.

This is no laughing matter.

I know.

Here. I brought you a book.

Let me see.

More verses... Josito,
I prefer the ones that are joined up.

With these, I think about each line
and can't sleep.

You have to get me new glasses.
I look like an owl in these.

They call me Four-Eyes,
and they're right.

It's a promise.

I love owls.

I'm off.

I marked a verse for you.

Young ladies... You're all admirable.

Bye!

Listen, never go anywhere alone.

No.

At least in twos.

It's a promise.

We promise.

Bye!

Bye, Alcántara.

Come in.

This has just arrived, from the Embassy.
That old bloodhound Abberline

didn't waste any time.

The reception is tomorrow night.

Did you know that Victor Hugo
and Edouard Manet slept in this room?

It's reserved for great artists, Watson.

Sir Alfred Lean. Does that ring a bell?

What I need for a month here
would last me for a year there.

Well, I'm not moving.
You know what they say.

Once you see Madrid wild horses
wouldn't drag you back to your village.

And do you think that in Turd Fields
or whatever your village is called,

you'll find a stupid widower

with money who wants to marry you?

You never know.

And in the villages
women are in bigger demand than here.

And it's not called Turd Fields.

It's called Cuartillos,
right by Jerez de la Frontera.

And it's very nice.

What about your Prince Charming?

Not so charming.

I told him. I said: "I'm leaving.

If you love me, come and get me".

And...?

"Look at what I do
with a love like yours", he answered.

That's...

Yes, and he tore up
the letters one by one.

He's a son of a bitch.

A son of a bitch, but I love him.

I'm really stupid, you know?
Really stupid.

Hey, you! The one in yellow.

Want to come to a party with good money,

good food and honest people?

Both or none.

All right, both of you.

More pesetas for the village.

I can only say that the police
are working tirelessly

and using all the advances
at our disposal, which are very few.

Once the victim's body
has been moved to the morgue,

the forensic officer
will begin investigating.

That's it, Valcárcel?

What else can I say?

I've never seen anything like it?
They ripped out her heart,

her spleen, her ovaries...

No effort is being spared.
That's all for now, Alcántara.

Yes, but...
That's all.

There's trouble brewing.

The cost is escalating.

Minister, we're talking about
a thousand hectares,

Reorganizing the metropolitan center

and linking it
with the North-South and East...

I'm only saying
the cost has got out of hand.

Paco... Paco,

every project has changes.
You know that.

The cost has increased in proportion
to the increased endeavor.

The administrative delays, as always,

and especially in our country,

are what are adding more to
the cost than was expected.

Don't worry.

Well, I am worried. That's why
I was brought here, to worry.

What did you find on the ground?

A small piece of ivory.

I don't see anything.

Probably from a Bowie,
by Rodgers & Sons,

manufactured between '83 and '87,

the only period when
the Sheffield factory used that material.

Alongside were remains of alpacca,

an alloy of zinc, copper and nickel,

whose color and shine is
similar to that of silver,

and here's the strange thing.

The fiber is of alpaca wool.

In this case,
from a camel found mainly in Peru.

The Bowie

is a hunting knife
also used by Jack in London.

Did you know Jim Bowie
died at the Alamo?

I'm the one who's going to die,
of hunger,

if we don't go to that reception now.

I'll see you in the hall in ten minutes.

What a thrilling life!

Doctor, writer, traveler...

At most, a very occasional writer,

and only of tales of mystery.

Another glass of champagne?

I don't know if...

The French claim to
know a lot about love.

They say that with each glass
of champagne

women become more beautiful.

And more... defenseless.

No.

All the idiots say
"I believe this or that..."

"I believe that..."
"I believe..." What use is that?

Have you seen it? Have you proved it?

"No."

"I believe, my lord,
that this or that..."

What do I care what you believe?

I see your friend is not immune
to the charms of my niece Elena.

The doctor is a great admirer of women
in all aspects, your grace.

Margarita.

More so if they have your niece's beauty,

something that undoubtedly
is a family trait, Margarita.

If I may, your grace.

Mr. Holmes, allow me to present
Don Gines de la Vega, Marquess of Simancas,

and his nephew, Alvaro Antúnez,

one of Spain's leading architects,
despite his youth,

and our cultural attaché,
Michael Wilson.

My lord.
Delighted, Holmes.

Mr. Antúnez.
My pleasure.

Mr. Wilson.
An honor.

Don Ginés is also a Grandee of Spain,
one of the few Grandees of Spain

who merit that title.

Antúnez studied in Italy
and then in the United States,

in Chicago and New York,
where he coincided with Standford White.

Some gossips say that Alvaro
is responsible for the Giralda

crowning Madison Square Gardens.

Are you fond of hunting, Mr. Holmes?
I ask because

I'd feel honored if you could accompany us
on some of our outings.

It's small game,
but you won't find better in France,

or even in your country.

I have the same interest in large
and small game as I do in weapons.

Very little.

But I know that life is the closest
we have to a hunt.

Banking, railways, trams,

land, construction companies,
livestock, newspapers,

magazines, palaces,

factories...
You've drunk enough! Aunt!

But it is true that the Marquis is

one of the heads
of an international alliance

made up of very powerful men,
a kind of grand Masonry.

