Mystery of Mr. E, The (2023)

[bunniefuu]

- What took you so long?

- I had to post a letter.

- Well, I'm ready when you are.

- The taxi should be

about five, ten minutes.

- Shall we?

Ooh.

- The door was open.

- They've never sent

anyone that quick before.

- No one has sent me.

- Do come in.

- I'm sorry, we don't actually

know each other, do we?

- Not yet.

Very nice.

Off to Idlewyld House, are you?

- How do you know we're

going to Idlewyld House?

- You two have it all

planned out, don't you?

- Our schedule for the day, yes.

Is there something wrong with that?

- Leaves no room for the unexpected.

- Look, we are in a bit of

a rush here, so who are you?

- Well, that's what I

came here to tell you.

I'm the m*rder*r.

- Sorry?

- Sorry?

- I'm the m*rder*r.

- Is this some kind of joke?

Who've you m*rder*d?

- You two ever solve a m*rder?

I've heard you do all sorts of

jobs for all kinds of people.

You call yourselves The Generalists.

- Well, that's what it says on the door.

- John and George Danes.

Generalists.

- I wonder how one could make a career out

of something so vague.

But I've asked around and

everybody says you're very good.

Good at what, though?

Surely no one can be good at everything.

- Well, we're certainly not.

We're hopeless at things

other people are good at.

- And you've clearly

got the wrong end of the stick.

- I doubt you've ever solved a m*rder.

I suspect you'd like to catch me though?

Well, prepare to be disappointed.

We're going to do things

differently, you and I.

I came here to catch you.

- Catch us?

Well that doesn't make any sense.

- We're not criminals.

- Oh, there are many

ways to catch a person.

In the net of an obsession or a puzzle

that's impossible to solve.

- In the letter we received

from Idlewyld House

it doesn't mention anything about murders.

- Doesn't surprise me.

- I don't know about you, George,

but I'm growing very tired of this.

Either tell us who you are, or leave.

- Why don't I do both.

Thanks for the apple.

- Dear John and George Danes,

please arrive at Idlewyld House

on the 1st of July at 10 o'clock.

You will be received by Peter Landrigan,

son of Harriet Landrigan,

the best-selling romantic

novelist of all time.

As the guardian of

Harriet's estate and legacy,

Peter Landrigan has a proposal

he wishes to put to you.

- This way, gentlemen.

Welcome to Idlewyld House.

I'm Andrew Anderson,

director of operations.

- Mr. Anderson.

- Mr. Anderson.

- Everybody calls me Anders,

and you must do the same.

- Well, John and George Danes.

- Allow me.

- Oh, and sorry we're late,

we got lost in these grounds.

There's another large building.

- Oh yes, I could see how

that could be confusing.

That's Pffisham School.

Your host, Peter Landrigan,

is in that building

at this very moment.

And running a little late, I'm afraid.

- That's a relief, actually.

We're usually a lot more

punctual but we got help up with-

- With a visitor.

- Yes, a visitor.

- Its prize-giving day.

Oscar, Peter's 14-year-old

son won't have won a prize,

he never does, which means that Clemency,

Peter's wife, will at

this moment be berating

the poor headmaster as she always does.

- Oh dear.

- Oh dear.

- Yes, I'm afraid until

school creates a prize

for the student with the most

underemployed brain cells,

Oscar won't be winning any awards.

Don't tell Clemency I said

that or I'll lose my job.

Laziness, that's Oscar's problem.

Beyond the basics of eating and breathing

he's unwilling to exert himself.

I call it the Idlewyld Curse.

Until they change the name of this house,

every child born here will be either idle-

- Or wild.

- Exactly.

Take Peter, for example.

He was wild in his

youth, as was his mother,

the late great Harriet.

Wildness can be harnessed and channelled

into a powerful creative force,

whereas the idle, like young

Oscar, rarely achieve anything.

- I don't think you

should assume the poor boy

is doomed to failure if he's only 14.

- Don't you?

You will once you've met him.

- Can I ask you something, Anders?

You seem very indiscreet,

so perhaps you'll give

me an honest answer.

Has there been a m*rder here?

- Interesting question.

In the letter of invitation you received,

did it say anything about a m*rder?

- No.

- Then where did you get that idea from?

- Has there been a m*rder here?

- Officially? No.

But I've never been sure myself.

- That's a strange thing to say.

- Oh, you think that's strange.

Have you noticed these?

- Buh bye, cheerio.

Oh.

I thought everybody had gone.

I trust you had an enjoyable

afternoon, Mrs. Landrigan.

- I have not, Mr. Friend.

- Oh.

It's the awards thing again, isn't it?

- Or lack of, in Oscar's case sadly.

- Well maybe if he tried

just a little harder

he might stand a chance.

- You're going to have to expel Bethany Voss.

- Expel her?

- She can't keep winning

all the awards like this.

I've been lenient up until now,

but there's simply no other way.

- She works very hard and

she's our best student.

I mean, why would I expel her?

- Do not argue with me!

Having a child who does so

well creates the impression

that the teachers are good,

which is highly misleading.

You need to start f*ring people,

the French teacher especially, Mrs. Lapp.

- It's okay, Mrs. Lapp,

we were just discussing Oscar's work.

- Oh, how delightful, Your Honour.

- How many times?

This is a school not a court of law.

- Yes, Headmaster.

- What about her?

- She's hopeless.

All the French Oscar knows

he's learned from me.

Rive Gauche, Yves Saint Laurent.

And if I didn't happen

to be a perfume designer,

he wouldn't even know that much.

- Mrs. Landrigan-

- Also, Oscar finds

his walk to school intolerably tiring.

- Oh no, not this again.

Mrs. Landrigan, be reasonable.

We've already moved the

school into your lower gardens

because you refuse to drive across town.

We can't move it again.

- Yes you can and you will.

