Inspector Lewis (2006–2015): Season 2, Episode 1 - And the Moonbeams Kiss the Sea - full transcript

At first the murders of Reg Chapman, a handy man at the Bodleian Library and gambling addict, and Nell Buckley, a popular Art student, seem unrelated. However, it transpires that Chapmen stole parchment from the library upon which Nell and another student persuaded Philip, a brilliant, autistic young painter, to innocently forge letters by the poet Shelley for the international collectors' market. When both victims, for different reasons, threatened to expose the mastermind behind the scam, they were killed.

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If one of you could
turn them over...

You're students of mathematical
probability. Conclusion?

You cheated.

Give that man a double first.

"And the sunlight
clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea:

What are all these kissings worth

If thou kiss not me?"

That's nice.

That's nice.

It's that guy. You know...Shelley.

Do I get a kiss?

I'm working.

Come on. Come on. Come on.

Come on. Come on. Come on.

ANSWERPHONE: "I'm sorry, I'm not
available to answer the phone.

If you'd like to leave a message,
please do so after the tone."

It's me.

All right?

What are YOU doing here?
Nobody's died.

I know. You'll be missing
your targets.

No, this is a social call.
I'm having a party.

It's a...special sort of birthday.

Think of a number,
then forget about it immediately.

Thank you.

Oh, if you'd like
to bring anybody...

I haven't really got anybody.

You could always bring
the dishy Sgt Hathaway.

Hathaway? Dishy?

CROWD: # Happy birthday dear Laura

CROWD: # Happy birthday dear Laura

CROWD: # Happy birthday dear Laura

# Happy birthday to you #


Happy birthday.

Oh! Thanks, Robbie.

I didn't think you'd come.
Having a nice time?

Yeah, considering.

Yeah, considering.

Well, I'm out of practice
with parties and such.

And it's louder than I expected.

They were all medical students
once upon a time.

A few glasses of this,
and they revert.

Hey, do you play cards?

A bit of cribbage
with my grand-dad years ago.

But just for matches.

But just for matches.

Some of the guys are organising
a late-night poker session.

Some of the guys are organising
a late-night poker session.

Probably not for matches.
Not my scene.

Where's James?
I have no idea.

Where's James?
I have no idea.

Ah, thought so.

Didn't fancy being scowled at by
a room full of doctors and nurses.

Bad enough with civilians.

Are you having a good time?

As they say, you've
heard one joke about gallstones,

you've heard them all (!)

They're planning
a poker school indoors.

Play poker?

I play chess.

Why doesn't that surprise me?

I suppose what
I'm really thinking is,

"What time can I decently
get up and leave?"

We could invent an emergency call.


Maybe there IS a God.

If I was sure about that I wouldn't
have joined the police force.

Sounds quite serious.

Come on.

Inspector Lewis?

We thought you might need backup.
We didn't ask for any.

No. Nobody there. Evening, sir.

Who made the call?
Chap who lives here.

Name of Stringer. Some sort of
professor, by the looks of it.

Lots of books. Reported seeing
an intruder in the garden.

That's 'im.

I think he might appreciate
the reassurance of a senior officer.

You can try asking 'im.
Don't go anywhere.

We need a lift back to town.
There's a surprise (!)

Detective Inspector Lewis.

I simply reported an intruder
in my garden.

I wasn't expecting
a four-power conference.


We were at a party over there.
Dr Hobson's?

Yes, I know Dr Hobson.

Though, not well enough
to be invited to her party.



Two glasses of champagne,
they revert to being students again.

This intruder, if he were
to find his way in,

is there anything worth stealing?

There are some first editions,
which are probably quite valuable.

Though, I can't imagine the average
burglar knowing to steal them.

And then selling them off
down the pub.

I suppose if such a burglar existed,
we'd find him in Oxford.

But you saw an intruder?

I heard the neighbour's dog barking.

Ah, dogs. It's what they do best.

I looked out of the window and saw,

or I thought I saw,
somebody in the garden.

Due to the number of burglaries

Due to the number of burglaries
lately, I called the police,

as recommended by the leaflets
from Neighbourhood Watch.

Though, I think I was putting
my faith in the deterrent effect

of the flashing blue lights.

Seems to have worked.

Could it be personal?

You'll have to explain.

You'll have to explain.

If, as you say, there's nothing
of obvious street value -

I think the sergeant's wondering
whether you might have enemies.

I teach English literature.

My speciality is the Romantic poets
of the early 19th Century.

My speciality is the Romantic poets
of the early 19th Century.

Keats, Shelley, Byron...

rest of the guys in the band.

Among others.

It's not a profession which tends

It's not a profession which tends
to attract violent enemies.

Now, would I be right in thinking
we have exhausted this discussion?

I think so.
Don't you, Sergeant?

I think so.
Don't you, Sergeant?


Laura? Hi.

Listen, sorry to be party-poopers,
but something's come up.

Listen, sorry to be party-poopers,
but something's come up.



If I'd wanted to be a cab driver -
You'd need Latin. Sir?

I'll call you tomorrow. OK.

"Soon, these burning miseries
will be extinct.

I shall ascend my funeral pyre

and exalt in the ag...
agony of the torturing flames.

The light of that conflagration
will fade away.

My ashes will be swept into the sea
by the winds.

For my spirit -" For God's sake!
Is there much more of this?

It's good, isn't it?

Speaking as the English student,
I think it's terminally naff.

Speaking as a mathematician,
I agree.

MAN: But you read
quadratic equations for fun.

MAN: No, he doesn't.

He reads the starting prices
from Newmarket.

Gonna let me finish?
I think we should vote.

I second that.

I'd rather you told us about
Tolkien playing the banjo.

Dink, dink, dink, dink (!)

WOMAN: It was here last November

that a fully-grown crocodile
was spotted.

Photographs appeared in the press,
items on the national news.

Although the creature
was never caught,

there were reports that two dogs
disappeared without a trace

at the time.

As well as a prize-winning
Siamese cat,

belonging to a professor
of biochemistry.

Philip has some photographs
of this crocodile.

Which make very attractive
and rather unusual postcards,

available at a nominal charge,
as a lasting souvenir

of the secret Oxford THEY
would rather you didn't know about.

And that concludes our tour.

Thank you for being
such a lovely audience.

You're a credit to Charles Darwin.

Might I have a word?
About the crocodile?

Golly gosh,
formidable police presence.

Hand on heart, I was just passing.

And I much enjoyed
the bit of your tour that I saw.

But there have been complaints.

We can't give people
their money back.

It's a free service.
Who's been complaining?

Tourist Office say you tell
people a pack of lies.

Well...lies are more fun than
the truth, don't you think?

Politicians lie all the time.
You don't follow them, do you?