Yes, but without exotic costumes,

or the compass and set-square.

Part of his vast fortune comes from
an arms association he presides over,

a company that manufactures from pistols

to canons and sells and distributes
throughout Europe. Everyone knows that,

more than a banker,
he's a money lender, an usurer.

The "Shylock of the Manzanares",
as some call him.

What did you think of the Marquis?

Who?

For God's sake, take your eyes off
Miss Elena's cleavage

and put them back in their sockets.

The all-powerful Marquis of Simancas.

A distinguished person, undoubtedly.

Arrogant,

he makes an effort to seem
good natured, but he's not.

I don't know how to put it.

There's a dark look in his eyes.

I agree.

The Spanish upper class
seemed dark to me.

By the way, the Marquis' nephew,

the new Vitruvius of our time,
has a venereal disease.

Our Mr. Antúnez is wearing a wig

and he's a fraud.

It's surprising,
I know every one of these streets,

every doorway, every corner,

every streetlight, every church.

Someone should make
a serious investigation of dreams.

An interpretation of dreams
wouldn't be bad.

Sir,

do you want a fortune card?
Here you are.

Thank you.

A rose for your eyes.
Thank you.

And another for your smile, sir.
Thank you.

Good evening, gentlemen.

What will you have, gentlemen?

What do you recommend?

Champagne, but here in Bagatelle,
if I may, eau-de-vie.

Eau-de-vie it is.
Right away.

Here is the eau-de-vie.

Please bring a glass for Mr. Alcántara.

Right away.

Thank you.

I don't mean to be presumptuous,
but when I started in journalism,

after the fall of Isabel ll...

I met Mr. Henry Stanley in here.

He was European correspondent for the
New York Herald, covering our political...

Alcántara,

breathe and talk.

Mr. Stanley could give you
good references about me.

I admire you very much, both of you.

I believe in journalism
that is a guide for society,

that helps it in any of its aspects.

Maybe that's why people said
I was too cultured for the profession.

The usual journalists use scissors rather
than the pen. But I learned the trade.

I went to Telegraphs and Ministries...

It's my nerves.

When I learned you were in Madrid,
on the trail of Jack...

Jack?

Jack the Ripper.

Look,

I studied his Whitechapel crimes
very carefully. When they started here...

I'm sure you're here because of that.

Our first victim in Madrid
was called Ana Maria,

like Jack's first victim in London,
Mary Ann.

To date, the three crimes...

Four.

Four?

What do you mean?

Four, Watson.

Another body with its throat slit
isn't far from here.

Bravo! Bravo! Bravo, Dubi!

And now, my distinguished public,

I'm going to ask for your full attention.

It is time for magic,

time for fantasy.

I assure you that what you are going
to see will never be forgotten.

You are going to witness something
unique and unrepeatable.

Recently arrived from Brussels,

and after having conquered Paris,
Rome and Berlin,

please welcome
Count Cristöforo Buonanova

and his beautiful assistant Miss Isabel.

A big round of applause!

Good evening and thank you.

I don't intend to compete
with Bagatelle's excellent waiters

but on this occasion...

I would like to serve you
with whatever you wish to drink,

and free!

Yes, don't laugh. Free.
Totally free.

Good evening.
What is your name?

Ramiro González.

Ramiro,

what would you like to drink?

Cognac.

It's cognac, and very good!

Good evening.

What is your name?

Carlota.

What would you like to drink?

Champagne.

It's champagne!
Champagne!

What would you like?

Could I have coffee?

Coffee?

With milk.
With milk?

Good afternoon.
Good afternoon.

Could you tell Dr. Arriaga
that Dr. Delgado is here?

Just a moment.

This is disgusting.

Good afternoon.

This is Mr. Enrique Valcárcel,
first-rate detective.

Forget the introductions.
We were all at the crime scene yesterday.

How did you know there was another body?
Alcántara told me...

The question is,
why didn't you know before?

I ask the questions here.

It's obvious, Mr. Valcárcel.

If the murder is,
or is pretending to be, Jack the Ripper,

then the third and fourth victims
on the same night.

That's right.
Just like Jack did.

Inspector Valcárcel?
Yes.

They're waiting for you in Information.

Thank you.
I'll be right back.

What a temper!

No, he's a fine man.

Good afternoon.
Hello, Delgado.

Thank you for seeing us, Arriaga.

Not at all. Good afternoon.

Good afternoon.
Good afternoon.

Dr. Arriaga,
are the bodies of all the victims here?

Yes, the four.

No one has claimed these poor creatures.

And they'll be more useful here than,
undoubtedly, they were in life.

Three are inside, in the school.
Do you want to see them?

Not yet.

And that's Milagros, from Jerez.

May I?
Of course.

There's no doubt that Juanito
the pork butcher, as I call him,

has the precision of a surgeon.

You yourself, Delgado,
would be a good suspect.

Don't touch her again.
Let her rest in peace.

Dr. Arriaga, come over here.

You see that stain?

Yes.

Would you say it's Indian ink?

I don't think so,
I'd say it's soot.

It's not soot. It's Indian ink.

I would remind you, sir,

that I'm a forensic examiner,
not a detective.

