The Return of Sherlock Holmes (1986–1988): Season 1, Episode 5 - The Man with the Twisted Lip - full transcript

Thank you very much, sir...

God bless you, sir.
You're a gentlemen,

A very perfect gentle
night. Geoffrey Chaucer...

Oh, thank you, sir. Oh,
barely my cup run it over.

May last sweetness
never blush unseen.

My gratitude knows
no bounds, sir.

Here I sit, your slave- poor,
infirm, weak, and despised.

William Shakespeare, oh yeah...

Blessed are the
poor in spirit, sir.

Blessed are the poor in spirit.

For yours is the
kingdom of heaven, sir.



But we arranged it two weeks ago.
We were to have supper at my club.

Yes. He did mention
it to me this morning.

It was just before
the lady called.

Lady? Which lady?

Well, I don't know her name but

the lady called and
Mr. Holmes went out.

In that case I shall have take
advantage of an early night.

I must answer the door.

Of course.

Might be a clue.

I hope I'm not being a nuisance.

Oh, he won't mind I'm sure,
he's the kindest of men.

Mrs. Whitney to see you Doctor.

Kate, this is a surprise.



Not a pleasant one I fear, John.

Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.
Perhaps some tea.

That would be most welcome.

You must forgive me for
causing so much trouble.

You're causing us no
trouble at all, please.

Your assistant told me that you
were dining with Mr. Holmes.

Oh I see you've
been to the surgery.

And you had just left.

Well Mr. Holmes has disappeared
without trace as you can see.

In that case, I really shouldn't
bother you with my problems.

Oh Mr. Holmes disappears without
trace at regular intervals.

There's really no cause
for alarm, only curiosity.

But why did you want to see me?

If you're ill you should not
be traveling across London.

I am not ill.

It's Isa.

Well, if Isa is ill I
can visit him at home.

He's not at home.

He too has disappeared
without trace?

You can probably
guess what he's doing.

I imagine he's indulging
his addiction. Opium?

I fear so.

Well he's done this
before, has he not?

What makes this circumstance
so very different?

Well normally his orgies
are confined to one day.

He leaves the house in the morning
and returns in the evening,

pale and shattered.

And this time?

I have not seen Isa
for forty-eight hours.

Well, have you the remotest
idea where he might be?

There is an establishment
called the Bar of Gold

in Upper Swandam Lane,
I believe he is there

but I dare not go there alone.

Oh no, no. No respectable woman

would go within a hundred miles
of that vile alley unaccompanied.

Will you come with me?

No.

No. I shall go there on my own.

You will go home and if your
husband is where you think he is,

I guarantee to have him back
with you within two hours.

Though I dare not imagine
what state he'll be in.

Your tea, Doctor.

My apologies, Mrs. Hudson, I shall
not require tea. I'm going out.

But Mrs. Whitney will take tea.

And what am I to tell
Mr. Holmes should he return?

Tell him I've disappeared
without trace.

Upper Swandam Lane
please, cabbie.

I sometimes wonder, whether
men ever really truly grow up.

They seem to remain
little boys forever.

Do you wonder about
that, Mrs. Hudson?

No, Mrs. Whitney, I
don't wonder about it.

I know it, and they always need
us to kiss them better afterwards

in a matter of
speaking of course.

No thank you. I've not come here to
stay. There's a friend of mine here.

I just wish to speak
to Mr. Isa Whitney.

Isa?

My God.

Watson.

What's the time?

It's eleven.

What's the day?

Friday the nineteenth.

I thought it was Wednesday.

It is Wednesday.

You're trying to frighten me.

Your wife has been waiting for
you to return home for two days.

Two days? Surely not.

A few hours perhaps.
Three pipes, four pipes.

I forget.

I've got a cab outside,
you're going home now!

Must I?

Value my friendship, minds love.

Oh, poor Kate.

Come on.

I have to pay.

I owe the manager, money.