But if you want to arrest a poor,
struggling art student,

then now's your moment.
I'll come quietly.

Art student? So, this is all art?

Naturally. I mean,
everything that matters is art.

If we gave you a free postcard,
would that count as a bribe?


Give us a free postcard.

Give the nice policeman a postcard.

I need a word with the Dynamic Duo.

Would that be us, Ma'am?
It would.

The Desk had a complaint
about you two. From?

A man named Stringer.

Dr Stringer,
lecturer in English literature.

The same. He said you turned up
on his doorstep uninvited,

and that you were both drunk
and facetious.

We'd been drinking
at Dr Hobson's party.

But we were not drunk.

And...I don't understand facetious.

Something to do with dogs barking
and Romantic poets.

That would be me. I referred
to Keats, Byron and Shelly

as "the guys in the band".

Fairly harmless jest,
I would have thought.

To an Oxford academic,
that is facetious.

I don't even want to know about
the barking dogs.

We promise not to do it again.

You see, the principle behind
a partnership such as yours

is that the junior officer matures
to the level of the senior,

rather than that
the senior officer should regress.

I'll bear it in mind.

Was it a good party?

Compared with what?
Serves me right for asking.


All that and "dishy", too.

You see, I got the names right.

If you get names right,
you get away with murder.



And they said?
A suspicious death.

There are over six million items
in the library.

Books, manuscripts
and related material.

They're stored across several acres,

on several floors.

Anything you order at
the front desk

is with you within the hour.

Tell me about the dead man.

Mr Chapman. Yes. He works here -

worked here - as a senior
maintenance engineer.

They found him in
the basement stacks.

Through there.
Thank you.



We need to know who had access
to this area.

Anyone that works down here.

We wouldn't have found it
without a guide.

Hi. He was er, shot at close range.

A small-calibre handgun.

One of those pretty little
design-accessory weapons

that dealers like to carry.

It's not the sort of place to lie
in wait on the off chance, is it?

Any sign of a struggle?
Some bruising to the face.

As if he's been in a fight.
But probably not today.

You realise what we've got,
don't you, sir? What?

A body in the library.

Now, that is definitely facetious.

Yes. That's Reg.

Thanks, Mrs Chapman.

Cup of tea, a chat,

and then we'll find you a car
to take you home, all right?

It's amazing.

What is?

They just found a dead body
at the Bodleian.

A body at the Bodleian.

"I weep for Adonais - he is dead!

I weep for Adonais,

though my tears thaw not the frost,
which binds so dear a head!"

What's that?
Your main man.

He's writing about death.



I like him better
when he writes about...kissing.

You know, "the moonbeams kiss
the sea..." That bit.

Death...kissing, they're all parts
of the same thing.

Sort of, heads and tails.

Oh, we've gotta go to work.
Come on.

Do as you're told!
I always do as I'm told.

WOMAN: Come back here,
you little tykes!

Sorry about the house.
We used to have a lovely house.

Then he lost his job.
Which job?

His proper job. He was
an engineer at the car factory.

Then it all went belly-up.

I think that's what hurt him most.

"I'm a skilled man," he'd say,
"and look at me now.

Doing odd-jobs
for a bunch of librarians."

Librarians seemed happy enough
with his work.

He could do it in his sleep.

So, it didn't help
with the problem. Problem?

Has nobody told you yet?
No, not yet. What problem?

His gambling.
Oh, he's a gambler.

Oh, he could bet on anything.

Horses, dogs, football,

flies crawling up a window.

Except, you don't really see flies
any more, do you?

Wonder where all the flies
have gone. Funny that.

Tell me about his gambling.

It cost him his job,
his proper job.

Cost us our home, our proper home.

And, any day now, it was going
to cost him his marriage.

Who's the reader?

He said, working in the library,
he got interested in old books.

He said they were beautifully made.
He liked beautiful things.

He said no-one knew
how to make things any more.

You're not really supposed to take
things from the Bodleian.

He always returned them.
Would you like me to return them?

I'm past caring.

Well, thank you.
I'll let myself out.

It was here in THIS public house,

in the late 1940s,

that JRR Tolkien, author of
The Lord Of The Rings,

played the banjo in
a traditional jazz band called

The Thames Valley Cotton Pickers.

Now, although none of this
is actually stated

in any of the official biographies,
there are still people in Oxford

who will remember the great man,

after a couple of pints
of locally-brewed beer,

giving a sensational performance of

I Wish I Could Shimmy
Like My Sister Kate.

Now if you could all follow
the parasol.

It was here, under this very bridge,

that the famous Russian spies,

Guy Burgess, "Kim" Philby
and Donald McLean,

would gather to plot the overthrow
of the royal family

and British parliamentary democracy.
AMERICAN: I have a question.

I'm here to help.
Weren't those guys at Cambridge?

Exactly, the Cambridge spies.

And what better way to er,
cover their tracks

than to hold their clandestine
meetings here in Oxford?

Now we're going to go down
to the crocodile-infested river.

Suppose I say I don't believe
a word of any of this stuff.

But there are photographs
of the crocodile.

And I would say to you, sir,

do you believe that all men
and women are created equally,

with inalienable rights,

such as life, liberty
and the pursuit of happiness?

I hold those to be
self-evident truths.

It's easier to believe
a crocodile swims in the Cherwell.

She's quite extraordinary,
isn't she?

Indeed, she is.

Seems to be impressing
our American friend.

Americans impress easily.

Yeah. He had a fiver on each.

This one finished fourth,
the other a non-runner.

So, at least he gets
half his money back.

He doesn't, I'm afraid.
Why not?

He's dead. These were in his pocket.
What happened?

Seems he was murdered.


Did YOU take those bets?
No, that was me.

Sorry, I couldn't help overhearing.

What happened?
You are?

Eric Jameson.
He's our resident genius.

Second-year maths.
Working my way through college.

You knew Mr Chapman?
Same as any of the regulars.

You know them and you don't.
How did he seem this morning?

Same as usual. Never much to say.
Just placed his bets and left.

He never hung around, but er...

Well, he was officially at work.

And I shouldn't really be here.
I've got a seminar.

Yeah, off you go.

Is that all right?

I never stand in the way
of scholarship.

See you in the morning.

Mr Chapman was heavily in debt.
Can you shed any light on that?

He didn't owe US any money.
Do you allow credit betting?

With people like Reg,
it was strictly cash.

We're like banks.

We only lend money to people
who don't really need it.

You seeing his family?
Will be seeing his wife, yeah.

Well, we owe her a fiver
for the non-runner.

We can arrange for a policewoman
to come home with you.

Help with the children.

No need. We'll probably go
to my brother's.

Tell me about your brother.

Mick. Mick Jeffreys.
Works in the building trade.