If this school is not 200

yards closer to my home

by this time next week,

there will be consequences.

Do you hear me, Mr. Friend? Consee-quences!

I'll have Anders move the old stables,

the school can go there.

That will be quite close enough, I expect.

Oscar, Peter.

- Ah.

Hello, there.

I'm Peter Landrigan.

Mr. Danes on both accounts, I presume.

- Uh, John.

- Uh, George.

- Sorry I'm late.

Award ceremonies do drag

on somewhat these days.

- That's okay, Anders

was looking after us.

- Excellent.

- Perhaps it'll be more

fitting if Peter explained.

I was showing them the books on the wall.

- I take it

you've heard of my mother.

- Who hasn't heard

of Harriet Landrigan?

- Her love stories have

sold in the billions.

She's only outsold by the

"Bible", Agatha Christie,

and who's the other one, Anders?

- William Shakespeare is the other one.

- That's the chap.

- That's very impressive.

- Shall I go and prepare

some refreshments?

- That'll be lovely, Anders. Yes.

Ah, please gentlemen, let me

show you some of the grounds.

This book is dedicated

to my devoted fans all over the world.

It is the last book I will publish,

though not the last book I will write.

I wish things could be different.

But they are not.

- Dearest Harriet,

I have returned from New

York to find a finished copy

of "The Heaviest Heart" on my desk.

It is your best novel yet, for sure,

and an object of great beauty.

But its dedication, which I must admit

I failed to notice at the copyedit stage,

incompetent publisher that I am,

its dedication, Harriet, is most alarming.

Why, on Earth, should you wish

to stop publishing your work?

Unless I've misunderstood,

you imply that you intend

to write more novels but not publish them.

Please assure me without delay

that this is some sort of joke.

Yours devotedly, Deevo.

- Dear

Deevo, it is no joke,

and now, I imagine, you will

batter away at my defences

until I have no choice but

to explain myself to you.

So, let me say emphatically,

that I do not wish to explain.

Not to you and not to anybody else.

Yours, Harriet.

- Dearest

Harriet, I demand to know

the background to this

sudden calamitous decision.

The world, and most of

all I, cannot live without

your wonderful love stories.

Yours dejected, baffled and determined

to change your mind, Deevo.

- So your mother kept writing books

but she refused to publish them.

- Or to let anyone read them.

- Did she say why?

- No and nothing anyone

said could persuade

her otherwise, not the

piles of begging letters

from fans nor the offer of

more money from her publisher.

She refused pointblank.

- How odd.

- Instead she hand-wrote each novel,

took them to a book binder who

would mount and frame them.

You may hand them on the walls-

- As if they

were works of art, Peter.

But that is all.

They are never to leave Idlewyld House,

never to be sold.

- Never to be sold.

And never to be read

- And never to be

read by anybody.

- By anybody.

- But why bother writing novels

that no one could read though?

- I really have no idea.

I expect Deevo's the

only one who understood,

but he's no longer with us and mother took

it to her grave when she d*ed

in an unfortunate accident.

- Sorry for your loss.

- Sorry for your loss.

- It was many years ago now.

- Who was Deevo?

- As in Devaux Russell.

Her publisher.

You've never heard of Devaux Russell?

He was the greatest publisher

of the 20th century, some say.

Transformed the industry.

Founded the publishing

house Russell & Russell.

- I'm afraid we haven't heard of the name.

- Ah, well, thanks to my mother's books

his company was immensely profitable.

As a sideline he even wrote

a few thrillers of his own.

Rather violent for my taste.

Primarily, though, he was a publisher.

- So when your mother stopped publishing

it must have had a huge impact.

- Indeed.

The firm soon went bankrupt

without my mother's annual

contribution to its profits.

Poor Deevo lost everything.

Turned to drinking, gambling,

marriage broke down.

At his lowest ebb he was

caught spray painting graffiti

on the walls of other

publishers' office buildings.

Within five years he'd

d*ed of liver failure.

- If only he could have got his hands

on the unpublished works.

- It could've saved his whole business.

- And more significantly, his life.

My father's workshop.

He was an engineer, could repair anything.

No one really asks about him though,

it was always Mother and her books.

I spent many happy hours in here with him

making and repairing things.

Mother was always writing, so uh,

I had plenty of time to run wild.

Ah, Dad used to take me out on this.

Mum would've k*lled him if she'd known.

Right.

That's the mini tour over,

and I expect you could

use that tea now.

The kitchen is back up this

way, do mind the steps.

- Thank you.

So now that Harriet's

dead, aren't you tempted

to smash the glass and see

what's inside the books?

- Of course I'm tempted.

- You know, to find out

what she was so determined

that no one should ever read.

- Well he could even publish them,

assuming that the contents

aren't too controversial.

- That would

be against my mother's

clearly stated wishes.

- When did Devaux Russell die?

Before or after Harriet?

- One year before, almost to the day.

My mother d*ed on the 10th of July 2014,

and Deevo d*ed on the 8th of July 2013.

- If you don't mind us asking,

how exactly did your mother die?

You mentioned an accident?

- Yes, it was indeed a tragic accident.

She fell down the stairs

and broke her neck

here at Idlewyld House.

The doctors did everything

they could to save her.

I subsequently donated a

significant amount of money

to the hospital to show how grateful

I was for their efforts.

Sadly, those efforts were in vain.

- It wasn't a tragic accident.

It was m*rder.

That ought to have been obvious,

but people are so unimaginative.

I'm surprised any crimes ever get solved.

DNA testing is no substitute

for logic and intuition.

And don't get me started on scene

of the crime reconstructions.

- Hello, you must be the Generalists.

How lovely to meet you.

- Ah, my wife, Clemency.

- John and George Danes.

- At your service.

- Tell me, what exactly is a Generalist?

I've never heard of the profession before.

- Oh, it's not a profession, it's just us.

- We made the job title up.

- We're the only ones.