You have to pay for your own
destruction. I'll see to it.

Just get out of
this dreadful place.

Let go! Get your hands off!

Holmes!

What on earth are you
doing in this den?

Like you, I'm going about my
business. You have a cab outside?

Yes.

I pray send him home.

He looks too limp to get
into any kind of mischief.

I'll see you in five minutes.

All right.

Give this to the
lady of the house.

Holmes!

Right, sir.

I was certainly surprised
to see you in that place.

I suppose you think I've
added opium to smoking

to all of my other
little weaknesses?

I merely said I was
surprised to see you there.

As indeed I was to see you.

I was searching for a friend.

And I for an enemy.

An enemy?

Had I been recognized in that place
my life would not of been worth

an hours purchase.

John!

I'm in the midst of the
most remarkable inquiry.

I hope your not smoking the
substance in that pipe, Holmes.

Only to the extent necessary
to merge with the surroundings.

I'm off to Lee in Kent.

Are you coming?

Of course.

I think we shall be safe now,
Watson. Would you take the reins?

Where exactly are we going?

The Cedars. A lovely
villa near Lee in Kent.

May I ask why I'm
going to Lee in Kent

in the middle of the
night on Friday in March?

Because you are
my trusty comrade

and my loyal pro
medico, I may need both.

Get on the facts,
as I understand.

Several years ago, there
came to Lee in Kent,

a gentleman by name
Neville St. Clair.

He took a large
villa, the Cedars,

and about a year later married
the daughter of a local brewer.

They have two small children.

He has interests in several companies
and travels to the city every morning,

returning by the 5:14 train
from Cannon Street every night.

He is a man of temperate habits.

A good husband, an
affectionate father,

and is popular with
all who know him.

His debts as far as
we can ascertain,

amount to eighty-eight
pounds and ten shillings

while he has two hundred and
twenty pounds to his credit

in the Capital
and Counties Bank.

Therefore, there is
no reason to think

that money troubles
have been weighing down.

Veritable paragon.

Watson, there's a hint of skepticism in
your voice, which does you no credit.

I expect Mrs. St. Clair came to you
saying that her husband has disappeared?

Exactly!

Well, it seems to be a continuous
thread in life's fabric.

Watson, what is this?

I shall ignore your air of resignation
to the world's frailties and continue.

Oh, please do.

On Monday, St. Clair left
for the city as usual.

Before he left, he promised
that he would bring home

a box of building
bricks for his children.

Building bricks?

Mark that well, Watson.

Soon after he left, Mrs. St.
Clair received a telegram

to say that a parcel
of considerable value

had arrived for her at the offices
of the Aberdeen Shipping Company.

She decided to travel to the
city, collect her parcel,

have lunch and do some shopping.

It was by chance which she found
herself in Upper Swandam Lane,

that same vile alley that we both
visited this evening, Watson.

And it was at this point that
something quite singular took place.

Money, please.

Get out of here!

Neville!

Neville!

Where are you going?

I'm going upstairs.

There's nobody upstairs.

I saw my husband waving
from an upstairs' window.

There is nobody upstairs.

I saw him. I know my own
husband. What's he doing here?

There is nobody upstairs.

Neville!

Go on.

And they threw her out?

They did.

Blagards.

The Malay and the Lascar
who owns the establishment.

A man of the vilest antecedents
and a murderer into the bargain.

A murderer? Yet he goes free.

The rear of a building
backs onto the river,

there's even a convenient trap
door for the disposal of bodies.

Why don't the police
arrest these two murderers?

Watson, the police have
arrested a cripple.

Cripple?

There's so much more yet to tell
you but here we are, at The Cedars.

Thank you.

Mr. Holmes?

Any news?

Mrs. St. Clair. I
thought you'd be asleep.

Sleep does not come easily
at a time like this.

This is my friend and
colleague, Doctor Watson

who has kindly agreed to
help me in my investigation.

Mr. Holmes has spoken of you.