Solid as a rock.

Him and his wife have been on at me
about leaving Reg for ages.

Did your husband ever get
counselling for his gambling?

Yes, I think he did.

Do you know who he saw?

No, it's anonymous, isn't it?

Like alcoholics,
a sort of secret society.

Sort of worked for a bit.

It was all ups and downs.

One minute there'd be no money,
then there'd be money, and...

then it was back to square one.

It got quite good about a month ago.

But that could be because
he'd had a couple of winners.

Did he ever get into fights?

Came home Saturday night
with a bruise over his eye.

But I didn't dare ask him about it.
Where had he been?

Dogs, probably. Can I go now?

We'll organise you a car.

Mrs Chapman?
I've got something for you.

It's from the bookmakers.

Apparently, your husband backed
a horse and -

And won.

Just like him
to back a winner TODAY.

It's a non-runner, actually.

So, the money's returned.

It's only five pounds, but...

May only be five pounds to you.

STRINGER: I was somewhat alarmed
to see so many of you

insist on referring
to the writers' intentions,

when grappling with the mysteries
of the great Romantic poets.

You're not in the sixth form now.

You're supposed to be grown-up
and mature.

So, let us spell this out.

Keats, Shelley, Byron, Coleridge,

and the rest of, what
a passing stranger recently called,

"the guys in the band"

generally had no idea
what their intentions were.

They were too intoxicated.

With drink, with drugs, with love,

with their own vanity.

Even after writing their poems,
they had no clear idea.

Which, happily, gives me
something to teach.

And you something to learn.

Hands up. Who is the guilty party?

I think it might be you.

Mea culpa.

You will be happy to know that this
is a message written in clear,


unambiguous English.

Intentions made clear?


Because this is a message
not from a poet or an artist...

..but from a mathematician.

Now, where were we?

Here are details of all the people
who work in the library,

full-time, part-time and temporary.

Well, I did ask. Thank you.

Tell me about the security here.

You've got more than six million
books, original manuscripts.

All that lot must be worth
a fortune. Yes.

Their price is beyond rubies.

And if I tell you
our security system,

you probably won't believe me.
Try me.

Everyone who joins the Bodleian
has to read out loud...

.."I hereby undertake
not to remove from the library,

or to mark, injure or deface
in any way,

any volume, document,
or other object belonging to it,

or in its custody.

Not to bring into the library,
or kindle therein,

any fire or flame.
And not to smoke in the library.

And I promise to obey all the rules
of the library."

Sounds like my old Wolf-Cub promise.

Does it work?

Yes, it does, as a matter of fact.

We lose far fewer items than any
other library in the country.

There's no mention of murder.

Fair point. But it is
the first one in 500 years.

And we did discover these
at Chapman's house.


Hm. That's interesting.

Are they valuable?
They're quite old, early 1800s.

But old age in itself doesn't
necessarily make things valuable.

The older I get,
the more I realise that.

No, it's just, if his gambling debts
were as large as you tell me,

then these wouldn't scratch
the surface.

But I'll check with the experts,
and get back to you with figures.

How easy or difficult
is it to check

whether something's gone missing?

Er, not impossible,
but time-consuming.

We'll do our best.

OK. Here's one last teaser for you.

We're in the final
of a darts tournament.

Player A needs 117,

which, you'll work out in a trice,

means a finish of treble 19,
a single 20 and a double 20.

Player B needs 83,

where the standard finish is
treble 17 and double 16.

However, player A
has a career-success rate of 80%.

Player B has a career-success rate
of 65%.

And this time next week,
you'll tell me who will win,

and what odds the bookmaker
should offer on the result.

Well, if it was easy, you'd all be
at Reading or Keele.

That's all, folks.

Eric, could you spare a minute?

Yeah, sure.
See you later.

I've been looking into this bloke,
the brother-in-law.

Put pressure on Mrs Chapman
to walk out on the marriage!

A bit of form. He likes
to get drunk and beat people up.

Has he ever shot anyone?

I'm sure he'll tell us.


Did you get on with your
brother-in-law, Mr Jeffreys?

Look, if a bloke wants to screw up
his own life, that's one thing.

When it's his wife and kid's,
that's something else.

When the wife is your sister?
Got it in one.

Have you ever hit him?

Depends on what you mean by "hit".

As in the last time you
were up in court for it.

Listen, that's all on the record.

I've paid my fines,
done my community service.

The full rehabilitation.
Check it.

And Reg Chapman?

Saturday night...

I gave him a couple of slaps
outside the dog track.


Cos he promised my sister
he'd stop going, and there he was.

And where were you earlier today?


That roof. Weren't here yesterday.
It's there now.

A roof as a witness.
That's a first.

Listen, I'm on a bonus deal here.

If I was gonna kill anybody,
I'd do it in my own time.

All I did was yell at the guy
at regular intervals.

I even suggested
he get counselling!

Let me put it this way.

If I have a friend
who has a gambling problem,

and I come to you for help,

what is the first thing
that would happen?


Yeah, I understand about

But it's a murder inquiry,
so it takes priority.

A name, address and phone number
would be deeply appreciated.

Hang on a minute.
Let me write this down.

She's a professor of mathematics,

With a gambling problem?

I don't know whether
that's a qualification.

Isn't that how alcoholics work?

We'll be big and grown-up, and ask.

We're hoping you can tell us
something about Gamblers Anonymous.

Try me. Er, please, sit down.

Well, for a start,
where do you fit in?

Well, if someone has a problem,

and he or she rings the number
in the phonebook,

then I'm the one who's
the initial point of contact.

So, do you have, or used to have,
a gambling problem?

I gamble.
But I don't have a problem.

What sort of gambling?
I play bridge.

For high stakes?

But I usually win, so that does
somewhat minimise the risk.

I suppose it would.

But if you usually win, how did you
get involved with the organisation?

A friend of mine did have a problem,
and I tried to help him.

And once I'd dealt into the game,
I found it difficult to walk away.

It's fascinating, and,
no point in being coy,

it relates to my academic work.
I specialise in probability theory.

How to beat the bank.

That's one way of putting it.

We're investigating the death
of a man called Chapman.

We know he had gambling problems.

We think he might have
come to you for help.

Well, let me check.

Reginald Chapman. Is that the man?

I can confirm he came to us.
And what happened then?

He attended group sessions,
and we gave him a mentor.

Somebody he could go to
if he was in trouble.

Could you give us a name?
I need to ask his permission.

Yeah, well, if you could
speak to him.

Let us have his name
by the end of the afternoon.

It shall be done. Anything else?

I have a facetious question.

Which is?
Where'd you get the necklace?

Ah, it is rather fun,
don't you think?

She's a student, Nell Buckley.