- And they come highly recommended.

- How terribly exciting.

I do so love anything that's truly unique.

My son, Oscar, is unique.

You must meet him.

Oscar!

- Tell Clemency what it

is you actually do, gents.

- Well, all kinds of things.

We didn't really fit into

traditional job roles,

or want to go to university

or anything like that.

- So we do general stuff,

whatever odds and ends

people want us to do.

- How marvellous, general stuff.

You don't want an apprentice, do you?

I'm sure Oscar could do general stuff,

don't you think, Anders?

- I expect Oscar would be

as adept at the general

as he is at the specific.

- He absolutely would.

- Now, if you'll excuse

me, I must check the locks.

- I don't think I'd

like to be a generalist,

it sounds unpredictable.

- Well, it is, that's why we love it.

- Oh, go on then, give me

an example. I'm intrigued.

- Okay, well a women

offered offered to pay us

to hire a car, a different car each week,

and to park it in a

particular spot on her street.

- Why?

- To annoy a neighbour who

thought it was their spot

and vandalised her car

for leaving it there.

- Well was it a public road?

- Yes, he'd even bragged

to her that he did it.

- So why didn't she just go to the police?

- Well she did, and then he denied it

and the police said there

was nothing they could do.

- Did he vandalise any of

the ones you left there?

- Not one, but according to our client,

he stared at them out his

window for hours on end.

And on one occasion,

he cried.

- He cried.

- But our client was happy and paid us

a staggering amount of money.

- How fabulous. Do tell me another.

- Well, next week we're on a retreat

called Heal Your Inner Child.

We'll have to hold hands with

strangers and weep in public.

- All because our client,

the one whose inner child

needs healing, is too

shy to attend himself.

- He's paid for a detailed report

of everything that will

take place in hopes

that one he can heal

his inner child from the

comfort of his own home.

- Comfort of his own home.

- That's such an inspiring story.

Gentlemen, would you mind

if I created a fragrance

for men and called it "The Generalist".

I hope my husband mentioned in his letter

that I'm a perfume designer.

- Uh, why did you ask how my mother d*ed?

- Well, before we set off to come here,

a man, a complete stranger,

turned up at our house

saying he was the m*rder*r,

of whom he didn't say,

nor did he mention his own name.

- He only left his card.

All it had on it was Mr. E.

Somehow he knew we were on

our way to Idlewyld House.

- A m*rder?

- Here?

- Yes.

We thought we might've been invited here

in the hope that we could solve it.

- No.

No, there's been no m*rder here.

It must be a practical joke.

I'd forget all about it if I were you.

- Well don't be an idiot, Peter,

who would forget something like that?

It sounds rather significant to me,

definitely worth remembering.

Anyway, I must go and

check on our other guests.

- Your other guests?

- I'm sure they'd love to meet you later.

- The French meanings are

missing from this list,

find them in the muddle below.

Oh,.

Well I think this is she plays the drums.

- Cool, do the next one.

- Everyone ok?

- Are they here?

- Yes.

- Who?

- The Danes brothers.

Peter's told me all about them,

I'm hoping to persuade them to, uh,

write their memoirs and

allow me to publish them.

- Why?

- They're quite fascinating

characters from what I hear,

call themselves The Generalists.

Could be a, uh, a big seller.

- Max, if it's a bestseller you want,

I'm not exactly chopped liver, am I?

I've got a tale or two to tell.

Why don't you get your

people to contact my people,

set up a lunch I know a lovely bistro,

run it up the drainpipe,

see if the guys on top want a taste.

- Fantastic idea, Swithun, yes.

- Oscar, what are you doing?

- I've got Miss Coggins to do

my French homework for me.

- Oh, you speak French as well.

- I know every language Harriet's books

are translated into.

How else would I check that the publishers

are printing it correctly?

- Irene is a guest,

Oscar, stop bothering her.

Go and hide your homework

in your book in the library,

we'll say we never saw

it and we'll pretend

that dreadful Mrs. Lapp

never gave it to you.

- Can't Anders hide it for me?

- Oscar, what sort of attitude is that?

- All right, I'll do it myself.

- Isn't it rather

irresponsible to encourage

your son to hide his homework?

- It would be, yes, if

he had a French teacher

who played fair.

Instead he has Gwen Lapp who, believe me,

deserves everything she gets.

And all the homework she doesn't get.

- Come now, surely she can't be that bad.

- Why not?

As an actor I know only

too well how revolting

some people can be.

When I won my first one of these...

It's a replica, I find

it easier to travel with.

I was filming up the Himalayas,

I was playing a mountaineer, death scene,

this horrible director,

horrible weasel of a man.

The light was fading, the

sherpas were pleading with us

to make the descent.

And as I got into

position to do my closeup,

that's the moment he decides is perfect

to rush across the set and scream,

"Swithun, your cagoule..."-

- Come off it.

You actors have it easy.

I'm constantly having to deal

with tortured genius authors.

They're the worst of all.

- May I remind you, Max,

that you're in the home

of the late great Harriet Landrigan.

- I wasn't including Harriet, of course.

- Irene Coggins, our resident superfan,

knows everything there is

to know about the books

and Harriet Landrigan and

all the personal trivia.

- And?

- Let's have a little game,

I think it's a starter

for 10 this time, Irene.

It's 1985, April the 10th,

what's Harriet having for breakfast?

- Easy, sardines on toast.

- Easy, sardines on toast.

- Oh.

- Anyone else want to try and catch her out?

- I don't suppose you know

the answer to the big mystery,

why Harriet stopped publishing

the books she wrote?

- No I don't and I don't want to.

If Harriet didn't want to tell us,

and she plainly didn't,

we shouldn't want to know.

It must remain a mystery in

accordance with her wishes.

- So what's wrong with

this Lapp woman anyway?

- What's wrong with

her is she doesn't want

to be a French teacher and

she keeps telling people.