Mrs. St. Clair.

I have taken the liberty of asking
the doctor to stay overnight.

And I took the liberty of
preparing a little cold supper.

Oh, Doctor Watson,
you take my place.

Oh no really.

Watson, Mrs. St. Clair is
a very strong willed woman,

you refuse her at your peril.

Thank you.

Now, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, before we eat,

I should like to ask one
or two plain questions

to which I should
like plain answers.

Certainly, Madam.

Do you, in your heart of hearts
think that Neville is still alive?

Frankly now, I'm not hysterical
nor am I given to fainting.

Frankly then,

I do not.

You think he is dead?

I do,

Murdered?

I didn't say that.

Perhaps.

And on what day did
he meet his death?

On Monday,

So then how do you explain that I
received a letter from him today,

being Friday?

Now, Mrs. St. Clair, I wonder
if you would do me a favor?

By all means.

I have told Doctor
Watson what happened

up to the moment when you were
ejected from that building.

Would you tell us what
happened subsequently please?

For Doctor Watson's benefit?

And for mine.

I too have to reexamine
the facts, as we know them.

Now, if you're not too tired.

Of course.

As you may imagine,

I do not take kindly to being
forcibly removed from a building.

I sought and found police help.

Two constables and Inspector...

Bradstreet.

Bradstreet. And then you
returned to the building?

Yes.

The period of time between
these two visits was?

About twenty minutes.

By the time we returned
the door was unbolted.

Though I'm sure the Lascar had
bolted it when I left earlier.

I want to look at
your upstairs rooms.

There's nobody there.

If there's nobody there, you
can't object that I look.

You men stay here.

He was in this room!

Time and again I tell
you, there's nobody here.

May we look in that room?

You mustn't be worried by this
gentleman, Mrs. St. Clair.

He's an old friend
of the Constabulary.

You know, Inspector,
according to W. S. Gilbert,

a policeman's life
isn't a happy one.

Mr. Boone is a
professional beggar.

No, not a beggar.
An honest trader.

Does this man lodge here?

Yes.

You told me nobody lived here.

Madam, the beggar is nobody.

If you prick us do we not bleed?

Shakespeare, Mr. Boone, I know that
one you've told it to me before.

Inspector.

That would be the
Thames, Mrs. St Clair.

And the large window.

Mrs. St. Clair.

A window and a river
in close proximity

does not automatically
mean violent death.

You been here in the past hour?

Yes.

Anyone else been here?

Alas, no. I've been
as lonely as a cloud.

Tennyson?

Wordsworth, Inspector.

He was standing here. I saw him.

Mrs. St. Clair, there is no evidence
to suggest that he was ever here.

Building bricks, Inspector.

So I see.

My husband left for
the city this morning,

and the last thing
he said to me

was that he had to buy some building
bricks for our little girl's birthday.

I see.

Either of you gentlemen
buy building bricks?

Somebody must have left them.

And these are my
husband's clothes!

Are you sure?

Shall I describe them to you
in detail as you examine them?

My husband's tailor's name is Smud
if you care to examine the label.

At that moment, Inspector Bradstreet
began to believe my story.

He and his men made an extensive
search of the building,

they found a bloodstain
upon the windowsill.

They searched the Malay, the lascar
and Boone, but found nothing.

They failed to find
my husband's overcoat.

Overcoat?

The one item of clothing
that was not accounted for.

Until low tide.

It's heavy, sir.

Weighted down with something.

There were four hundred
and twenty-one pennies,

two hundred and seventy
half pennies stuffed

into every pocket
of the overcoat.

Your conclusion, Watson?

Speak freely, Doctor Watson,

I've lived with every possibility
this past week. However hideous.

The murderer must have been Boone, the
beggar, who else could have access to

such a vast number of
pennies and half pennies?

That is the conclusion
reached by the police.

They've arrested Boone and he is
presently in Bow Street Police Station.