Makes jewellery out of bits
of recycled rubbish.

Call it my meaningful gesture
towards saving the planet.

And will we do it, do you think?
Save the planet.

Applying your laws of probability.

I think it's on a par
with beating the bank.

Another academic nutcase.

You're reading my mind.
I know.


STRINGER: "Sorry, I'm not available
to answer the phone.

If you'd like to leave a message,
please do so after the tone."

Hi. It's me.

Would you give me a call
when you've got a moment?

Fairly quickly, for preference.
It's about Reg Chapman.

Love you.

Inspector Lewis, it's Naomi Norris.

We seem to have turned up
something rather interesting

about the books that
Reg Chapman took home.

Yes, half an hour is fine.




I'll see you there.

What's the story?
Guy out jogging along the towpath

saw the body and called up
on his mobile.

Any identification?
Yeah, a Students Union card.

Seems to be called Nell Buckley.

That rings a bell.
She had this in her pocket.

"And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea:

What are all these kissings worth
If thou kiss not me?"


One of "the boys in the band"?
Yeah. He was a student at Oxford.

Then got sent down for having
an affair with a married woman.

Sounds like every student's
favourite role model.

Oh, God!

Oh, God!

Well, I met her.

Just the other day.
She was running guided tours

that were a pack of lies.
She was lovely.

Sorry to keep you waiting.
Do you know who she is?

An art student, Nell Buckley.

I don't know what I hope to find.
Come again?

Students have an above-average
tendency to commit suicide.

Especially when there's
a convenient river.

I never met anybody
less likely to commit suicide.

You don't smack yourself
in the back of the head

before you throw yourself
in the river, either.

Quite so.

She bribed me with
a postcard of a crocodile.

Yeah, that's her.


We were just putting up
a new exhibition of student work.

I'm no expert,
but this is very good, isn't it?

Yes, Philip is quite remarkable.


Er, Philip Horton.

He's something of a throwback.

You'll have to explain that.

Well, this art school,
by a long tradition,

has always focussed on the more
academic, old-fashioned virtues

of drawing and painting.

Obviously, that's all changed now.

It's a very broad church,
as you can see.

Yeah, I CAN see.

But when Philip turned up,

he reminded us of what was said
about Claude Monet,

"He's only an eye,
but what an eye."

Obsessed with setting down
what he sees in front of him.

No more, no less.

Surprised he wasn't there.

Where you found Nell, by the river.

They'd sit there for hours painting
the sky and the water.

Are you saying
they'd go there together?

Oh, most days, yeah.
Where might we find Philip today?

Well, if he's not by the river,

you'll probably find him
in the Ashmolean.

He stares at Turner and Constable,

trying to figure out
how they did it.

Thank you.

Philip Horton?


He wanted to get better
at painting clouds,

so he went out day after day
painting clouds.

You see, that's the way the clouds
looked on that day.

They never looked like that before,
and they never will again.

I think that's amazing.

Nothing is ever the same again.

We're told Nell Buckley
is a friend of yours.

I think so, yes.

Huh, you might say.

Are you not with her today?

We had a row.

Would you like to come with us,
tell us about this row?

I gave you a postcard.
You're the policeman.

Yes, I'm the policeman.

Come tell us about the row.

All right.

Now, Philip, do you understand
why we need to talk to you?

Not really, but it's interesting.

I never talked to
a policeman before.

Apart from the other day,
so that's twice in a week.

Is it all right if I erm...
It's fine.

The thing is, we're hoping
you might be able to help us

with some enquiries we're making
about Nell Buckley.

You should ask Nell about Nell.
She'd know.

You said you had a row.
What was that about?

Same thing as

Well, if you told us what
the argument was about,

do you think we'd understand?

We argue about what it is.

And what is it?
Nobody knows. It's why we argue.

See, I can't do what she can do,
and she can't do what I can do.

What can she do?

She's really good at making up
amazing things.

Like crocodiles in rivers?

Yeah. Amazing things like that.

I can't do that.

What can you do that she can't do?



That's terrific.

You can have that, if you like.

Are you sure?

I can easily do another
now I know what you look like.

Oh, excuse me.

Yeah, speaking.

Would you like me to do one of you?

Yeah, please.
Is it all right if I move?

Really doesn't make any difference.

The girl's parents

The girl's parents
are at the hospital.

And I need to talk
to Dr Hobson, so...

I'll talk to our young genius,
see where he was this morning.

I wish you luck.

Have you always been good
at drawing?

I suppose so. It's fairly easy.

Faces are easier to draw
than clouds or water,

because they stay still.

Did you go down to the river today?

Nell told me to meet her
at ten.

I got there at 09:37.
She wasn't there.

She still wasn't there at ten,
so I went to the gallery.

Does she sometimes not turn up?

Always forgetting things.

I remember things.

Was Nell your girlfriend?


Before the row.

Some people would say so.

Do you live together?

We live in the same house
with some other people.

Who else lives in the house?

James Coupland, reading history,
Jane Evans, reading English,

Charles Williamson, reading PPE,
Eric Jameson reading mathematics.

Would you like me to draw them?
No, you're all right.

Just tell me what you did
this morning.

Got up at 08:22, washed my hands
and face and cleaned my teeth.

I went downstairs and I boiled
the kettle, and had an egg.

At quarter to nine
I went back upstairs...

Yeah. Hi. It's me.

Have you seen the local newspaper?

Yeah, well, the question is,
should I be concerned?

Yes. Yes, I would like
to be reassured.

Thank you.

You see, he drew that
in about 60 seconds.

It was as if he didn't need
to look at me, just one glance.

I'm not a psychoanalyst.

I wasn't gonna quote you
in evidence.

Just wanted a friendly opinion.

Could the lad be...

I don't know, autistic?
Is that the word?

I only what I've seen
on TV documentaries

that I wasn't watching properly.

The trouble is,
these words are dangerous:

autism, dyslexia, bipolarity,

We throw people into those boxes,
and we kid ourselves

that we've explained everything
and solved the problem.

And we've done neither.

Am I allowed to say he's a bit weird?

Or do I have to say...

I don't know, "differently normal"?

No, you can say
anything you like to me.

That's something these days.

Listen, the boy's obviously got
exceptional skills.

He can see things and reproduce
them with no apparent effort.

You could argue that all artists
are abnormal in that respect.

Same way a musician can listen
to an entire symphony orchestra,

and hear the one instrument
that plays a wrong note.

He reckons he's no good at ideas.
That may well be true.

He may have trouble making

Joining the dots
to make sense of his world.

Or it's possible that all his life

people have told him
he's no good at ideas,

and he's ended up believing them.

And would he be capable of murder?

Oh, I don't know.


unlikely, except...


..he might.

He might, if someone
told him to do it.