- Well what does she want to be?

- An actor, like me, I expect.

Isn't that what everyone wants to be?

- Nothing so straightforward, I'm afraid.

She wants to be state attorney

for Pima County, Arizona in America.

- Goodness me, that's very specific.

- Despite being born in Yorkshire

and having lived all her life in England,

she feels it's her God-given mission,

her calling if you will,

to be a blowhard Arizona prosecutor.

She speaks barely a word of French.

- And have you spoken to the headmaster?

- Mr. Friend?

- Yes.

- He's far too tolerant, I'm afraid.

Fond of giving second chances even to

the most delusional teachers.

Genius authors have to be ...

- I can't help feeling uneasy about

this little gathering, Anders.

All these people poking their noses

into Harriet's private business.

How many of them know

about the missing letters?

- Well, you do, apparently.

Max, obviously, and I

expect Peter is telling

the Mr. Danes' about

them at this very moment.

- I hope they're never found.

Harriet's decision to

stop publishing her books

is no business of anybody's.

These guests of yours

clearly don't understand

anything about what

sort of person she was.

- And you do, I suppose.

- I believe so, yes.

- Yet you failed to take into account

something rather basic.

It's her last four books that Harriet didn't

want anyone to read.

- Sorry?

- As far as I know,

she never once tried to stop anyone

from reading the letters that she herself

gave to the Publishers' Archive.

And the missing letters

were stolen after her death,

therefore it must've been someone else

who didn't want those to

come to light, not Harriet.

- Oh.

Do you know what drink Harriet drank

immediately before she

had the terrible accident

that ended up k*lling her?

- No, I don't.

- I do, Earl grey tea

with a slice of lemon.

So now you can jolly well shut up!

- So, there's your silver lining, really.

Deevo's two sons and

nephew restarted the business

and now it's called

Russell, Russell & Russell.

- Catchy.

- Catchy.

- Pompous little twits.

- They still publish my

mother's back catalogue

apart from the ones on

the walls that no one's

allowed to read, of course.

But with Deevo's son, Max, at the helm

as managing director they once again enjoy

a thriving publishing business.

- So, where do these

missing letters fit in then?

- Max visited the firm's archive and found

that several letters had disappeared

from Harriet and Deevo's

extensive correspondence.

The ones they'd written to each other

over the course of a particular

month had gone missing.

Every last one.

- Hang on.

How did you know they were

there in the first place?

- Hm, maybe Harriet

and Deevo didn't write

to each other that month.

- Ah, but they did.

There was evidence of a break-in.

Max and I have spoken to the archivist,

she says the target was

clearly the Harriet Landrigan

material and the thief

took several letters.

- Which you believe to

hold vital information.

- Yes, the letter that she wrote to Deevo

after the ones that were stolen

leaves no room for doubt.

Now, she said that she refused

to keep going back-

- I refuse to keep

going back and forth with you.

For some weeks now I have

been trying to explain

why I will never again

publish another novel.

If you still don't understand,

then you never will.

You will simply have to

take no for an answer.

My feelings matter as much

as your company's profits,

at least to me.

I have told no one my

reason apart from you,

I shall leave it to you

to decide whether you wish

to share it with the world.

Regards, Harriet.

- So the missing letters

are Harriet's explanation

of why she was so determined to keep

those last four books behind glass

so that no one could ever read them.

- Exactly.

And whoever stole the

letters from the archive

didn't want the truth to come to light.

- Look, this is all very

fascinating stuff, Peter,

but why are we actually here?

If there's been no m*rder

then we can't solve it.

- There's no it to solve.

- Oh, I have given you a rather

confusing welcome, haven't I?

The reason I invited you

here, quite simply gentlemen,

is to make all my houseguests disappear.

Get rid of them.

- Would it have not been

easier to just not invite

them in the first place?

- Ah, they'd of turned up anyway.

They're obsessed with my mother.

Obsessed, I tell you.

And it drives me to despair.

- But you don't need us,

you can just ask them to leave.

It's your house, where's the problem?

- Don't you think I've tried that already?

They're tenacious and

Clemency loves holding court.

They follow her around like ducklings.

They turn up and bang on the door

and Clemency orders Anders to let them in.

- So who are they?

- Who are they?

- And what do they want?

- And what do they want?

- Well there's

Swithun Kirk, the actor.

- Not that talentless poser.

- I'm afraid so.

He wants me to sell him the film rights

to Harriet's last published novel,

"The Heaviest Heart" so that

he can play its romantic hero.

I've told him no till

I'm blue in the face.

Her creative vision for her novels

was fully realised in her books,

she didn't want anyone

messing about with them

or doing adaptations.

Then there's that blasted Irene Coggins.

A devoted fan of my mother's,

always under my feet,

trying to tell me how best

to protect her legacy.

As if she knows more about it than I do.

Laura Taylor, she constantly badgers me

to find the missing letters

for some university project

she's engaged in.

And then there's Deevo's

son, Max, the publisher.

- Let me guess, he'd

love for you to let him publish

the last of Harriet's books.

- Liberate them from

their frames, as he puts it.

- Anyone else?

- Ah yes, Terence Eastman, an art dealer.

He's not here today but

usually he's sniffing around

trying to convince me to broker a deal,

flog the framed books to

some pretentious gallery.

- So you want us to try and find a way

to get rid of them for you?

- I do, permanently.

You mentioned earlier that

you now know a m*rder*r,

do you think he'd be interested?

- Have them m*rder*d?

- Have them m*rder*d?

- I'm just joking.

I just want them gone from my home,

and I'm willing to pay good

money to make it happen.

And then, when I'm rid of them,

I don't want to see anyone or do anything

for a jolly long while.

Especially not anything related to being

a famous writer's son.

- He's dead, Peter.

I mean, not even a tiny bit

alive, quite thoroughly dead.

