Lovejoy (1986–1994): Season 1, Episode 8 - The March of Time - full transcript

Who'll start me at 100?
100 for a start.

100 I'm bid. 100 I'm bid.

Who'll give me 10, who'll make it 110?
I'm looking for 110.

100? 110 I'm bid. 110?

Who'll make it 20?
Come on, gentlemen, who'll make it 20?

120 I'm bid. It's with you, madam, at 120.

Do I hear 50? 150 anywhere?

Come on, gentlemen, that's a genuine antique.
They don't come up every day. 150?

150 I'm bid.

Come on, gentlemen, I'm looking for 350.

350 anywhere?



Don't lose it, madam,
don't lose it for another 50.

350 anywhere? 350 I'm bid.

At 350. Who'll make it four?
I'm looking for four.

Any more? At 350.

Are you all done? At 350? At 350...

Lovejoy.

Hello and welcome to the Radio Norfolk
Farming Program.

Did you see that?

So, the barman,
feeling very embarrassed by this time,

says, "That's funny,
we've even got a Scotch named after you."

"Really?" says the horse. "Eric?"

- No, well, I still don't get it.
- It was a white horse.

Well, maybe I'm missing the point
because my name is Eric.

Oh, gimme a break.



Well, is there a whisky called Eric?

Oh, Eric!

Don't get out.

- What?
- Don't get out. It's not the bloody Gestapo.

- Get out, please.
- Certainly, Officer.

- Have you got a Road Fund License for this?
- Oh, it's a friend's.

Well, an acquaintance's.
Well, more of a casual acquaintance.

- It's still an offense.
- I've no doubt.

Driving a vehicle without a road license
and your load's loose.

That's my assistant's area.

- Get out of there.
- Why? You said it wasn't the bloody Gestapo.

Eric! Do me a favor?

Some people might call this passing the
buck, shirking one's responsibility,

but Eric has got to learn the
antiques trade from the bottom.

Can't be much closer to the bottom,

being pulled over by the polizei on your
way to Newmarket to offload some junk.

The lad says you arranged the loads.

I advised him. You see,
loading valuable antiques is a skill.

The load that looks the least secure
is the most professionally arranged.

- Thank you, Officer.
- I see.

Well, get this thing off the road

till you can produce a proper MOT
and Road Fund License.

Of course. Thank you, Officer.

My partner wanted to do you.

Well, he obviously lacks your judgment.

Just watch how you go.

How do you get away with it?

Experience.

- Easy. Hold it.
- All right, you got it?

OK.

So what do you think, Ricky?

Most of that stuff's firewood, Lovejoy,
but you know that, don't you?

You knew where I was going
when we made the deal.

She was a nice old bird, Miss Wesley.

Bought one or two good pieces from me
over the years.

See anything here?

Mm.

- What'd you give?
- A grand.

They saw you coming.

Berwick & Partners
wind up half the estates in the area.

- It's worth a grand, you know it.
- I'll give you a monkey.

- Stop poncing about, I'll go to Nessem.
- He wouldn't give you more.

He'd give me a grand and that's
a Parliament clock if ever I saw one.

Worth what?

300 to the right punter.

All right, I'll give you the clock and 600.

- Nine.
- Seven. There's your thou and that's it.

What about my time, petrol, the lad's pay?

He's paying you, Lovejoy.
Biggest joke in the trade.

Well, throw another clock in.

- Which one?
- That one.

Ah!

Had your eye on that all along, eh?

- Well...
- Come off it, Lovejoy, I know you.

Nice clock.

Worth sod all without the works.

I'll put something in it.
Dress it up and find a mark.

600 and both clocks.

700 and I'll take the Parliament.

Of course,
this is what you really came for.

Pay the lawyers with a check.
Uncle Ricky pays you cash.

- I didn't come for your terrible beer.
- You're a snob, Lovejoy.

Not where cash is concerned.

Oh, go on, take the other bloody clock.

Price, you're a prince.

Oh, Lovejoy, it's exactly right.

It's called an Act of Parliament.

No, I'm not with you.

Well, in 1797 an iniquitous tax
was levied by William Pitt

on clocks and watches of all kinds.