And they removed part
of her right kidney?

Yes.

Dr. Arriaga, thank you
for your collaboration.

I'd recommend to the forensic examiner,
not to the detective,

the penultimate issue of "The Lancet".

It has an article
on zinc and aluminum salts.

If you read it carefully,
I'm sure you'll find the way to

prevent formal modifying
the color and size of the pieces.

And it will help get rid
of this terrible smell

to which you and your assistants
are obviously accustomed.

If you'll excuse me, I have work.

Goodbye, Delgado.

Thank you, Arriaga.

Mr. Holmes,

people who know me say that
I am unpleasant and disagreeable.

I don't say that isn't true.

But they also say I am stingy
and have no sense of humor.

And that isn't entirely true.

I, who best know myself,
can assure you

that Enrique Valcárcel is trustworthy

and good hearted although I admit

he always lives in
the midst of bad moments.

Anyway, I'd like to invite you
to lunch tomorrow,

if you have no engagements,

at the best restaurant in Madrid
and perhaps in Europe. Lhardy.

Thank you very much, Mr. "Valquircel".

Valcárcel. Val-cár-cel.

Exactly.

I'm inviting you too, Alcántara,
provided you promise

that not a word of what
we say will be in the newspaper.

Not a word.

Good. Now, let's get out of here,
this smell is unbearable.

Yes, please.

Good evening.

Good evening.

Good evening.
Good evening.

Mr. Wilson.
Come in.

Good evening.

In any case, Soria can't complain.

Why?

Well, it's rumored that you're going
to grant him a circular train-tram

that goes from "his" Ciudad Lineal

to Puente de las Ventas
del Espiritu Santo, no less.

And do you know what is not rumored
but has already been granted

to you and your uncle?
The train to Arganda,

the branch line to the Bull Ring,

the line between Cibeles
and the Portillo de Embajadores.

Shall I go on? Shall I?

I deduce that Mr. Wilson's
latest reports are good

and we're dealing
with all the difficulties,

expected and unexpected.

Minister, may I?

Go ahead, Wilson.

Thank you.

Bearing in mind that objectives
are being fulfilled,

and without this meaning
we leave the Program, I suggest

we take a break from our meetings,
that they are less frequent.

Why?

Because... It's necessary, Minister.

He's right, Paco.

PRICE LIST

I'm certain. Absolutely.

Tell the editor if he wants to put it
on the front page, he can,

or, if not, leading the rumor section,
as he wishes.

You don't know what you're missing.

Beef, chicken breast
and extraordinary sausages

along with potatoes,
not to mention the broth,

so substantial it seemed like velvet.

And the vermicelli.

And these little balls,
chickpeas, in a net.

Excuse me.
Well, do we now know who is with whom?

A famous general and a no less known
marchioness in a private room 30 feet

from here.

And in the next private dining room a soprano
and the impresario from the Apollo

are having great fun.
It's the part of my work I like least.

Holmes, correct me if I'm wrong,

but if our beast is exactly copying
Jack the Ripper

we can arrest him on the 5th,

which is when your monster committed
his fifth and last crime.

He won't do it on the 5th.
He'll do it before or after that date.

I fear we won't be able to prevent
the next crime. Listen, Valcárcel,

they didn't dare do it in London,
but you could send women

to watch from various places
on the streets of some areas,

in the early hours.

Police women.
Police women! That idea is...

Brilliant! Brilliant!

That's all we needed.

Battling with women
in the Department.

Holmes,

from one bachelor to another,
you disappoint me, honestly.

Valcárcel, I agree with you 120%

that women bring all kinds of problems.

But on this occasion,

I feel the plan would work.

It's an excellent idea,

and with a great future.
I know you don't like them very much,

Holmes, and it seems neither do you,
Val...

Valcárcel.

But women, throughout history,
have defended themselves like wild cats,

especially when they're alone and
vulnerable after a war or a disaster.

Volunteer nurses,

adventurous ladies,
even nuns from many orders

would be delighted to catch
that "porch booker".

Pork butcher.

"Porch booker".

Police cats, no. Neither wild nor otherwise.

There will never be police cats.

But dogs... There'll be dogs.

You'll see, Valcárcel.

Dogs will be working with you very soon.

Police dogs, police women.

Holmes, if I may say so,

you're much better
than in Johnny's tales.

More entertaining, more likable, more...
More everything.

Well, what shall we have for dessert?

Chocolate "cateau"?

Thank you. Good night.
Here.

There's a chance to work
in the Pearl of the Antilles.

A Cordoban who made a fortune from sugar,
a lover of literature,

wants to set up a magazine and
a newspaper there, and he's asked me,

through Juan Valera,
who recommended me,

to set them up and run them.

It's a unique opportunity.
What do you think?

And as what would I travel with you?

What do you mean, as what?

Josito, don't act dumb.

As what would I go with you?
It's very clear.

As my wife. What else?

As Mrs. Alcántara.

I hope you don't get sea sick.
It's a month's voyage.

Now I am all confused!

I love sleeping with you.

And the way you smell.
And I'm mad about your style.

What drew you into Thalia's art?

Once a group of actors came to my town.

They did everything Drama and comedy.

They sang and danced.