- Who?

- The actor Swithun Kirk.

He's been m*rder*d.

- Inspector Coode.

- You need to come to

Idlewyld House quickly.

Do you know it?

- Yes, I know where it is.

- There's been a m*rder.

Now, there are two

generalists here who think

they can solve it but they might need

a bit of help from you boys in blue.

- A m*rder you say?

- Yes.

- And a general what?

- John and George Danes,

they solve things,

you know, general stuff.

- No, I don't really.

Hang on, who is this?

- Clemency.

- Last name?

- Landrigan.

Oh for goodness sake,

surely you've heard of me.

- No, I'm afraid I haven't.

- The perfume designer.

- Well I wouldn't know

anything about that.

- Just hurry up and do

your job, you silly man.

- I beg your-

Hello?

There's been a m*rder at Idlewyld House.

Apparently there's two men there already

who believe they can solve

the crime without our help.

Do you wanna hear the

best part, Sergeant?

- Go on, guv.

- They are no sort of detectives,

they're not even amateurs.

John and George Danes,

and they call themselves The Generalists.

From the description given

to me by Clemency Landrigan,

they sound like tiresome imposters.

We'll soon put them in their place.

- Clemency Landrigan the perfume designer?

- You've heard of her then?

- Yeah.

- Well, as I was about to tell her before

she rudely hung up on me, the

names of perfume designers

are of no use to me.

- It's 'cause

you're a bloke, guv.

- I am a bloke, well observed, Sergeant.

But that's not what I meant.

I was referring to a rare

condition that I suffer from,

I've had it since birth,

it's called anosmia.

- That's all very well, guv,

but what if the culprit's not in the room,

what if they're elsewhere?

- Guv, shouldn't we be on our way

before The Generalists ruin everything

with their lack of official credentials?

- All your life, guv, you've been anosmic?

- There's no need to tell me

what I've just told you, Sergeant.

- Yeah, sorry, guv.

- Now, when we

get to Idlewyld House,

please try to be useful

and don't just repeat

everything I say.

- 'Course, 'course, guv.

- The police are on their way

and there's more bad news, I'm afraid.

- It's your hat and coat, John.

- They're ruined.

Swithun was wearing them

when he was stabbed.

- Both are covered in blood.

- Why would he wear my hat and coat?

- He's an actor.

Was an actor, I should say.

He loved trying on other people's clothes.

- Oh yes, he was forever

snatching my scarf

and draping it round his neck.

- Where was he stabbed?

- It looks as if he

was stabbed in the back

with great force.

The Kn*fe's blade went

right through his heart.

- Ew.

- Well, you asked.

- So, the k*ller didn't see Kirk's face,

and he stabbed him from behind.

So it was obviously me

he intended to k*ll.

He saw my hat and coat and

assumed it was me wearing them.

- How would he have known they were yours?

No one saw you wearing them apart from me.

And I definitely didn't k*ll anybody.

- That's where you're wrong, Anders.

- I didn't dislike his films that much.

- No, I mean about the hat and coat.

Someone else did see me

wearing them, a Mr. E.

- Who?

- Before we set off to come here,

a man arrived at our

house saying he was Mr. E,

the m*rder*r, without

mentioning any more details.

We thought at first he was mad,

or he was talking about a m*rder that

he had actually committed.

- But there's a third option,

what if he was talking about a m*rder

he intended to commit in the future.

- Right.

- The mystery of Mr. E.

- Be quiet, Oscar,

darling, you're a child.

You shouldn't be hearing conversations

about brutal murders.

Be a good boy and pretend

you're not listening.

- John, George and I were together

at the time that Kirk was m*rder*d,

so we're in the clear.

Where was everybody else?

- Before I heard Clemency

scream, I was in the kitchen

making Oscar a sandwich.

- Were you?

- Yes, ham and pickle.

- Oh yeah, more pickle next time.

- Well all right, so we

know where John, George,

Peter, Oscar and Anders were at the time

of the m*rder, and the rest of us,

Laura, Max and Irene were

in the drawing room with me.

I was telling them about Oscar's school.

- That's right, nobody left the room.

- So nobody could've k*lled him.

You're all accounted for,

apart from our Mr. E.

- How would your Mr. E have got in?

All the windows and doors

were closed and locked.

- Are you sure?

- Absolutely, I check all the

locks on the hour every hour.

- I insist upon it.

- Unless Peter, John and George,

they could've done it together.

You've never liked him, Peter.

Or perhaps Oscar and Anders,

they could have done it.

- If I were to pick a partner in crime,

it wouldn't be Oscar.

- Don't be ridiculous, man.

It could be you, Max.

- Yeah, Max, you

really didn't want to do

his memoirs, did you?

- Yeah,

what have you got to say

about that accusing everyone else?

- Very funny, Oscar.

Well, we know that it wasn't

one of our group, of course,

but then those that

weren't part of our group

don't know that.

- You're all discounting

Mr. E. too easily.

This man came to our house and

told us he was the m*rder*r.

- It won't be him then,

that's too obvious.

- It's not obvious at

all, we have no idea who he is.

He knew about this place and our visit.

- Who actually found the body?

- I did.

- Oh, perhaps it was Clemency then.

She left the room, stabbed Swithun,

and then found his body.

- How dare you.

- No, impossible.

She walked over, checked

the door to the basement,

and then immediately screamed.

We all saw her the whole time,

hurried over and saw

Swithun Kirk laying lifeless

at the bottom of the stairs.

- No more free perfume samples for you.

- He was annoying, but no

one would actually have

the motive to k*ll him.

And there's this book

and I think it's-

- Oscar, run along

to the library and have a

go at that French homework.

- I hid it in a book like you told me to.

- Great, so off you trot.

- But I've forgotten which book.

- Oh, do other homework then.

- But I want to help solve

the mystery of Mr. E.

And there's this book-

- No!