I think it was five shillings
for a watch or a timekeeper

and ten shillings for a gold watch or
any gold timekeeper, which as I recalled,

"was used for the purpose of a watch,
whatever name that same shall be called."

Well, no loopholes there.

Exactly, so most people, not having a clock
or a watch or a timekeeper of any kind,

would visit the local pub
which had a large functional wall clock.

Thank you. So, they could have a drink
and tell the time too.

Clever idea.

Mm. Do you like it?

Oh, it's smashing.

I'm going to put it up right...

here.

Now, how much?

It's a gift.

Oh, don't be stupid, you're always broke.

- 190.
- Hm, seems fair.

Did anything else take your fancy?

Quite a nice French clock. No insides, but
I'll dress it up and sell it to some punter.

I'm surprised you hadn't
thought of a battery.

Janey!

If I could only get away with it.

Dear Mistress Fairfax, I have today...

"Dear Mistress Fairfax, I have today written
to your father... your kind father...

"thanking him with deep sincerity

"for inviting a mere ensign of Dragoons
to such an illustrious home.

"Next month, on the 18th, to be precise,
the regiment will move to Thetford

"for maneuvers with the
Light Cavalry Brigade."

"My dearest love..."

"With all my love."

Oh, that's magic!

Can you hear me?

I not only hear you, Lovejoy,
I can see both of you.

I did that bereavement sale today,
Topplehill Farm.

Knocked it out to Ricky Price
for a considerable loss I heard.

I collected a couple of clocks, got rid of
one, the other should bring a few hundred.

French case, sans works.

I didn't realize this
sale was on the radio.

You've got that Japanese
counterfeit mechanism if it'll fit.

It fits and there's more.

Of course there's more, Lovejoy.
You never get flushed over money.

Only a great deal of money.

Love letters, a lady's -
found them in the clock.

- When?
- About two hours ago.

No, you fool, when were they written?

I can hardly see a bunch of lady's love
letters, circa 1957, exciting much fervor,

unless of course,
they're unspeakably pornographic.

Early 19th century.

Bravo, lovers!

Course, you'll need Tinker.
Tinker's an expert on letters.

Publishing, newspaper serial rights.

Another round, duchess, on Lovejoy.

Publisher's advance.

How many years do they cover?

About two. From the first time Ensign
Parker visited the general's house

to the eve of the Battle of Waterloo.

By which time the general's daughter Miss
Fairfax and the young ensign were in love.

Oh, hopelessly, passionately doomed,
just like us.

One day you'll say that to some poor girl
who thinks you mean it.

I don't suppose there's any chance of tracking
down the girl's letters to the young ensign?

Probably lying under the
sod at Haut Allemand.

Where's that?

It's part of the field at Waterloo
where most of the 8th Dragoons were killed.

Soldier probably wrote this in his tent,

wound up, cleaning his kit,
ready to meet the French.

"My dearest love, your letter now received,
makes my heart leap.

"Can it be true that you long for me
as I long for you?"

That's true love, Jane.

Infinitely more romantic than the telex
"Back Tuesday, how about a bit?"

Oh, that reminds me,
Alexander's back tonight.

What time's my new clock say? 10:22.
I must go.

I'm picking him up at the airport.

Collecting him at midnight?

True love.

Let yourselves out,
and do leave him a drop of Scotch.

Oh, no, I didn't leave this bloody door open,
and I didn't leave this bloody light on!

Ever since you got that burglar alarm, Lovejoy,
you've been turned over at least twice a week.

I wish they'd steal the bloody alarm!

Well, the clock's gone!
I suppose they got what they came for.

Or did they?

Excuse me, Officer.

Just going by, they were, Sarge,
but I recognized 'em.

It's the two we pulled up
for an unsecure load, driving that vehicle.

Thanks, Dixon.

Nixon, Sarge.

Oh, yes, well, thanks.
Very observant of you.

Actually, I know who that man is...
only too well.

Excuse us please, gents.

- Ricky?
- Get him to hospital.

What happened?

You two, inside.

So...

come back to visit the scene of the crime,
have you?