After the show, at night,

after supper,
I said to my father:

When you consider
I'm old enough to make my way in life,

I'll go off to sing and dance...

Like that?

Like that. And when
I was twenty years old he said:

Bernabea, you can leave when you wish...

And your mother?

She only asked one thing.

"If you succeed, send us a bath tub".

There are only two in my town.
One in the inn,

and the other in the mayor's house.

We aren't all young gentlemen
like you, Josito.

Bastard.

What?

Gentleman bastard.

I'm the bastard son
of Carlos de Villagigedo,

an Asturian count.

I didn't tell you before
so as not to disillusion you.

How come?

My mother was one of the cooks
in the mansion.

Very pretty, blonde,

with topaz-colored eyes.

He never recognized me,
but he gave me a good education.

Deep down, he was good.

When I was eight,
he sent me to school in England.

I think it was to

keep me away from his wife and his other
children. I came back every summer but

he barely spoke to me,

because I was his double,
redhaired, the same features,

the same voice.

He wasn't so good.

He saw me when I arrived
and again before I left.

My mother died of fever.

I heard when I came home on holiday.

Poor thing, she died alone,

without her son at her side.

He died two or three years later.

I'm glad he's dead!

His children wanted nothing to do with me.
I had to leave the university

just before I graduated because now
no one would pay my expenses.

I was never again received
at the Villagigedo mansion.

They almost set the dogs on me.

It's their loss.

Alcántara was my mother's surname.

That's where my style comes from.

I don't care if you're
the Prince of Wales or Paco Perez,

I love you because you're good, Josito,

and clever, and the only one for me.

Simancas' newspapers
are the only ones that treat us well,

that praise our efficiency
and personality.

And it's a lie.

You see our working conditions.

By the way,
what they said in the Marquis' press,

"Época", "El Chispero", "La Voz",

that the "Pork Butcher"
sent us letters, like Jack's,

written in blood,

as his penpushers say, is a lie.

To date,

there has been no correspondence
between the beast and us.

We have received hundreds of letters,
I have them here,

most of which only contain insults,
advice,

and pester us with
their solution to the case.

Detectives who think they are you.

Or you.

And they supply "infallible, definitive"
details of who the killer is.

Good morning.
Good morning.

Inspector Valcárcel is expecting us.

Just a moment.

You look lovely.

You can go in.

Thank you.

Good morning
Good morning.

Forgive the delay, but Berna insisted on
making herself pretty,

something unnecessary,

because she already is, as you can see.

Please, sit down, miss.

Thank you.

You too, Alcántara.

Thank you.

Tell Mr. Holmes, his good friend
Watson and the inspector

what you told me last night.

I knew Milagros La Jerezana
for a year or more.

She was from a village near...

Jerez, go on.

She'd stop in Calle del Turco,

near the theater where I perform.

The Bagatelle.

We saw each other a lot and, while
we weren't friends, we'd say hello,

I'd buy her coffee, she'd buy me coffee.

Milagros was very funny.

Keep it short.

But she was illiterate.

Well, one day we were in Fornos,

where she was to meet someone,

she asked me to write a letter for her.

To whom?

She never told me who was courting her.

And the address?

Without an address or return address.
I suppose she handed them to him.

Them?

Yes, I wrote three or four.

They were all love letters.
"I'm crazy about you."

"Your caresses are like this."
"Your kisses are like that."

And some very intimate things

that you can imagine.
When we finished,

she'd put the paper in an envelope,

close it and put it away without
an address or anything.

When did you write the last letter?

A week ago.

She wanted to go back
to her village and marry a rich man.

But I think she was in love
with the one in the letters.

In the last one she said to

whoever he was that if he left her
she'd go back home, but if

he would promise to marry her
she'd swear by the Virgin

that there'd be no other man in her life.

Well, Holmes?

There's not just one killer.

Several Jacks?
Several "Porch bookers"?

Pork butchers.

Pork butchers.

Dr. "Waston" is so funny!
And so handsome.

Thank you for coming here, miss.

Not at all.

And you too, Alcántara.
Don't mention it.

You can count on me for anything, sir.

Thank you.

What a surprise!
Luisito...

We don't want to bother you at work.

It's no bother.

Look, Holmes has to ask you a favor.

If I can do it, it'll be done.

It isn't that I don't trust Arriaga
or his methods,

or Judge Carmona, but let's say

I don't trust them enough.

Would it be possible to
do another autopsy

on Milagros and see if she had syphilis?

Syphilis?

We'll try.

We artists don't need a husband,

but something much more important.
A companion.

Someone who understands our madness,

who spoils us
and lets us do silly things

because we like silly things,

who calms our fear at night
telling us stories,

who tucks us in.

Someone who protects us,
especially from ourselves.

You only use your talent
to resolve mysteries unconnected to you.

It's obvious you lacked experience,

a girlfriend at 15,

a girl who told you that...

Women change mood suddenly
because we're women.

We cry for no reason,

and when the sun goes down
we feel lonely.

And when it rises, too.

Never having been interested
in the other half of the team,

never having wanted to play
a game of doubles,

has limited your knowledge, Scott.

Even worse.

It's stored your feelings away
at the back of the attic,

like a pair of old shoes.