Even though my husband
is still alive.

Now, Mrs. St. Clair, let us reexamine
the significance of this letter.

May I read it to Doctor Watson?

By all means.

Thank you.

"Dearest, Do not be frightened."

"There is a huge error, which it may
take some little time to rectify."

"Wait in patience. Neville."

Written in pencil on the flyleaf of
a book, octavo size, no watermark.

Posted in Gravesend by a
man with a dirty thumb.

This is not your
husband's writing?

But the note is?

Without question. It's the hand he
always used when he was in hurry,

Whoever gummed down the envelope,
handled this very much in error

been chewing tobacco.

This is a trifle,
of course, Watson,

but there is nothing so
important as trifles.

Mrs. St. Clair, there
was an enclosure?

Signet ring.

Mrs. St. Clair, has your
husband ever spoken of

the Bar of Gold in
Upper Swandam Lane?

Never.

I suspect that Doctor Watson
has a question to put to you.

This is a difficult question
to ask, Mrs. St. Clair, but...

Has your husband ever shown
any signs of taking opium?

He always appeared
perfectly normal.

Though I confess, I would not
recognize the signs. What are they?

Well, a listlessness,

a lack of energy, an inability to
concentrate, a general air of apathy.

Doctor Watson is a specialist
at uncontrolled addiction.

My husband was not
an opium addict,

that's to say is
not an opium addict.

Mr. Holmes, I know you
think my husband is dead.

I fully realize that letter could
have been written on Monday,

and only posted today.

I know the circumstances
as they have been described

lead to the inescapable conclusion
that he has been murdered.

But equally I know
that he is alive.

There's such a keen bond
of sympathy between us.

I should know if
evil came upon him.

Please help me to find him.

Watson, if Neville St.
Clair is alive and well,

why doesn't he come home
and demonstrate the fact?

Presumably because he's
not alive and well.

Yes, but this letter?

Could have been
written at any time.

Perhaps under duress, it could
even be a skillful forgery.

And this signet ring?

Easily removed, especially
if the victim is dead.

Indeed.

Preceding on the hypothesis
that Neville St. Clair is dead,

how did he meet his death?

Well, clearly he was murdered.

By whom?

Well the police think
it was this chap, Boone.

I see no reason to
disagree with the police.

Except

Except what?

You say he's a cripple?

Yes.

How severe is his disability?

He has only a slight limp.

Well, my medical experience tells me
when there is a weakness in one limb,

it's very often compensated for by
exceptional strength in the others.

You're not convinced?

This man is a professional beggar.
He's well known in the city.

He's well liked in the city.
I've seen him many times.

He has a remarkable
faculty for repartee

with which he delights
his many clients.

Well, he sounds harmless.

Why, therefore, did the police
arrest him rather than the lascar?

That is the very question that
I'll put to Inspector Bradstreet.

No, no. I'm innocent...

The murder has obviously been
committed by process of elimination.

Boone must be the murderer.

Are these Neville
St. Clair's clothes?

Why did you eliminate
the lascar as a suspect?

Because Mrs. St. Clair saw her
husband in an upstairs window

apparently in the
middle of a struggle.

She went to a downstairs door
and was confronted by the lascar.

While we were conversing
or to be more precise,

while the lascar
and his assistant

were ejecting Mrs. St.
Clair from the building,

the fight was proceeding
upstairs leading as we now know

to the death of
Neville St. Clair.

A twenty first birthday present.

A man of meticulous
habits, no scratches.

What was the motive
in killing St. Clair?

That remains to be established.

Not a trace of opium.

Could it have been robbery?

No, no. St. Clair's wallet was in
his pocket, the money untouched.

How do you explain the
coins in the overcoat?

I cannot truly answer
that Mr. Holmes.

Let me try.

Boone killed St. Clair, he
removes the outer garments

hoping to capitalize on
them and their contents.