What are you talking about?

Barry.

A description of his assailant,
such as he was able to give, was...

"Stockily built,

"five-nine,

"scruffily dressed,

"dark curly hair,

"olive complexion,

"late 30s."

So?

Fits you perfectly.

- Yeah, it does actually.
- Don't be stupid!

You brought that lorry here yesterday.

It's Ricky's.

He's a friend of mine.

I was bringing some gear back
from a bereavement sale,

old farmhouse in the fen country.

So why are you back here so soon?

You're not going to try to tickle me
for grievous bodily harm, are you?

Just checking on a motive.

Revenge, robbery, who knows.

You're turning his place over last night
and Price comes back unexpectedly.

That's like that movie,
erm, Graham Greene, wasn't it?

Brighton Rock.

No, no, Gun For Sale I was thinking of.

No, no, what was that one that finished up in
Hollis someplace? Little actress involved?

- Some See...
- Excuse me for interrupting

this highly articulate,
literary and cinematic discussion,

but Ricky, remember Ricky?
I think he was done by a stranger.

Don't kid me. You lot - I read the papers.

Graft, greed and God knows.

However,
we don't think money was the motive.

No, Price had 400 in cash on him.
Yes, he was able to say a few words.

Seems some bloke beat him up last night
for information about a clock.

That clock was only of use
to someone who a, knew of the letters,

- or b, had the original mechanism.
- And?

Maybe the person who nicked the clock
was not the same one who beat up Ricky,

but if he is, things could get nasty, Eric.

Well, I'm glad I started that martial
arts course at the Ipswich Poly.

- Yeah, I just wish you'd finished it.
- Where we off to then?

Square one. Berwick & Partners,
bereavement solicitors.

You did very well at that auction,
Topplehill Farm.

No house contents deserve to go for £670.

- Shh.
- Six?

Erm, did anyone else
show any interest at all

in any particular piece of the
house contents apart from me?

Let me make it quite clear that we never...

absolutely never divulge details
of client or customer affairs.

Mr. Berwick,
someone could be in grave danger.

Then you should contact the police.

Well, yes, I should,

but then the police, followed by the hordes
of press, television, news cameras,

I don't think they'd be very welcome
to your client,

nor indeed to your offices.

Fairfax.

There was an S.K. Fairfax who wrote
asking if the sale date could be put back.

It couldn't, of course.
Ads had been posted and so on.

S.K. Fairfax?

I really don't see
what use this is going to be to you.

Rest assured, if we do find anything untoward,
we shall keep Berwick & Partners out of it.

Then we understand each other.

I can't see anyone owning all this
wanting an extra clock.

I think those letters have
gone to your head, Lovejoy.

Shouldn't be piddling around the country
like this,

we should be back home
trying to make a dishonest living.

Eric...

do you ever get the feeling
you've been someplace before?

Yeah. I went to this Judas Priest concert
last year,

and I thought,
"Eric, you've been here before."

Just déja vu.

Not really, I'd been to see Iron Maiden
there the month before.

If you're not careful, Eric,
you'll end up in one of those camps.

What camps?

Those internment camps they have for
heavy metal freaks over on Foulness Island.

- Eh?
- Seriously.

Scrappy and Chas make you listen
to Leonard Cohen records all day.

Leonard who?

Can I help you?

Um...

Fairfax, I'm looking
for a Mr. Fairfax, S.K.

Well, I'm Sophy Fairfax and my brother's
Michael, so which one do you want?

I've made my mind up.

Help yourself to sugar.

So, you were asking about
Miss Wesley's auction.

The late Miss Wesley.

You wrote to the solicitors
asking them to postpone the sale.

I couldn't get over on the day of the
auction. It was... a personal matter.

Anything in particular
you wanted to bid for?

A couple of things, sentimental value.

You see, Michael and I are half Wesley and
certain of Aunt's effects were family heirlooms.

I bought the lot.

You did?

Well, nobody turned up. Well, a couple
of neighbors, but no serious competition.

So, you've got all the contents?

No.

Sold them to a colleague in the trade.

Would you excuse us a moment, please?