We'll talk of love another day.

How do you put up with her?

Because I love her and I accept it.

Signore Holmes,

Do you think that men make women worse?

Do you mean worse than they are?

Good night, Signore Holmes.

Buona notte, Angela.

Just look, Watson.

Our Crystal Palace, by Paxton,

was a greenhouse of glass and steel.

But this...

It's a real palace, a fairy tale palace.

So transparent that the sun
passes through it and stays inside,

to take the sun.

It's magnificent.

It's harmonious. Very beautiful.

Yes, but buried within beauty, Watson,

there is also ugliness, evil.

Evil is the motor of our time.

Perhaps of all times.

Do you know why the sketch is usually
more beautiful than the end result?

Because the sketch, the outline,

emerges surrounded by sparks of liberty,

of good humor,

of lightness and self-assurance.

Perhaps this new Crystal Palace

is where it all began.

Just a moment, please. Silence.

Just a moment. Just a moment.

Thank you.

As you know, our dear Albéniz
is leaving for England next week.

He will have the Lyric Theatre,
no less, to premiere his operas.

We wish him all the luck he deserves
on his British adventure.

And we want to tell him, as always,
that we are proud of your talent

and your friendship.

Isaac, don't forget us.

And now, a little surprise

from all your friends
which we hope you'll like.

With Jack the Ripper
a new post-modernist era has begun.

Modernism has burst
into our country with a knife thrust,

inaugurating a new period
of uncertainty and violence.

Spain is finally...

It's strange.

Before hearing it

it's as if we had already listened
to your music in our memory.

Thank you again.

It's the greatest praise I could have.

I'd like if we could meet in London.

Of course.

And play together some time.

It would be an honor.

Elena,
you are beautiful tonight.

Holmes, a little bird has told me
that you do have a heart.

Madrid is a very small place.
Everyone is your neighbor.

No one would doubt
that you've been a spy, Margarita.

One of the best.

Don't miss your chance.

Love is the greatest danger.

It would be a shame to die
without experiencing it.

Why have you come?

To say goodbye.

Consider it done.

What else?

I wanted to

talk about some unresolved matters.

Scott,

we have nothing but unresolved matters.

A spark of emotion
in his hawk-like eyes.

Or of doubt.

No matter, I like it.

Open it!

You open it.

A silk shawl!

It's a beautiful gift.

It's more than that.
It's the first.

Liberty must be cared for
daily with great attention.

As must progress and prosperity,

which must be constantly protected from
sectarianism,

fanaticism and intolerance.

Making Spain, and I'll finish with this,

a modern country,
like France, like England,

or like the Uniteds States
of North America,

won't be an easy task

and it certainly won't come
as a gift from others.

We need a society

that will cease to be immobile,

that will support changes,

that won't continue in the sleep of fools.

We have to rejuvenate our country,

not only with urban reform
in the streets or in buildings,

but, above all, by extending,

a very fashionable word now,

common sense and shoring up honor.

And thank you for this undeserved
banquet-tribute which

I hope none of you will dare repeat.

The idea that not everything is acceptable
in politics is at least debatable.

In New York I've spoken with the great
millionaires, Rockefeller,

Vanderbilt, Tweed...
They control everything.

Finance, public works, congress.

You know how they do it?

Extortion.
Extorting money from businesses,

stores, companies, employees.

Extorting money from people
with no vision of the future.

And, believe it or not,
they are creating wealth continuously.

They're taking their country to the top.

Paco, really, this is no time
to fuss about ethics.

Of course great sacrifices are required.

Christ, over 40,000 workers died
building the Suez Canal.

Think of the Pyramids
or the Great Wall...

Be quiet.

All my cabinet colleagues agree.

They know,
as well or better than us,

that a great reform is needed,
in everything.

A new urban concept,

faster, more comfortable trains,

better stations,
many of these new automobiles

everyone is talking about.

Look at me, Paco.

I pay 18,000 wages a week.

18,000 every week,
it's easy said,

and not one strike.

The thing is,
you have to do things well,

not the Spanish way.

You know, Holmes,
we have a few things in common.

We were both born on an island,
we both like music.

I bang on the piano from time to time

and I know you play Mendelsson's lieders
magnificently on the violin.

A Stradivarius, no less, I hear.

Yes, I got it for 55 shillings

from a Jewish secondhand dealer
in Tottenham Court Road.

I have nothing of greater value.

Except Mrs. Hudson.

And today?
You'd pay at least 500 guineas.

For Mrs. Hudson?

The violin, Holmes.

1,000.

Everyone agrees you know Madrid
better than anyone.

As a student I covered the whole city.
So much

so that I never finished my degree.

I went to lots of taverns
and gambling dens,

the less known corners.

The spectacle that drew me most in those
far off days of my youth was

Just imagine!
The changing of the palace guard.

It's a different Madrid now,

but really I'm the one who's different.

But never until now, Don Benito,

have we seen the streets
so sad and empty.

Yes, that's true.
The police are at a loss. We all are.

Everyone is terrified,
especially the women.

This is nothing like the crime
in Calle Fuencarral

about which you wrote some extraordinary
articles, it must be said.

Thank you.