He lifts the body,

carries it across the room,

forces it through the open
window, hence the abrasion,

blood upon the windowsill. He
releases it into the river...

Where it's sucked
away by the tide.

In the midst of this activity,
he hears the scuffle downstairs

as Mrs. St. Clair tries
to force her way in.

There's not a moment to be lost.

He must dispose the clothing.

He starts with the overcoat.

He realizes, at once it
will float and not sink.

So what does he do?

He rushes across the
room to some secret hall

where he's accumulated
the fruits of his beggary,

stuffs all the coins that
he can lay his hands on

into the pockets
of the overcoat.

And drops it into the water.

And would presumably have done
the same with the other garments

if you and your men
had not arrived.

Conceals the other
garments behind the curtain

and hopes they'll not be noticed,
and they would not have been noticed.

Had Mrs. St. Clair not
been so persistent?

Inspector, whatever plot has
been hatched in that opium den.

I cannot but imagine that the
lascar is not somehow involved.

I was sorely tempted to
arrest him on the day.

I'll send a couple
of men up there now.

No, Inspector.

With your permission, may I
suggest an alternative strategy?

By all means.

Let me visit the opium den,

discreetly, incognito.

We shall learn what we may.

But what did you learn?

Nothing.

Nothing.

Everybody... as far as I can ascertain,
appears to be telling the truth.

I cannot see an
overall pattern.

Can you see a pattern, Watson?

I see no pattern.

But I do see a woman

who despite all objective circumstances
still believes that her husband is alive.

And you said on many occasions
that the impression of a woman

may be more valuable than the
conclusion of an analytical reasoner.

But if he is still alive,

where is he?

I have no idea. But I do
have an urgent request.

It's now well past four in the
morning, may I go to sleep?

Certainly.

Thank you.

Watson.

Watson.

What time is it?

Dawn.

I've only had two hours sleep.

I wonder if you'd do me
the very great kindness of

considering the
possibility of waking up?

I assume you have a good reason.

Are you game for a drive?

Certainly, but... Does
it have to be this early?

I have a little
theory I wish to test.

Is anyone's life at stake?

Certainly not,

Would it be possible to test your
theory a little later this morning?

I'll see you downstairs
in five minutes.

Five minutes...

Come on, Nelson.

You have the grand gift
of silence, Watson.

It makes you quite
invaluable as a companion.

Watson, you're in the presence of one
of the most absolute fools in Europe.

You exaggerate, Holmes.

I deserve to be kicked
from here to Charing Cross.

Why would you woke me up, I
would have been prepared to...

I've got the key, Watson,
here in this Gladstone bag.

Good morning, gentlemen.

Watson, I confess I have
been as blind as a mole.

But it's better to learn wisdom
late than to never learn it at all.

Bradstreet.

Bradstreet, I've called
about that beggar man, Boone.

He's in the cells Mr. Holmes.
What can I do for you?

I should very much
like to see him.

He'd probably be asleep.

Most of the population is
probably asleep, Holmes.

Very well, Holmes, Doctor
Watson if you'll come this way.

You can leave your bag in
the office, Mr. Holmes?

I'll take it with me.

It contains the key.

He's a dirty scoundrel, filthy,

refuses to wash. Says washing
weakens a man's resistance.

Asleep.

He's a beauty, isn't he?

Inspector would you do
me the great goodness

of opening the door as
quietly as possible?

Gentlemen, let me introduce
you to Mr. Neville St. Clair

of Lee in the county of Kent.

Great heaven.

It is true and pray what
am I being charged with?

Charged with making away
with Mr. Neville St. Clair.

Well, making away with myself?

I've been on the force
for twenty-seven years.

This takes the cake.

But since it is obvious that
no crime has been committed,

I am illegally detained.

My strength is the
strength of ten

because my heart is pure.

Alfred Law Tennyson.

You lied to your
wife, Mr. St. Clair.

Is that purity?