Eric...

take a little walk.

Where to?

Edinburgh.

Why are you looking at me like that?

Hm?

Oh, I'm sorry,
I just keep feeling we've met before.

I'm still not sure why you're here.

Are you sure you're not a lawyer
or a detective or something?

I'm a something.

- I kept a couple of things back.
- And one was a clock.

How did you know?

Mr. Lovejoy, I have known all about
that clock since I was 12 years old.

My mother told Michael and I about it.

What exactly did she say?

Quite obviously if you've gone
to all this trouble to track me down,

you must have found
Ensign Parker's letters.

Yes, I did as a matter of fact.

I've never read them.

They're a delight.

A love affair.

If we could only trace her letters to him.

Oh, Michael has them.

They belong to us both.

After Ensign Parker was killed, his
father found them and sent them to Sarah.

She died in June 1816 of a broken heart.

I wonder what she looked like.

Richard sketched her,
on a bridge beside a watermill.

I wonder why the two sets of letters
were kept apart.

Oh, some stupid family squabble.

Do you know
what a publisher would give for those?

That's why I wanted to go to the
Topplehill auction, to bid for the clock.

Michael and I were left this pile
but not much money.

I've got his, you've got hers.

If I find a publisher,
we could split the proceeds.

You'll have to speak to Michael first.

Do you think this Michael Fairfax will part
with the girl's letters to Ensign Parker?

Do you know,
I would be happy just to read them?

Oh, you sentimental old thing.

Pretty, was she?

I don't know.
Apparently, he sketched her by a watermill.

- I mean Sophy.
- Oh, she's OK, I suppose.

Mm. That pretty.

Devastating.

It's a lovely house, Winton Stud.

Old Colonel Fairfax was
a helluva character.

- You knew him?
- Mm.

He used to be a top Newmarket breeder
until the bottle caught up with him.

He had a beautiful wife.
She died in a hunting accident.

Way to go.

Oh, don't bother to knock.

Landlord's privilege.

Good morning, Lady Felsham.
Visiting the proles, are we?

Well, I sometimes drop by
with scraps of food and drink.

I thought that wine wasn't Lovejoy's.

Chardonnay '78? Oh, excellent!

Ah, and these are the letters, are they?

Hands off!

Tinker said they were valuable.

Lovejoy may be onto something.

He thinks the letters are the reason
someone broke in last night.

And beat up Ricky Price.

Well, whoever it was is wasting his time.

What do you mean?

Well, the letters of Ensign Richard Parker
to Miss Fairfax

are certainly worth a few
grand, unquestionably.

Come on, Charlie, out with it.

Well, it's simply this -

the original letters happen to be the
property of the Royal Suffolk Yeomanry.

A T.A. Regiment whose military ancestors
fought at Waterloo,

among them, Ensign Richard Parker.

You're putting me on.

Au contraire! I was there recently,
purchasing items superfluous to requirements,

and I can assure you,
the letters are prominently displayed.

Yes, the Yeoman are very proud of them.

You don't think I'd come all the way over
here to bring you good news, do you, Lovejoy?

Ta for the wine.

Mm, be better in a year or two.

Ah, well...

everything'll be better
in a year or two, eh?

- Michael Fairfax?
- That's right.

- Your sister might have mentioned me.
- 0h, um, Lovejoy.

I'm sorry about the mess.

What sort of deal are you offering?

I thought a 50/50 split.

Do you think a publisher
might be interested?

We can only ask.

- Are you all right?
- Sorry?

You just seem a little nervous.

No, I'm fine.

Um, would you like a drink?

A bit early, isn't it?

Why don't you simply buy the letters?

How much?

Well, I thought... about £10,000.

- I don't know what they're worth.
- You're a dealer.

Yes, but that's a far cry
from publishing old letters.

I thought I'd take them to an expert
and then see.

Mm.

A bit strapped for cash, are you?

You know how things are.

Yes, but you inherited half of Winton Stud.

Death duties, old chap.

Sophy and I are practically destitute.

She seems to manage.

Yeah, she doesn't have my overheads.

Oh.

- What overheads does he mean?
- Coke.