Have you told Philip
what this all about?

No, I haven't.

About Nell Buckley, Philip.

You wanted to know
if she's my girlfriend.

Do you know why
we're so interested in her?


It's because she's dead.

I see.

I've got a key.

This is our living room.

We share it.

Erm, through that door's
our kitchen.

We share that, too.

I'm supposed to say,
would you like some tea?

No, thank you.

And you have a bedroom each?
Yes. One each.

Would you like to see mine?

Yes, please.

Could we borrow one of these,

Only for a lend.

It's my school work.
We'll give you a receipt for it.

You can have that one.

We'll take very good care of it.

Were you here today?

Yes, I told Mr Hathaway,
at 09:37 AM.

But Nell wasn't there,
so I went to look at clouds.

Why is she dead?

We don't know,
but we want to find out.

I think you might be able
to help us.

May we look at HER room now?

She collected stuff.

So I see.

What's this one?

That was her Explosion At Balliol.

She tried to blow up Balliol?
It was a concept.

I see.

And here's the famous crocodile.

That one was on News At Ten
with Trevor MacDonald.



They like a challenge.

Hi, lads. Girl's bedroom,
ground floor, first left.

Don't mistake
the rubbish for rubbish!

It could be crucial.

Oh, God!

Is this about Nell?
It is.

Do you live here?

Eric Jameson, studying mathematics.
We met at the betting shop.

Is Philip at home?

We left him painting
a picture of the kitchen.

How is he?

Sorry, silly question.
Why is it a silly question?

I've lived in the same house
as him for a year.

He's amazing, but I never have
a clue what he's thinking.

How would you describe
his relationship with Nell Buckley?


Seriously weird.

She bossed him around,

and he did as she told him,
like a little puppy dog.

Except, dogs know how to live,
don't they? Philip doesn't.

It's like he was born without
a book of instructions.

You didn't get on with him?

You can, sort of, tolerate him.

But Nell, we all loved her.

Philip won't let you get
near enough.

But Nell was just...


We'll be back later to talk
to everybody,

but we're here if you need us.

We need to get to the Bodleian.

I've been keeping them
hanging on all day.

No, don't worry. I can understand
that a body in the river

takes priority over
a couple of old books.

These are the books
you found at Reg Chapman's house.

Now, when we checked,
we discovered that

some of the end papers
have been removed.

You see?

The blank pages you find
at either end of most books.

Why would anyone do that?

Well, one possible explanation
is that they were used

to make forgeries
from the period in question.

In this case, the early 1800s.
And these?

Well, we did a little spot check
on the period,

and these turned up.

Love's Philosophy
and A Dream Of The Unknown.

They're both by Shelley.

"And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea..."

How can you tell they're forgeries?
They look good to me.

Well, I can't tell personally,
but this is Oxford.

There's a Shelley scholar
on every street corner.

And you can do scientific analysis
on the paper and so on.

Expensive and time-consuming.

And science only proves what
an expert authority can spot,

using instinct and experience.

So, that's what we did.
We called in an expert.

Somebody steals the originals,
sells them,

and replaces them with a forgery.
We imagine that's what happened.

And how much would these originals
be worth?

Ooh, 20, 30 thousand pounds a time.

Who buys them?

Someone with too much money.
And too much vanity.

Who was your expert?
We might need one ourselves.

Dr Stringer. He lectures
in English literature.

This looks promising.

Yeah, that's it, isn't it?

Medical evidence is that Nell
was banged on the head

and dropped in the river
early this morning.

Our young, born-again Claude Monet

admits that he was here at 09:37,
but says that Nell wasn't.

Do we believe him?
He's very precise about everything.

I could tell you in great detail
what he had for breakfast.

Obsessive neurotic.

Quite possibly autistic,
something along those lines.

Maybe he's sick of carrying out
her orders.

Or old-fashioned jealousy,
if she's seeing someone else,

one of the other students
in the house.

I don't buy him as a jealous lover.
He doesn't feel emotion

quite the way that other people do.

It could be rage and frustration.

She has all the ideas.
He can't even manage one.

My best offer's a definite maybe.

All right. Let's try coming in
a different door.

We've got two murders,
Reg Chapman and Nell Buckley.

Is there a link?


That's decisive. What is the link?



Oh, thanks for calling back...


Another link.
Make my day.

Professor Walters,
who works for Gamblers Anonymous,

she says that Reg Chapman's mentor
was Dr Stringer.

That bloke gets everywhere.

Dr Stringer.
Inspector Lewis.

Do come in.

Mea maxima culpa.

Four...five years ago...

..I developed a serious
gambling habit.

Addiction, to be precise.

Cost me my marriage.

I sought help a little too late
in the day, admittedly.

What kind of gambling?


But then a good friend
weaned me off it,

and I started playing bridge,
which is rather less lethal.

It's quite quite a leap, isn't it,
from studying Romantic poets

to playing high-stakes poker?

Well, superficially, yes.

But erm... I've talked about this
a lot in group sessions.

You wouldn't believe how we all
go on about our problems.

And I think I was looking
for some kind of

risk-taking in my life
that I wasn't finding in my work.

And, of course, the poets in
question, Keats, Shelley, Coleridge,

and the rest of
"the guys in the band",

to use your striking phrase,

they all believed
in living dangerously.

Tell us about Reg Chapman.

Gamblers and reformed gamblers

try to support each other.

I'd survived it,
come through the other side.

If Chapman was in trouble,
he would come to me for support.

That was the theory.
Did it work?

I'm afraid not.
He was too far gone.

I saw my role
as lending him support.

He saw my role
as lending him money.

Did you lend him money?

You don't LEND money
to men like Chapman.

You give it to them,
and you never see it again.

While we're in confessional mode,

that night when I called
the police,

I'm pretty sure it was Chapman
who was in my garden.

Wanting to borrow money?

Couldn't he just knock
at the front door?

I think he'd moved
beyond that stage.

He'd gone over the edge.

I was genuinely
concerned for my safety.

Could his death be connected
to the forged Shelley manuscripts?

I gather you'd seen them.

Truly, I have no idea.

How good are the manuscripts?

Well, they're good enough to fool
a casual observer.

They could have lain
in the archives for years unnoticed.

How do you feel about forgery
of that kind?

It's contemptible.

Couldn't be clearer.

Right. Thank you for talking to us,
Dr Stringer.

Is it like being an alcoholic?
I'm sorry?

Well, I've never been either,

but I'm told that you never stop
being alcoholic.

You're an alcoholic
who's chosen not to drink.

Is it the same with gambling?

I don't think people
are that simple.

We're all different.
It's what makes us interesting.

He's a glib sod, isn't he?

One day you're gonna meet
an Oxford academic you like.