Sorry, darling, but m*rder isn't something

an innocent young boy

should be thinking about.

If you don't want to do homework,

then go and have a snappy

chat with your friends

or whatever it is you call it.

- Why are parents so annoying?

- What about the m*rder w*apon?

Was it there at the scene of the crime?

- The basement is full of

potential lethal weapons.

- There was no sign of a Kn*fe

or anything sharp near the body.

- Tell me, what made you

go and open the door,

and why wasn't Swithun

with the rest of you?

What made him leave the room?

- He'd gone in

search of booze, as usual,

but he'd closed the drawing

room door to the hall behind him.

I opened it because, well I

didn't think of it till now,

but I heard the front door lock or unlock,

definitely the front door though,

and we weren't expecting anyone else

so I wondered who it was.

That's when I noticed the

basement door was adjar.

Well, there he was all crumpled

up like a sack of spuds.

- You might have heard

the m*rder*r leaving.

- Goodness me, that's

significant, isn't it?

- Let's say he took the w*apon with him,

closed and locked the doors

to make himself scarce.

However, he'd of needed a key.

- What?

- Come on, George.

Where are you going?

- For a walk.

- It helps us think.

- What about us?

- The rest of you stay here together,

see if you can come up

with anything useful.

- Present a puzzle

that's impossible to solve,

therefore we'd become obsessed.

- But if he kills

one of us on the same day,

there's no time for that.

- It doesn't make sense,

why would he want to k*ll us though?

What's his motive?

- Or whose m*rder*r was he

trying to imply that he was?

Until Swithun Kirk there was no victim.

- Excuse me, Mr. Danes?

- Which one?

- Either, or both.

- And you are?

- Laura Taylor, you can

call me Prof if you like.

- You're a bit young for a professor.

- Well, it's a nickname,

I'm an undergraduate.

- How can we help you?

- I don't think Harriet

Landrigan fell down

the stairs by accident,

I think she was m*rder*d.

- What makes you think that?

- Well, she obviously had a secret,

one that she wrote about to her publishers

in the letters that were

stolen from the archive.

- And?

- Well, that's it.

I mean, people who have secrets

often get m*rder*d, don't they?

- It's hardly proof.

- And then there's your Mr. E

claiming to be the m*rder*r,

I think it's Harriet's

m*rder he's talking about

and now he's k*lled Swithun Kirk.

- So, Mr. E is a double m*rder*r then.

- Maybe.

- Again, where's the proof?

- You need to find the proof.

- Okay, we're just asking.

Why do you care so much?

- I need Harriet to have been m*rder*d

or else my whole dissertation's ruined.

- Sorry?

- I'm arguing that crime

writers are more likely

to fall in love whereas romantic novelists

are more likely to get m*rder*d.

- Aren't you approaching

it the wrong way 'round?

Shouldn't you look for your

data and evidence, whatever,

and then formulate a theory?

- Don't be silly, you wouldn't

last five minutes in academia.

- Look, why don't you wait until we find

the truth in this case and then write

a dissertation about that?

- I bet you could get a

brilliant book out of it.

- You could interview me extensively.

- And me.

- And him.

- Gee thanks, you're too kind.

- What's up with her?

- Are you okay?

Was it something we said?

- No, it's just me, a professor?

I'm just fooling myself,

it's never gonna happen.

- Well why not?

You can achieve anything

if you believe in yourself

and you work at it.

- What's the point in kidding myself?

Might as well face the facts.

- Who, me? Or him?

- Oscar.

His mum encourages him to hide

his homework in the library.

Maybe I should hide my unfinished

dissertation in there too.

- I won't tell anyone.

- I'm an adult, it's

hardly the same thing.

- Oh no, old people hide

things in there all the time.

- Old?

- I was only trying to help.

- Oscar, what do you mean about old people

hiding things in the library?

- Well, I was trying to hide

my homework in this book

and there were tonnes of letters in there.

- Letters?

- Yes, inside the book called

"The Mystery of Mr. E",

same as your visitor, right?

- Right.

- I knew it!

I thought it might have a connection.

- Oscar, can we see this book.

- Of course.

- The police will be

cordoning off the area soon.

Laura, can you go back

and make sure everyone

stays together for me now please?

- Did I say you could call me Laura?

- No, but I've managed to do it anyway.

Come on, George.

- Ouch.

What do we have here?

- That looks a bit, a bit nasty.

Yeah.

- What do you think?

- It's a dead body, guv.

- So, someone hid the letters

in one of Deevo's thrillers.

- Good old Deevo.

If it wasn't for him, I'd have

nowhere to hide my homework.

- And why is that?

- He built this library

for Harriet as a surprise.

- That's a very big gesture.

- For what reason?

- To celebrate her selling

her first 10 million books.

Well, that's 10 million copies,

she obviously didn't

write 10 million books.

- And when exactly was this?

- Before I was born.

Mum and Dad went on holiday with Anders,

when they got back, the

library was here full of books.

- Oscar, have you

read this particular book?

- No, CBA.

- Sorry?

- Can't be arsed.

- What about these letters?

- No.

- Let me guess, CBA.

Well I suppose it is safer that he didn't.

The secret contained in the letters

has already caused at least one m*rder.

Oscar, when the family

and Anders were away,

was it just Deevo here left by himself?

- I think so.

- So he would've needed access.

Why would the most

popular romantic novelist

in the world decide to

never publish a book again

even though she kept writing them?

- Maybe she didn't keep writing them,

what if it's just blank

pages in those frames?

- We need to find out.

Oscar, do you fancy turning your hand

to a spot of vandalism?

- Like what?

- Your grandmother's framed

books, the unpublished ones,

we need you to smash the

glass and get them out.

- I would get grounded like forever.

- Really?

I think your mum would let

you get away with anything.

- Mum would, but Dad wouldn't.

- It could hold the key to everything.