- Never drink the stuff.
- Cocaine. Colombian marching powder.

Oh, you mean...?

Yeah. He also looked guilty.

Why guilty?

I reckon he's the bloke who stole my clock.
Not for the clock, of course.

For the love letters in the clock.

Do you reckon he's the bloke
who roughed up Ricky Price?

It's a thought.

The more I think about it, the more I know
my clock's in his crummy flat.

I could sense it.

- Hm?
- Come back.

I'm sorry, Tink, I was just...

thinking back to Sergeant Drabble.

I hope you haven't brought me all this way
on a wild goose chase.

I'll just say enough to scare him a little.

I don't like it.

This is not our turf.

Dirty Harry wouldn't worry
about a formality like that.

Oh, back so soon?

- Something's bothering me.
- What's that?

May I come in?

Did-Did you bring the letters with you?

- No, I didn't think that would be a good idea.
- There's not a problem, is there?

Yesterday, you said you were
strapped for cash - how strapped?

- I'm not with you.
- Desperate. How desperate?

What the hell do you mean?!

Well, cocaine's a very expensive habit,
especially if you're short of readies.

Cocaine?!

Cocaine! Rich man's sherbet.

Now, look here!

Come off it, you didn't get that sniffle
feeding the ducks.

What's it to you? You're not a cop.

No, I'm not,
but certain things are beginning to add up.

And you worry me, Fairfax.

- I ought to ask you to get out of here.
- I'll save you the trouble.

But do drop me a line.

Well, you know where I live.

Two bloody hours, Lovejoy!

I'm surprised we haven't
been wheel-clamped.

This white horse walked into a pub...

I know, name of Albert.

- Eric.
- I heard it as Albert.

It's probably a different story.

I doubt it.

There he is.

Ooh!

Ah!

Michael Owen Fairfax, I'm arresting you
on suspicion of burglary.

You're not obliged to say anything
if you don't wish,

but I must warn you that anything you do say
will be taken down and used in evidence.

Bloody, bloody Michael!

He was such a super brother
when we were young.

I'm really very sorry.

It's not your fault.

And the letters are fakes.

They certainly are not!

Apparently, some part-time Dragoons
have the real ones in their museum.

So, you mean... mine could be worthless?

It wasn't unusual for families
to make copies of letters.

Perhaps mine are the originals
and the regiment have the fakes.

Oh, Lovejoy, couldn't you find out?

Guard! Get on... parade!

Just a moment, please, sir.

Guard! Get your self in order!

I have an appointment with your adjutant.

I'm afraid you're improperly dressed
to join the officers, sir.

Regimental dinner this evening, sir.

Oh, that takes me back.

India. Never missed an episode
of Jewel In The Crown.

Could I enquire the nature
of your business, sir?

Yes, certainly - the Ensign Parker letters.

Beg pardon, sir?

They're on display in your museum.
This will explain.

A copy already sent to your adjutant.

Imperial War Museum, sir.

Yes. I'm one of the curators,
Lovejoy, C.J., Captain.

Sorry, sir, very sorry.
I'll see what I can do, sir.

- Mr. Lovejoy?
- Yes.

- John Engleton.
- How do you do?

I would have arrived earlier
but I had car trouble.

- I can't understand not receiving this.
- Some postal strike somewhere, I expect.

Bad moment, I'm afraid. You've come on an
evening when we can't show you hospitality.

Not to worry, another time, perhaps. You won't
be going to dinner for a while, will you?

- An hour and a half or so.
- It won't take nearly that long.

What exactly is it you wish to check?

The museum recently received
a collection of military relics -

legacy of the late General... Catchpole.

Catchpole, who's he?

Northern commander,
retired long before the war.

Regrettably, in the general's things
were a lot of copies,

including a set of Ensign Parker's papers.

No dishonesty intended of course,
the copies somehow must have slipped in.

Oh, Lord. Well, I hope ours aren't fakes.

Oh, I'm sure they're not
but we just have to re-verify,

make comparisons,
in case any fakes may pop up again.

Of course.

Excuse me, sir,
Colonel Ander's party's here, sir.