I think I liked him better
when he was being nasty.

"Lost angel
of a ruin'd paradise!

She knew not 'twas her own... with no stain SHE FADED a cloud
which had outswept its rain."

For God's sake, Phil!

It's all Shelley's fault.

So, will you shut it?

All right.

Nell was remarkable.

But she didn't always know
where to draw the line

between a genuine work
of the imagination

and, well, let's be kind,

a pathetic adolescent
practical joke.

The Explosion At Balliol.

We saw the photograph in her room.

She left an empty cardboard box
on the steps of Balliol,

then made anonymous phone calls
in a sinister foreign accent

to say there was an empty cardboard
box on the steps of Balliol.

Bomb squad moved in,
they had a controlled explosion.

And Nell made a video of it,

posted it on the Net,

and also submitted it
as part of her coursework.

And the crocodile in the river?
The same.

Pain in the arse, but is it art?

This is what I wanted to show you.

We had an exhibition
of student work last year.

And Phil Horton and Nell Buckley
showed some pieces together.

In fact, it was the first time we
heard they were working as a team.

When you say "team",
do you mean romantically?

Or do kids not do romance any more?

I'm not sure if sex came into it
or not. I mean, you've met Phil.

You never know what
he's thinking or feeling.

But Nell seemed to make
some sort of connection.


What am I looking at?

Well, this is a letter
from Shakespeare

to his leading actor
Richard Burbage,

complaining about his performance
in Hamlet.

This is from Walter Raleigh
to Elizabeth I.

And this is a love letter
from Shelley to Mary Godwin,

before they were married.
So, these are joke letters?

Yeah. If you look carefully,
you'll see that

Raleigh tells the Queen
not to forget the milkman's note.

Shakespeare has a bit of a moan
about Arts-Council grants.

And Shelley apologises to Mary
about leaving her mobile

on the Northern Line.

Did they sell any of these?

But I'm told the English lit crowd
were very impressed.

I mean, apparently,

Phil had the handwriting off
to perfection.

What had she been doing recently?

She said it was something big,
but she wouldn't tell us what.

"Prepare to be amazed",
she told me.

She might have talked to some
of the other students about it.

Talk to her friends at the house.
It's being done.

We're two short.

Phil's probably painting
the bloody river. Again.

And er...Charles Williamson?

He's got a tutorial.

He's grovelling for a first.
Will he get one?

Past the post and weighed in.

Betting-shop talk, sorry.
Do you enjoy working there?

It beats the hell out of

selling alcopops to teenagers
in a wine bar.

That's what you do?

Yes. It would great,
except I'm allergic to puke (!)

Did Nell ever have
any part-time work?

No. She sold one or two pictures

when the students
had their exhibitions.

And she made jewellery.
She made this.

It's recycled tat,
but it's, sort of, fun.

It's very cheap.

Yeah, well, I didn't pay for it.

I did her laundry.

She took good money from
adults who bought it.

Like Professor Walters?
You've talked to Professor Walters?

She's his Prof.
That's why he's gone pale.

Did Nell ever talk about Shelley?


She and Phil used to recite
his poems to us,

in the early hours of the morning.

And stories from Frankenstein.

Unless we stopped them,
which we usually did.

I'm gonna let myself out.

And there's something else
I should say. Say it.

We all adored Nell.

If we were to find
the guy who did this,

we'd happily tear him
limb from limb.

How's it going?

This is No.17 in a series of over
100 video installations

on Nell's computer.

It's called Paint Drying.
Can you guess what it's about?

Well, it might have dried
by the time I get back.

I've got a date.

You don't have dates.

What's this about? Autism again?

No, not autism.

Gossip about your neighbours.

Any particular neighbour?
Dr Stringer?

Ah, the one that shopped you
for being drunk and facetious.

One and only. Did you know he had
a gambling problem?

I played bridge against him
at the university bridge club.

They were all way too good for me.

But I didn't know he had
a gambling problem, no.

He says it cost him his marriage.

That's not what I heard.
Ooh, what did you hear?

According to Mrs Collinson,
who does my ironing,

it was good old-fashioned adultery
with his bridge partner.

Maths professor Sandra Walters?

You see? You ARE a good detective.

No matter what the neighbours say.

HATHAWAY: It doesn't make sense.

Do you remember how evasive
Professor Walters was

about Stringer
and Gamblers Anonymous?

"It's confidential," she says,
"I have to ask his permission

before I can share
that information with you."

But she's sleeping with the guy.

She could have just called him
and told us then.

Instead of which, she took 24 hours.

Plenty of time for them to cover
their tracks about something.

What's this?
Philip's sketchbooks.

Old-fashioned art.

A visitors' book.

I'm sure that the real information
is hidden away inside Nell's laptop.

I bet you she had some esoteric
password like "Tolkien's banjo".

So, try it.
I have.

And every permutation
of crocodile I can think of.

I know this face.

That's Reg Chapman's

Why would HE be at Nell's house?

Joining the dots
is all well and good,

but suddenly there's far too
many bloody dots.

I'm gonna get some fresh air.

Can you spare me for half an hour?

Have you got a date?

I don't have dates.

Would it put you off if I watch?


I went round your house today.

I think it's a nice house.
Mm, me too.

Your friends told me that
you recite poetry to them. Yes.

Do you know lots of poetry?

You always been good
at learning things?

One of the nurses
in the foster home taught me

Wembley cup-winning teams
from 1923 onwards.

When you were a kid?

Bolton Wanderers, Newcastle Utd,

Sheffield Utd, Bolton Wanderers,
Cardiff City, Blackburn Rovers -

I think I'd rather hear some poetry.

All right.

"I dreamed that,
as I wandered by the way,

Bare Winter suddenly
was changed to Spring;

And gentle odors
led my steps astray,

mixed with a sound
of waters murmuring..."

That one's about a dream.

That was lovely. Thank you.

Could never remember any poetry
when I was at school. It's easy.

Do you just read it and know it?

I write it and I know it.

Do you write it down by hand?

That's how I do writing.

We found a piece of paper
in Nell's pocket.

With poetry written on it.

"And the moonbeams kiss the sea..."

Yeah, that bit. Did you write it?

I said it one day and she said,
"Will you write it down?" And I did.

Do you know what a forgery is,

Yes, it's a crime.

You've never written a poem to make
it look like someone else had?

Why? Everyone would know I'd
done it, and it would be a crime.

Yeah, it would.

Nell wouldn't let me do a crime.

Thanks for talking to me.

It was nice.

Nell used to talk to me.

But she isn't here now.

Certainly I visited the house.

And that were...about a month ago.

I can check my job sheets for you.

I didn't know young Leonardo
had done a picture, though.

What was the job?