I told Mr. Holmes that you knew
Milagritos la Jerezana.

I admired that girl. Milagaritos
She was special.

I met her ten or twelve years ago.

Always good humored, laughing, jovial...

A bird.

She'd murmur racy songs to her clients
in the cafes, with such charm!

And when she sold lottery tickets,

she'd call out the numbers
with such joy

it was fortune enough
that she sold you a ticket.

A goldfinch, that was Milagros.

There is lot of those poor girls,

of Milagritos, of Cati,
of Ana Mari, scattered

through one of my most-loved characters:
Fortunata.

Cui prodest?

Exactly.

And who can benefit from all this?

If you'll allow me,
I think that's not the question.

No?

Then what do you think is the question?

Why?

It's disappeared.

No one knows how or when,
possibly last night.

But the body of
Milagros Garcia Cervantes

has been stolen from the morgue.

There's no sign of it.

Arriaga knows nothing.
Well, so he says.

No one knows anything.

But

I've just received this letter
and report from a colleague,

whose name I'll keep to myself,

and it says... Read it.

Syphilis.

When it seemed Madrid
couldn't amaze us further,

after snatching the mystery
of Jack from the London fogs,

it turns out that Dr. Frankenstein
is among us.

What do you think, Holmes?

Alvaro Antúnez?

Indian ink stains, syphilis

There's no doubt
that poor girl's letters were for Antúnez.

God alone knows where her body is now.

That is, if it hasn't been cut up,
burned, or worse.

But no, not Antúnez.

Antúnez is a coward.

He just pays.

He's a middle man.

Watson, as you are busy
this afternoon and evening,

I think I'll visit the Arab baths.

I want to thank you
for some unforgettable days,

especially today.

The Prado Museum,

Mendelssohn's Italian
Symphony in the Real,

refreshments in the Swiss Cafe...

We could do even better.

How?

Coachman!
To the Bagatelle!

You and I are very similar
in many things, Holmes.

I can't think of even one.

Vision. Vision.

We can see before anyone
what no one sees,

and what no one wants to see.

I confess when I learned of your arrival
I had a moment of...

How can I put it?

Instability.

I take that as a compliment.

Yes. Your presence reminded
me of another time.

The far-off days when I had enemies.

It's good to have enemies, Holmes.

They keep you alert.

You know that I know...

that you know, isn't that so?

The machinery of the future
is unstoppable.

Especially now,
when the world is moving,

for the first time, without brakes.

There's another thing
we can both share.

Posterity.

We'll have statues and streets.

They'll put our name
on parks and universities.

Nothing like those plaques
they put up in dark alleys

to musicians and poets.

I'd like posterity
if it were granted in life.

But we'll never know

it and if posterity does nothing for me
why should I do anything for it?

As for streets and squares,

they end up becoming phonetics,
Marquis of Everything.

Marquis of Communication.

Marquis of Electric Light,
of Speed, of Money...

except of Conscience.

Conscience!

It's an invention of the weak,
of cowards.

To hell with conscience!

What is this about
being married a second time?

Well, to be honest...

No, no, don't tell me.
I know.

Good for you,
and bad for me.

Don't think I'm a cynic.

I admire women and I promise that

since I was a child I've tried
to be a loyal companion.

That's why I have to tell you

that I love my wife.

I know that you're not a cynic, Watson.

John.

John.

And I know that you're a good man,
and ahead of your time.

But for me it's bad
that you're happily married because...

I'm sorry, another good thing about
champagne is that you barely realize

when you're being foolish
and you don't care what people think.

This is a very difficult situation for me.

And I got myself into it.

You're a very attractive woman,

very,

and you're full of life and joy.

You'll have all the loves you want,
all and more.

It's in your eyes, believe me.

But I'd have liked to toast us.

But there is no "us".

Yes, there is.

Here and now. A young girl,
as pretty as her country,

and a doctor,
veteran of 1,000 campaigns,

who can never forget you. Never.

And who admires and loves you.

So we can toast
because that is love too.

I prefer to toast the fortunate
English lady who found you.

Forgive me, Elena.

I'm sorry.

I apologize if, at any time,
I made you believe that...

I'm an idiot.

I've heard that Cuba is the place
for vaudeville, for burlesque.

With my art and your novels,
we'll make a fortune.

Are you coming up?

I wish I could.

No. I can't tonight.

I'm going straight to the newspaper.

I have to finish Society Echoes
before 7:00 in the morning.

You won't get much sleep.

True, but I'll have more time to
accompany Holmes. Good night.

Good night.
Good night.

Now, give me a kiss, Mrs. Alcántara.

Excuse me, Miss Alcántara.

I'll wait here till you turn
on the light and get into bed.

Don't forget to buy me some glasses.

Yes.

And you promised to take me
to Café Pombo for ice cream.

It'll all be done.

I love you.

Good night, miss.
Good night.

Dear Mary,

We couldn't go to a bullfight
because it isn't the season.

But when you and I come,
we'll go to see Frascuelo and Lagartijo,

the leading figures.

I've discovered "porras".
They're similar to doughnuts,

shaped like leeks, but thicker.

You dunk them in coffee for breakfast.
They're delicious.

You know, I miss you three times a day.