Good Lord, he's early.

You be all right?

Mm?

Yes.

Right.

Right, Sergeant Major.

Duty bugler, break post!

Guard will move to the right!

Right turn!

By the left, quick march!

- Look, I hate to hurry you.
- No, no, not at all.

Hate to be caught in mufti -
not like this anyway.

No, no, they're splendid.

Splendid fakes.

- Mm?
- Oh, no, no, no, my letters, not yours.

Oh, jolly good.

When were the letters
given to the Yeomanry?

I think it was around 1918.

Four Fairfaxes and three Wesleys
died with us, you know.

Old Lady Fairfax was a bit short of cash.

We're a wealthy mess,
we purchased the letters,

though we treated them as a gift.

Officers and... gentlemen, eh?

Precisely.

Well, I'm glad our letters are authentic.

I know an authentic letter when I see one.

Jolly good.

Well, nice to have met
you, Captain Lovejoy.

Hello, Charlie.

Wait in the car, would you, dear?

Another one of your nieces?

She's in the trade, Lovejoy.
Fronts for Sothebys.

She's deductible then.

You're looking very well groomed.
Been in court, have we?

No, I went over to that regiment
you told me about.

You were right, they have the letters,
the real ones, unhappily.

There wasn't much money in it, was there?

There's a limit to what a collector
will pay for that sort of thing.

I wasn't thinking of collecting,
I was thinking more in terms of publishing.

Sunday Times, Observer, syndication.
Could've made a stack.

Really?

Mm, afraid so.

So, it's been a bit of a blow then, has it?

That's life, Lovejoy.

You switched them?

I had to.

Tink, I just had that feeling, you know?

So I kept a couple of my letters back

and had them compared in a lab
to those in the officers' mess.

Theirs were the originals.

You're gonna wind up in court.

Or worse still, court-martialed -
you know what the bloody army are like.

I'm not going to sell them.

I just want the Fairfaxes
to have the real ones.

The army'll never know.

They're just stuck in some museum next to
Hussars' hats and Crimean War medals.

That Sophy has really addled your brains,
Lovejoy.

No!

OK, well, tell me the worst.

There is no doubt that your letters...

are the authentic letters.

Oh!

Oh, thank God!

Do you really think we might get £10,000?

I think we could but there's a snag.

What's that?

Who was Lady Fairfax round about 1918?

Er, 1918?

That would've been...
my great-grandmother, why?

Seems the old bird sold
the Royal Suffolk Yeomanry forged copies.

She was as hard up as you are.

I think your brother's trial will be a
big enough disgrace for the Fairfax family

without bringing great-grandma into it,
don't you?

I suppose so.

I'm still desperately short of cash though.

You've got a house here

full of things with much less
sentimental attachments than these letters.

What do you mean?

I mean...

why don't you keep the letters, all of them,
and let me organize an auction for you?

I don't know how to thank you.

Yes, you do.
You can start by having dinner with me

and then a trip to Venice
and then you can have my child.

It's the girl in the
letters you're in love with.

No, it's not.

Unfortunately,
my heart is promised to another.

Nick's in the army.

- Ensign?
- Lieutenant!

We're getting married soon.

Well, Nick was quite a nice fella, really,
for a Hooray.

I'm going to organize an auction for her
to sell some stuff from Winton House.

She'll get the cash
and she needn't sell the letters.

And her and the young ensign
will live happily ever after.

I suppose so.

Well, you got her brother
chucked into prison.

Perhaps you could have the fiancé
cashiered from the army.

Well, actually, no,
I don't think it is a touching story.

I think you're going soft in the head.

I mean, look at this lot!
There's nothing here worth more than £400.

Oh, you're teaching me, I like it.

You could've been £5,000 richer
from those letters.

Don't give me a hard time, Eric, all right,
it's for the family honor.

Oh, yeah, I can just see you worrying
about her if she was fat and frumpy.

She's not, is she?

Morning, ladies and gentlemen.

We'll start with lot 200 on the hymn sheet.

A fine rosewood sideboard with carved legs
and Georgian style door handles.

Shall we say 300?

Come now, it's worth 300, surely?