They'd had a break-in. I fixed
the front door, changed the locks.

Have a word with the landlord.
Bastard hasn't paid yet.

Oh, and your time.

Last week I fixed the damp-proof
course in a convent.

Doesn't mean I'm planning to murder
Mother Superior.

You realise I went on that girl's
little conducted tour?

Oxford's Secret Heritage Trail,
or whatever the hell she called it.

Huh. Tolkien playing the banjo,
Cambridge spies.

Crocodiles in the river.

Was it rewarding?

Highly inventive. She's very smart.

It's a damn shame
what happened to her.

We live in a veil of tears.

That's very poetic,
for a mathematician.

At its deepest level,
mathematics IS poetry.

You'd argue that, at the deepest
level, everything's poetry.

Including death.

Yes, I probably would.

Nell Buckley, conceptual artist,
and brilliant at having ideas.

Girl who fooled the bomb squad.

Philip Horton, who can draw and paint
anything you set down before him.

Then, over here, Reg Chapman,
the maintenance man at the Bodleian.

Total access to all parts
of the library.

He brings out the originals,
Philip makes the copies.

The boy claims Nell wouldn't have
let him commit a crime.

She could lie!
He'd have believed her.

Forensics found gum arabic
and iron sulphate at the house.

And a mortar and pestle. Everything
you need to make 19th-Century ink.

AND Nell was apparently working
on some top-secret project.

How did the originals get to Horton?
Via Eric Jameson.

He lives in the same house
as Philip and Nell,

but also works part-time
in Reg's favourite betting shop.

So, having made these forgeries,

what happens next
in this dream scenario?

The originals are sold
on the open market,

and the forgeries replaced
in the Bodleian.

A bit more complicated than that.
These were found in Nell's locker -

forged letters from Shelley
to his wife Mary.

These letters, if they were genuine,

would be the Holy Grail
to Shelley scholars the world over.

And worth an absolute fortune.

Why's that?

You know that Mary Shelley
wrote Frankenstein?

I've even read it.

There have been mischievous
suggestions down the years

that it was all HIS idea.

A mere man. And these letters
apparently support that theory.

I have to say, speaking as a woman,

I am delighted
that they're forgeries.


You all right?

Eric Jameson not here today?

Nah, he called in sick.
Is he all right?

Yeah, he's fine.

He's a good lad.
Bright as a button.

Hasn't been up to anything, has he?
Not that we're aware of.

It's more about Reg Chapman.

Did you ever see him
give anything to Eric?

Maybe in a large envelope.

Can't say that I did.

But, if he did, it'll be on video.

That's what we hoped you'd say.

Did you find anything on the tapes?

Sad people placing bets,
most of them losing.

Reg Chapman delivering
mysterious packages?

Not yet.

What we really need is a full
confession from Eric Jameson.

We'll ask him. Nicely.

While you're in here, see if
you can find any goose feathers.

I thought that was
a Marx Brothers film.

You can sharpen them
to make authentic quill pens.


Sorry to interrupt.

We'd like a word with Eric Jameson.

We all would. He went out about
two hours ago to get some pizzas.

And we haven't seen him since.

Mind if we come in and wait?

Not at all.

And then there were two.
Where's everybody else?

Philip's in his room painting
another picture.

And Charles is at college.

And Eric...
Has disappeared without a trace.

Oh, God! Nothing's happened to him,
has it?

There's no reason to think so.

We would like to have a look
around the house.

Help yourselves.

You had a break-in last month.
How come it wasn't reported?

Well, they didn't take anything.
Often happens to student houses.

Usually druggies and you only
report it for the insurance claim.

Nobody ever gets caught.

We'll try and do better in future (!)

It's open.

Philip, is it all right
if I come in and look around?

Yes. It's all right.

Looking for goose feathers.

It's in this draw.

This top one?




Do you know what this is?
Easy. It's a gun.


Sergeant found a gun.

You've never see this before?

No. Positive.

How did it get into your room?

I don't know. Give in.

Do you keep your room locked?
I can't.

Why not?
There's no key.

Philip, we'd like you
to stay here for a while.

That's OK. There's lots of paper.
Can I use it?

I was hoping you might.

Try to think where Eric Jameson
might have gone.

We really need to talk to him
about Nell.

Understand what I mean?
Is it to do with Nell dying?

Yeah. All right.
I dread to think about Eric.

I could talk to him all day,
but I wouldn't get anywhere.

He only comes to life
when he's drawing pictures.

Most of the time he's locked away
in his own little world.

Well, does he ever pop out
of his little world to kill people?

Supposing the girl asked him,
"Here's a gun, go shoot that man.

Just to please me.
It's an artistic concept."

Why would he then kill HER?

Because even he can realise
she's ruined his life.

Can you see that boy surviving
five minutes in prison?!

And find Jameson. Whichever way
you stack it, he's involved.

I don't who you are,
and how you got my number.

I don't know where he is.
Please leave me alone!

Hi. It's me.
I'm getting funny phone calls.

You too?

No, it's just a casual enquiry.
Our problem. Thanks for your help.

What's our problem?
Finding Eric Jameson.

Hasn't been to college,
or in touch with the betting shop.

His parents are
in Verona listening to operas.

I've been watching highlights
of Nell's Magical Mystery Tour.

"What better way to cover tracks

than to hold their clandestine
meetings here in Oxford?

Now we shall go down to
the crocodile-infested river."

Come on. Let's concentrate
on finding Jameson.

Over here.

Are you all right?
No, I'm bloody terrified.

You're all right in public.
Terrified for Eric.

I can guess where he is.
Me too. That's why I'm terrified.

Well, that's very good.

Where is it?
You asked me to think about Eric.

Did this for Eric last year.

Jameson's father's in the Church.
Do you know where this is, Philip?

No, Eric gave me a photograph
to copy.

But I remember it.
It looks like this.

May I?

I know where that is.
From your spiritual background?

No, I played there last year
with the band.

Thanks, Philip.

Look. All ready for a quick getaway.

Mr Jameson?

I'm Inspector Lewis.

I have Sgt Hathaway with me.

No need to be running away.

Two people have died.

Safest place you can be is with us.

Good decision.

Why don't we take a pew?

You can tell us
what's been going on.

Is this good cop/bad cop?

No, you're a very lucky lad.
This is two good cops.

Start with the gun. The one you
planted in Philip's room.

Honestly, I don't know anything
about that.

So, why did you run away?
Cos I'm scared.

I'd forgotten my folks were away.

All right. Let's do the easy bit
- the forgeries.

Reg Chapman delivered some packages
to you at the betting shop.

What happened to them after that?

I gave them to Nell, and when
she'd finished with them,

I'd return them to Reg.

You'd really no idea
what it was all about? No.