When I go to bed, when I waken

and while I'm asleep.

And I think of you too,

every minute.

Alcántara...

Alcántara...

Valcárcel...

Good morning, gentlemen.

Good morning, your honor.

Good morning.
Good morning.

Good morning.

No one is to bother us.

How are you, Alcántara?

Here. It's the undertaker's receipt.

The people at Bagatelle
paid it between them,

and they paid for the burial
in the civil cemetery.

Tell those wonderful people

that next week, or when I can,

I'll pay them back.

I'm truly grateful,

but I can't accept it.

You can't go on like this,

you have to go back to work.
She'd like that,

not seeing you like this.

I'd promised her new glasses.

She was good, and smart.

She always encouraged me to study,
to improve myself.

That's why I was the only one in my
trade who knew, since long ago,

that the area by the Manzanares
was a powder keg,

ready to explode, like Whitechapel.

A million people, right, Holmes?

Crowded into the East End,

almost all immigrants,

Jews, Russians, Chinese, Poles...

Here in Madrid the immigrants
come from the Levante, from Andalusia,

from Extremadura.

From Hell, Jack wrote.

That was an understatement.

Ten people lived in one room,

women, children, men, old folks.

In the inns, hundreds of beggars
slept on their feet,

tied to the walls by ropes.

Misery, prostitution, alcoholism.

Everyone was repelled,

disgusted, by those streets,
starting with the government.

Then Jack appeared,

a modern, urban killer.

Scotland Yard couldn't understand,

or they were prevented, but they didn't
understand this was something new.

Jack was a revolutionary.

He held the horror up to our eyes.

And, above all,
he was the alibi for demolishing

those unhealthy areas that existed
in the Middle Ages.

So Madrid
has followed in London's footsteps.

Then Jack...

Jack.

Jack was two or three
English hired assassins,

and other soldiers of crime from here.
Left-and right-handed.

Men who were carefully selected

and well trained
by an expert master of ceremonies.

People would be scared if they knew

the number of sons of bitches
who'll do anything.

If I understand right,

Jack is someone brought by the future.

The future doesn't exist.

No.

Doubt exists,
and fear of what is to come.

The future is invented by the victors.
Their best weapon for controlling,

manipulating, for scaring, for trading,

for going to war. But, yes,

it's progress, development,

that is covering
up and camouflaging Jack.

Helped by power.

Financial power, political power,
the power of the press,

judicial power. Power.

That virus that changes location
and intention,

constantly, year after year,

century after century,

since the world began.

So, magnates, politicians, judges...
I won't stop till I get those bastards,

until they rot in jail...

First, I'll ask
for a parliamentary investigation.

It'll be no use.

The networks surrounding the corrupt
in your country and mine,

in every country,

are both invisible and indestructible,

and they outlast governments and reigns.

Don't investigate with your heart.

Do it with your stomach.

MINISTRY OF PUBLIC WORKS

Good night. Thank you.

Likewise.

I suspect it's not good news.

Yes and no.

Everything signed to date
will be respected

and consequently will be carried out.

The rebellion has no future.

What does that mean?

It's better than nothing.

Mr. Wilson, I understand
that your work has finished.

Sir Alfred,

inform your government of our gratitude
for its help and collaboration.

I'll do that.

I repeat that all that
has been signed will go ahead.

Good night. Thank you and good night.

Good night.
Good night.

Paco, sheer curiosity.

Does the decision
come from very high up?

From very high up, my dear Ginés,
and from far, far outside.

I see.

Here, the receipt for your luggage.

Thank you. We expect you in London.
You've promised.

Yes...

Mary is dying to meet you.

And I, her.

Luisito...

Give my thanks to Mr. Galdös
for his books.

I'll do that.

I'd like you to have this.

TODAY YOU'LL FIND A FRIEND

Thank you.

The lad at Bagatelle was right.

Say goodbye to Inspector Val...

To the Inspector.

Tell him that the next time
I'll pronounce his name perfectly.

Alcántara, we're off.

Safe journey.

Holmes.
Alcántara.

Safe journey.

Luisito.
Johnny...

Safe journey.

Well... Delgado,

I'm going to ask you
a question that's a little odd.

Do you know how I could send
a bath tub

to a town in the Alcarria?

Of course.

You've asked the right person.

The Continental Express Agency has just
opened, on the Carrera de San Jerónimo.

They send all kinds of things,
quickly and economically,

to any part of the civilized world,

including La Alcarria, naturally.

You know, Watson?

In a little while I'm going to be...

Well, a good age.

January 6.

What was the name of the park in Madrid?

Good morning. Tickets, please.

Good morning.
Good morning.

Wagner, Richard Wagner.

The Valkyrie. The Ride.

Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.

And Watson. Dr. Watson.

The Buen Retiro Gardens.

That's the name of the park.

That's it.

Retire...

withdraw a little from
the hustle and bustle of this mechanical

thing we call life.

And what will you do?

I have my bees,

my Zeiss microscope.

Yes... I'd like to know

why bees make their cells
a hexagonal shape,

and not round or square.

I have my violin,

a walk through Hyde Park
after reading the Times.

Perhaps a bicycle,

and a bit of sun.

And a woman?