Who'll give me 200, then?

200, thank you, sir.

220.

240.

260 I'm bid.

280? 280.

300 anywhere?

Do I hear 300?

I'm selling then at £280. Are you all done?

Lot 201, a set of eight dining room chairs
with carver, Victorian.

Can we see this lot, please?

Here.

Over here.

Thank you, sir.

I'll open at 400. Do I hear 400?

300, then. Must be worth three, surely?

This is painful.

300 then, it must be worth three, surely.

What's the matter with you all?
These are fine Victorian chairs.

190!

No, no, no, I'll take 245.
Absolute bargain here.

£245.

I'm selling then, at a maiden bid.
Are you all done?

Lot 202, box of bric-a-brac.

Where do you wanna start? A fiver?

Three quid then.

A bit bloody slow.

- What is it, Tink?
- There's nothing to give them a buzz.

Stuff's all right.

There's a couple of really sweet pieces
that that thieving brother didn't nick.

I think they're waiting for you to start.

They've seen you nosing around.

If you start bidding, they'll bid against you
and we'll get this whole thing off the ground.

The next lot
is a pretty little pen and ink drawing -

girl sitting on a bridge
beside a watermill.

Amanda.

It's dated on the back June 1814,
and it's signed "Richard Parker".

How did I miss that?

Not in the catalog, this one.
It's a new entry.

Where do you wanna start me then?

Shall we say £10?

£10 I'm offered, thank you.

Come now, sure...

Twenty.

Mr. Lovejoy, £20.

Thirty?

Forty?

- Fifty?
- Eighty.

One hundred?

120.

140.

160.

180.

That'll do, boss. You can pull out now.

£200.

This really is a rare and delightful item.

Signed and dated, Richard Parker.

220.

240.

260.

280.

300. £300.

380.

390.

Do I hear 400?

400, Mr. Lovejoy.

410.

420.

Mr. Lovejoy, 430.

440. Thank you, madam.

Leave it out, Lovejoy.
It's not worth 60, never mind 440.

- It's worth it to me.
- 450, Mr. Lovejoy.

- D'you mean you want it?
- It's a lady I've come to know very well.

460.

470.

480.

Mr. Lovejoy?

You've flipped. He's finally flipped.

Talk sense to him, Charlie, for God's sake!

490 for that drawing, Lovejoy, and I'll
take you to court tomorrow for back rent.

At £480. Are you all done?

500.

New face. I'm selling then, to the lady
at the back of the hall for £500.

Thanks.

I'll... I'll be in the pub.

I'm pleasantly surprised.
You netted £7,310.

Oh, that's wonderful!

It's twice what you expected.

It's all down to that little
drawing really. From £10 to £500.

That really got their adrenaline going.

A sale needs something like that, you know.

Mm, I like it.
It's the best commission I ever had.

I'd like you to take this.
Without you, there'd have been no sale.

- I couldn't.
- Oh, yes, you could.

- Well, I'd settle for...
- I'll be off then.

Thank you very much
again for all your help.

Maybe not.

Earn yourself a few quid, did you?

Your rent, Charlie.

No, forget it.

- I owe you one, Lovejoy.
- You owe me? Where'd I go wrong?

I never realized the value of those letters
until you put me in the picture.

So I went over
to the Suffolk Yeomanry's mess.

I know the colonel there.
Shoots at my place.

Uses the boat occasionally. Very chummy.

So, he was quite amenable to the deal.

What deal?

I get them some Peninsular War artefact,
ten grand,

and they gave me the letters.

Sunday Times, News Of The World,
full syndication.

Yes, should make quite a stack.

That was the expression you used,
wasn't it, Lovejoy?

- I'll pay you back.
- Don't be silly. It's my present.

I found out the real value of my clock.

Those letters really got to
you, didn't they?

Well, look at her.

Miss Emma Fairfax.
I knew she'd be beautiful.

It's what this is all about.

You know, one could almost
become fond of you, Lovejoy.

What d'you mean?

Well, I don't know much about watermarks,

but did they do Basildon
Bond airmail in 1815?

You're joking?

Yes.