Let it be understood that I
would have endured imprisonment,

even execution,

rather than reveal my miserable
secret to my wife and children.

All is now revealed,
Mr. St. Clair.

So be it.

My father was a schoolmaster
in Chesterfield.

I've received an
excellent education.

Traveled, took to the stage.

And finally became a reporter
of a London newspaper.

One day my editor wished to
have a series of articles

upon begging in the metropolis,
and I volunteered to supply them.

So you became a beggar?

Yes.

And your experience as an actor
must have proved invaluable.

Yes. Exactly.

Yes I painted my face to make
myself look as pitiable as possible.

I manufactured
frightening scars.

I twisted my lip for the aid of
a piece of flesh colored plaster.

And then with a dark wig
and appropriate clothing

took my position in the
busiest part of the metropolis.

Ostensibly as a
match-seller, but, yes,

really as a beggar.

And you did well?

Yes. In one day I took twenty-six
shillings and four pence.

I wrote my articles for the
newspaper, my editor was delighted,

and I thought no more about it.

Until one day, I backed a
bill for a friend of mine

had a writ served on me
for twenty-five pounds.

Well, I was at my wits end.
I mean, what could I do?

And then suddenly
an idea came to me.

I asked for a fortnight's
holiday from my employers,

and spent the time
in the city, begging.

In ten days, I had the money and
was able to pay back the debt.

That was when I
fell into the trap.

How much were you earning from
the newspaper at this time?

Two pounds a week.

Far less than begging.

Yes. During the last few years
I had earned, on average,

at least seven
hundred pounds a year.

But that's a gentlemen's income.

Calmly, Bradstreet.

I think it's pertinent to say that
Mr. St. Clair is no ordinary beggar.

People do not expect a beggar to
quote extensively from Shakespeare,

Mr. Dickens, the Bible or
the latest popular songs.

An aristocrat among beggars.

Well, it is not for me to
claim such a distinction.

But as the Inspector
rightly observes,

I had a gentlemen's income so I
proceeded to live like a gentleman.

I bought a villa in Kent. I married
a beautiful and respectable woman.

And every morning I traveled
to my business in the city.

You must have been embroiled
with the lascar by this time?

Yes, I paid him a generous rent
for the use of his upstairs rooms.

My secret was safe with him.

I fell among thieves but
found honor of a sort.

You see, every morning, I would
emerge as a squalid beggar

and every evening
transformed into a gentleman.

Tell us about Monday.

I had finished for the day

and was dressing in my
room above the opium den.

And suddenly I looked
out of the window,

to my horror and astonishment.

There was my wife in the street.
Her eyes fixed full upon me.

Neville!

I ran along to try
and find lascar.

You must not let her in.

I'll say there is
nobody upstairs.

She may return with the police.

I'll tell them, there's
nobody upstairs.

Mr. Boone will be upstairs.

Mr. Boone's a lodger, he
has a right to be upstairs.

Neville!

I then became Boone,
the beggar once more.

And then it occurred to me that
there might be a search of the room,

and that my clothes
might betray me.

So I picked up my coat which
was weighed down with the coins

that I had just transferred
from my leather bag

in which I carry my takings.

The rest of my clothes would have
followed, But at that moment,

the police arrived.

The rest you know.

We found blood on
the windowsill.

In my haste to open the
window, I cut myself.

A minor abrasion
but if you prick me.

And thus I was arrested on
suspicion of having murdered myself.

And thus you caused
your wife much anguish.

But I wrote her a letter.

You gave it to the lascar to
post? It was not delivered.

It arrived yesterday.

He probably gave it to one
of his sailor customers.

I shall never forgive myself, the agony
which I have inflicted upon my wife.

Can I go to her now?

I think we must impose one
condition, Mr. St. Clair.

Anything.

There must no be
more of you, Boone.

I swear it by the most solemn
oath that a man can take.

Farewell, sweet Boone.

A flight of angels
sing to thy rest.

William Shakespeare.