Good God, Watson!
Don't be a spoilsport.

Don't add fog to the landscape.

You have to throw in a touch of ham,

which we'll cut
from these marvels I've brought.

Then you add pork fat,

and from the packet
Luisito gave us, we'll put in these

black puddings and those red chorizos.

I love the mantilla, darling.

Yes, I wrote it all down.

First, you serve the soup,
a broth with all the flavor

of the vegetables,
the legumes, the meat.

Ideal for cold winter days.

Do you think
you can make me a cocido?

I'll do my best, darling.

Soon you and I will go to Spain,

and Italy, and France.

Sherlock is talking of retiring.

Don't believe it.

He seems to be serious this time.

What would you like for our first trip?

You know my favorite trips
with you are here, to the bedroom.

Travel changes people a bit,
doesn't it, doctor?

I love you.

Thank you.

Surprised, Holmes?

Not at all.

Please, sit down.

I can't offer you your Lapsang Souchong,
only normal tea.

I don't want anything.

Abberline has left us.

He's gone to New York, to Pinkerton's.

Everything fits.

Excuse me?

Wilson, now that we are not alone,

I'll tell you that until recently

there was a letter here
from Robert Pinkerton,

one of the two sons of Allan Pinkerton,
who founded the Agency.

A letter addressed
to our Prime Minister,

dated December 15, 1889,

and marked Private & Confidential.

A letter in which,
while reminding our dear Salisbury

of certain outstanding debts,

he informed him that
all the evidence regarding

"the terrible matter of last year"

had been destroyed, and that they,

that is, you, Scotland Yard,

should do the same
if they hadn't done so already.

Don't deny you knew that Pinkerton

and some of his men were
in London during the autumn of '88.

I know we'll never know who was,
or who were, Jack.

Not in 100 or 200 years.

All that is left here
are false clues and evidence

to disorient and confuse
any future investigation.

But I'll ask you the question
by a Spanish writer,

who was a true Grande of Spain.

Why?

Why?

Why are you asking me
that question, Holmes?

Because you, Wilson,

were the Master of Ceremonies
of a fantastic soiree,

the Ring Master
of a fiendish spectacle.

A Robert Houdini

who made bloodstained trails disappear,
first from his London Company

of Black Magic,

and then from his Madrid Company
of Occult Forces.

No, no.

I don't count, Holmes.
I'm nothing, nobody.

Barely a tiny link in a chain that begins
who knows where and ends

somewhere equally unknown.

High up, I suppose, very high up,

where this is never anyone,

neither ideologies
nor cosmic plutocracies.

Nothing.

Be careful, Wilson.

Killing is an addiction
that's hard to shake off.

Yes?

For Mrs. Adler.

Grazie.

Sir Ilder McLean,
Second Viscount of Rochester.

He's inviting you to lunch domani.

How nice. How kind.

Tell him no.

Have you read it?

No.

Godfrey.
He wants a divorce.

Congratulations.

Before, and I'm not talking
about the Old Testament,

I knew, and saw for myself,

that one could love two or three men
at the same time.

And it was fine,

because some complemented others.

Some gave you respect,
others, security,

others, sex,

others, the best,
always made me feel free.

Including that pipsqueak
the King of Bohemia.

Of course, the poor thing.

He suffered from jealousy,
that Sicilian disease.

You know it?

But now, as I accumulate operas,

journeys and countries,

my capacity to love is decreasing.

Now I can only love one.

And one at a time.

Do you think that only happens
to American girls from New Jersey?

I've never loved anyone.

At least not the way I've seen you love.

What the bourgeoisie call love

is a commitment that isn't
designed for us, for artists.

Ours is altra cosa.

And, as well,
I think men make women worse.

That's why I've never loved one.

Men make us worse,
when we allow them to.

I need a pen and paper.

This is over, Angela.

You always say that
when we're in London.

Are we in London?

Yes.
Ah!

I'll prepare the black and white.

Yes.
No!

Yes.

Recently,
there are only two kinds of news:

bad and worse.

We're living in a terrible time,
don't you think, Holmes?

Wars, crimes,

puritanism,
which is even worse.

And we thought this
would be the century of invention,

of science, and look.

But it's also been the century
of Charles Dickens,

and of the Divorce Law,

and of "The Origin of the Species",
by Mr. Darwin.

And of boxing, and of betting,

and of the pubs, Watson,
those wonderful places

that never allow us to get home early.

More tea?
Yes, please.

Milk?
No.

But yes,
a century of wars is approaching.

I must go. It's getting late.

I promised to accompany Mary
to the dressmaker.

It's never late for us, my dear Watson.

On the contrary, it's always too soon.

True, my dear Sherlock.

Give my regard to Mary.

I'll do that.

Ah, love...

That is a drug,
the most dangerous and addictive.

Be careful with it, Watson.

You too, Holmes.

Watson, please tell Mrs. Hudson to come
when she wishes and clear this away.

Very well.

Enjoy the dressmaker's!

Thank you.

Come in, Mrs. Hudson.

Is it too early?

Make yourself comfortable.

Since when do you read Spanish novels?

I met the author.
Sit down.

What did you want to tell me?

Listen.

Listen carefully.

I don't recognize you, Scott.