I assumed it was one of her
wacky projects.


With Nell...everything was art.

Mr Jameson?

It is.

Are you all right?

Mr Jameson is with a couple of
honest, English cops.


QUENTIN Jackson?
My father adored Duke Ellington.

Quentin Jackson was a trombone
player in the Duke's band.

Antiques, first editions,
original manuscripts.

That's correct.
And you were on Nell Buckley's tour.

I saw the video.

This could be the start
of a special relationship.

Do you want to tell us
what you're doing here?

Well, a client of mine
in the States

bought two Shelley manuscripts.

And he was offered the chance
to buy the Frankenstein letters.

The Holy Grail.

But he was a little concerned
about their provenance.

So he commissioned me to come and -
Check out the small print.


When I arrived, I felt like I was
surrounded by murder and mayhem.

And I became genuinely concerned
over the safety of the boy,

after what had happened
to the girl.

How did you know he'd be here?

I told Professor Walters,
in my best Bronx accent,

I wanted to make an offer
he couldn't refuse.

So, she gave me his home address,

and when I discovered it was
the vicarage and nobody was there,

I ... Yeah, I took
an educated guess.

Professor Walters?
Yes, she's a mathematician.

How does she fit into YOUR equation?

Oh, she sold my client
the manuscripts of the poems.

And offered to supply the letters.

Do you carry a gun, Mr Jackson?

In my country I have
a constitutional right to bear arms.

But I've always chosen to ignore it.

Like my father,
I have an enduring love

of the music of Duke Ellington.

Nobody can love that music

and be a party
to the taking of human life.

I'd like a statement of all your
dealings with Professor Walters.

I am at your disposal, Inspector.

Thank you.

Did you write these?

With that?

Yes. They're lovely to write with.
You can do thin lines or thick.

But Nell told you what to put, hm?

I'm no good at making things up.

You know forgery's a crime?

She said it would only be a crime
if she sold them.

She wasn't going to tell THEM.

It was her project. It couldn't be
a crime if it was a project.


She taught me how to spell
Frankenstein. Very good.

Not sure I could spell Frankenstein.
I can spell Prometheus, as well.

Come with me, Philip.
All right.

Can Philip have your desk?

Am I going to play
at being a policeman?

Why not? We do it all day.

Pretend you're a policeman trying
to find out what happened to Nell.

That's a sad thing to do.

Yeah, sometimes policeman
have to do sad things.

Philip, could you spell Prometheus
for me?

P, R, O, M, E, T, H, E, U, S.


Whatever WAS there has been wiped.

Leave it. We're gonna
do some applied mathematics.


Come in, darling. I'm decent.

That doesn't have to be permanent.


Mistaken identity.

Seemingly. You can probably
guess why we're here.

As you know, my area of expertise
is probability.

Seems to me the probability is

you're going to accuse me
of involvement

in some kind of criminal activity.

Aiding and abetting the distribution
of forged and stolen manuscripts.

Via the good offices of a gentleman
called Quentin Jackson.

With a probability you'll obtain
a warrant,

so you can delve around in my
correspondence and computer files.

Whereas you'll find no mention
of anybody called Jackson.

It's not a probability,
that's a certainty.

Well, let me save you the trouble.

Help yourself. Do it now.


This sounds like darling.

What's happening?

I've just invited
the forces of law and order

to make a thorough search
of all my records.

I'll settle for the necklace.

What's that?
USB stick.

All the files on her computer
she didn't want anyone to see.

What? Hanging round her neck?
Once a gambler...



Walters stole Nell's files.
She could have planted the gun, too.


Well, that's very good.
Tell us about it.

It's the man by the river bank
the day Nell wasn't there.

Do you know the man's name?


Could you draw him?
He was too far away to see.

But he got into this car
with that woman.

And then they drove away.

He's written the number plate down.

Yes. I remember numbers.

Do you think the probability is
they're planning to run away?

We're going to a bridge tournament
in Aylesbury.

We had thought to make a push for
the Mexican border before nightfall.

Why should we be running away?

We have a witness who was by
the river the day YOU killed Nell.

And who saw you get into a car -
this car, to be precise.

Driven by your good friend
and bridge partner.

Your very good friend
Professor Walters.

A reliable witness? Or that idiot
boy from the art school?

That "idiot boy" is
the best witness I've ever met.

Who will be torn to shreds by any
self-respecting defence lawyer.

Unlike Quentin Jackson.

I've never heard of him.

According to the information
we found around your neck,

and supported by Mr Jackson,

you two received $50,000 from
an American horror-movie buff

for the first of a series of letters
from Shelley to Mary,

detailing the plot of Frankenstein.

Why jeopardise good academic
careers for such a venture?

Over the last year you've played in
bridge tournaments in Paris, Geneva,

Rome, New York.

You've stayed in five-star hotels,
you've flown first-class.

All on university salaries?

But it isn't that, is it?

You did it to see whether you could.
The ultimate gamble.

Beating the bank.

It's not about beating the bank.

It's about beating fate.

And we very nearly did.

Not only that,
you almost got away with murder.

It was nothing to with me.
And the cock crowed a third time.

You were also at the Bodleian
the day Reg Chapman was murdered.

I don't deny it.
It's an old-fashioned library.

And the old-fashioned librarians
will confirm

that I was at the main entrance
at 10AM and left two hours later.

Yeah, but the new-fangled security
cameras at the rear of the building

will confirm that you did meet
Chapman a little later.

When he came outside
for a cigarette.

And you both went back inside.

I assume Chapman wanted more money.
And if you didn't pay,

he was gonna blow the whistle
on the forged manuscripts.

Chapman was a gambler...
and pathetic into the bargain.

Nell Buckley was
a little bit more complicated.

You recruited her and Philip Horton
to forge the Shelley poems.

Then she came to you
with an even more exciting idea -

the Frankenstein letters.

All you had to do
was authenticate them.

And wait for the money
to start rolling in.

And you assumed that, like any
decent 21st-Century citizen,

she was only in it for the money.

But she wasn't.

She was only interested in art.

She kept a record of the whole story.

You found out
she was gonna submit it

as part of her academic portfolio.

Wouldn't have done your reputation
much good, would it?

A leading authority on
the Romantic poets

suckered by
a second-year art student.

I hate students.

And I hate artists.

All of them.

The writers, the painters,
the poets -

The guys in the band?
Even Shelley?

Especially bloody Shelley.

How are you, Philip?


We've charged the man
who murdered Nell.

Will he not kill any more
people now?

Won't kill any more people.


And this is Shelley?

His name's written there.

Of course.

"And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea:

What are all these kissings worth
if thou kiss not me?"

He wrote that?

It was Nell's favourite.

Yes...he made it up.

I wish I could make things up.