- Really?

Actually, I think I might

know just the person we need.

- You're The Generalists?

- In general, we say that's true.

John and George Danes,

nice to meet you, Officer.

- Uh, Inspector Coode.

This is Sergeant Wilderspin.

- John, George.

Where's Paul and Ringo?

Sorry, guv, just trying

to lighten the mood.

- I'm sorry, Inspector, but

you've had a wasted trip.

- Wasted trip?

I was told there'd been a m*rder.

- The Generalists say we've

had a wasted trip, guv.

- Well there has indeed

been a m*rder here,

but we have just solved it.

- So, the m*rder*r's been detained then?

- Oh, uh, no.

Sorry, we forgot about

the admin side of things,

that need to happen when the mystery's

actually been solved.

- Excuse me?

- We don't have the

authority to arrest anyone,

we were hoping you two

could deal with that part.

- They want us to arrest the k*ller, guv.

- I've never heard of a generalist

solving a m*rder before.

- Actually, we've solved two murders.

- The Generalists reckon

they've solved two murders, guv.

- I doubt you'd ever even

heard of a generalist at all,

well, until you heard about us.

- No, I had not.

And I'll admit, that

was a state of affairs

that I enjoyed greatly.

Two murders, you say?

So, is there another body?

- There was.

Swithun Kirk, over there

was not the first victim.

That was Harriet Landrigan in 2014.

- We believe she did not fall

down the stairs by accident,

she was pushed to her death

by a determined k*ller.

- Who!

I'll rip his heart out with my bare hands.

- Come on, Irene.

- Oh, shut up, Peter.

You have no idea of the agonies I suffer.

I'm a lifelong devoted

fan, you're only her son.

- Oh now look here!

I've had to put up with

you for long enough-

- Everybody just shoosh, please,

until I've been apprised of all the facts.

Tell me everything you know, Mr. Danes.

First of all, who is the m*rder*r?

- We don't know his name,

but we will very soon.

But I can tell you that Harriet Landrigan

and Swithun Kirk were both

k*lled by the same person,

a man who announced himself

to us as the m*rder*r.

- And his name is?

- Let's call him Mr. E,

although arguably he lied

about that being his actual name.

- What do you mean arguably?

- Normally we'd assume

someone going by Mr. E

would have E as the first

letter of his last name.

- Like the art dealer

desperate to get his hands

on the books, Peter.

- You think Terence

Eastman's behind this?

- No, he has nothing to do with this.

- Our Mr. E's last name begins

with a different letter of the alphabet.

E is the first letter of his first name.

- But surely if you know all that,

then you must know who he is.

- We sort of know who the k*ller is, yes.

- But not quite.

- The Generalists sorta

know who the k*ller is, guv,

but not quite.

- I heard them, Sergeant.

As I suspected, their methods appear

to be laughably haphazard.

I didn't get where I am

today by sort of knowing

who the k*ller is.

Do you know what we in

the Major Crimes Unit

call sort-of solved crimes?

Tell him, Sergeant.

- We call 'em unsolved

crimes, don't we, guv?

- That's correct.

We call them unsolved.

- Give us a minute,

Inspector, I'm getting there.

Perhaps Mr. Russell could help me out

with this next part.

- Me?

- Peter told me that one of the people

running your publishing

firm is your cousin,

Deevo Russell's nephew.

Does his first name begin with an E?

- No, his name is Frederick,

Freddie we call him.

- Okay, thank you, Mr. Russell.

Inspector, I can now tell you

exactly who the m*rder*r is,

although we still don't

know his first name.

- So, it's not Frederick Russell then.

- Definitely not.

- Definitely not Frederick Russell.

Generalists don't think

it's Frederick Russell, guv.

- I heard him, Sergeant.

I am, in fact, in the room and I have ears

just as you are, just as you do.

Tell us who the k*ller is then, Mr. Danes,

so that I know whom to arrest.

- A man arrived at our house uninvited

saying that he was a m*rder*r.

He then revealed to us that he knew

we were coming to Idlewyld House.

We thought that we may find a m*rder here

waiting for us to solve it.

When we arrived we were told that nothing

of the sort had actually occurred.

- This threw us, at first, until we heard

that Harriet Landrigan

had d*ed by accident.

- Naturally, we wondered if

the supposedly accidental death

of Harriet Landrigan was the m*rder

that we were meant to solve.

- We then discovered that

Deevo Russell had d*ed

one year before, almost

exactly to the date.

- That's what you

said, isn't it, Peter?

- My mother d*ed on the 10th of July 2014,

Deevo Russell d*ed on

the 8th of July 2013.

I don't see how this is relevant.

- You also told

us you made a donation

to the hospital where

they took your mother

because you knew the doctors did all

they could to try and save her.

- Also true.

- From this, ladies and

gentlemen, we have deduced

that Harriet Landrigan

did not die immediately

after falling down those stairs.

Well, if she did, then why would

she need all those doctors?

- She would've been taken

to a morgue, not a hospital.

- Exactly.

So if Harriet d*ed on the 10th of July,

when did she have her so-called accident?

A few days earlier, perhaps,

maybe the 8th of July, Peter.

- Yes. Yes, it was.

- What a coincidence.

- Or let's say Mr. E

perhaps violently pushed

her down the stairs on the anniversary

of Deevo Russell's death.

- Who could get into the

house without anyone noticing,

perhaps someone with a key.

- What?

Have I missed anything important?

- Where were you at the

time of the m*rder, sir?

- Me?

- Oh, he's accounted for, Inspector.

I was just telling everyone how Oscar's

been helping us piece things

together in this case.

- Oh, he's done something useful at last.

I'll break out the

special biscuits, shall I?

- It seems Deevo went off the rails

after Harriet told him he couldn't publish

any more of her books,

so someone close to him

might have decided to blame her

for his death and punish her.

- And what better day

than the first anniversary

of his passing?

- Who would care so

passionately about avenging

Deevo Russell's death that

they may commit m*rder though?

- His son Max, it must be him.

I've always thought there's

something very funny

about Max, I'm sure I'm not the only one.

- Irene, I was in the room with you

when Swithun was stabbed, remember?

Mr. Danes-

- Max is innocent.

- Thank you.

- I, on the other hand, do

have a guilty conscience

and need to get something off my chest.

- Ooh, how thrilling.

- I took Harriet Landrigan's

unpublished books

out the frames and had a

quick skim read of them.

- You did what!

This is outrageous!

- We had an expert helper on the case

who has already put them back

to their original condition

with museum-grade glass,

no damage was done.

- John, that was very naughty of you.

Harriet really didn't want

anyone to read those books.

Were they terribly

scandalous and offensive?

- No, they're quite inoffensive

and ordinary romantic almost.

- How dare you!

Nothing Harriet wrote was ordinary.

- My point is there's

nothing in any of the books

that offers anything secret or private.

- This led us to wonder

why was she so adamant

that they must never be published.

- And more importantly,

who suffered as a result

of her peculiar choice?

- Only Deevo really.

Sure, her fans must

have been disappointed,

but Deevo's the one who lost everything.

- Maybe that's all Harriet

wanted, for Deevo to suffer,

to make it all about him.

- Correct.

It was Oscar, you see,

who led us to the book

in the library called

"The Mystery of Mr. E".

It's a thriller written and

published by Deevo Russell.

That's important,

Inspector, write that down.

Inside the book we found

the missing letters

from the Russell, Russell

& Russell archive.

A month's correspondence

between Harriet Landrigan

and Deevo Russell.

If I may share the contents.

"Dear Deevo,

- Dear Deevo,

all right then.

If you insist on knowing

why I shall never again

give you one of my books to

publish, I shall tell you.

You have yourself recently written a book,

you're now a writer as

well as a publisher.

No doubt in your heart of hearts

you are a writer first and foremost.

I wish you every success

in your new career

churning out these who-done-it yarns

and trust you will require

no further explanation.

You should be able to work

out the rest for yourself.

Regards, Harriet.

Dear Harriet, apologies,

but I seem to be missing something here.

What is my writing and publishing a novel

got to do with your books?

Nothing could affect my

commitment to you and your work.

Please let me assure you that I remain

as devoted to your novels and to you

as I have always been.

- Dear

Deevo, no devoted publisher

would compel his most valued author

to accept a fellow author,

some might even say a rival author,

as her main ally and advocate

in her writing endeavours.

Any credible publisher

would know that when

he utters the words 'my

books' his authors expect him

to be referring to their books,

which he loves as if they were his own.

He believes in them, nurtures them,

shares them with the world.

As soon as the words 'my books' take on

a different meaning for him,

the books he has written,

not the ones he publishes,

then that publisher has, I'm afraid,

lost the right to call himself devoted.

I hope this clarifies things for you.

- Harriet, my dear,

what on earth are you talking about?

This is quite mad.

Please tell me you're

not threatening to move

to another publisher.

Yours anxiously, Deevo.

No, you needn't worry.

There will be no need for a new publisher.

I have just finished my latest work

and no one will ever read it.

Not even you.

I shall continue to write, of course,

writing is my greatest joy,

but I shall never again

publish a single word.

Regards, Harriet.

- Dear Harriet,

you're making a tragedy out of something

that needn't be a problem at all!

I can't live without you or your books

and I don't believe you

can live without me.

This will also affect Russell

& Russell as a business

and my livelihood.

I'm begging you to change your mind.

Yours desperately, Deevo.

- So it seems Harriet

couldn't forgive Deevo

for becoming a writer.

She saw it as a betrayal

of her and her books.

- Well I can understand that,

it's a huge conflict of interest.

- He was hardly a rival author.

He was crime and she was romance.

- I suppose there's

only room for one person

to be number one in the

overall book charts.

- Yes, that's right.

- So it appears Harriet

showed her disproval

in the only way she could,

by putting all of her future

work beyond his reach.

- Why didn't she just

find a new publisher?

- We believe preventing

him from publishing

her future books wasn't enough.

- She also wanted him to

never be able to read them.

- And to know that by

publishing and writing

his own novels he'd be

deprived of all of hers.

- We think she wanted him to believe

he'd done a terrible thing.

- Then forgive me, Peter,

but she must have been

a silly, vain and selfish woman.

- Piffle!

Take that back immediately.

- Come on, Irene.

It was a vindictive overreaction.

- Have I missed something?

Have we been told yet who the m*rder*r is?

- No, we haven't, guv,

unless I've missed something.

- Oh, get on with it.

Not all of us are fascinated

by literary gossip,

nor by the emotional intricacies

of the author/publisher relationship.

- Well I am a little bit, guv.

- Who is the m*rder*r?

Where is the m*rder*r?

- We're getting there, Inspector.

- Max, when you restarted the family firm

after your father d*ed,

it wasn't Russell &

Russell anymore, was it?

It was Russell, Russell & Russell.

- That's right.

- So there's you, and

there's your cousin, Freddie.

Deevo's two sons and his nephew.

Tell me, what's the

name of the third member

of the Russell family

currently running the firm?

Your brother.

I bet you everything we own his first name

begins with an E.

- What are you saying?

- Who else but a close

relative of Deevo Russell

would blame Harriet

Landrigan for his death

and may have a first name

that begins with an E?

- No, not Edmund.

He wouldn't do something like that.

- Edmund, so we were right.

Deevo built the library

while the residents

of Idlewyld House were on holiday.

- So you must

have left him a key.

Is that right, Peter?

- Temporarily, yes.

In fact, we had a spare made but I assumed

he'd given it to you when we returned.

- Well I assumed he'd

given it to you or Anders.

- You know what they say

about assuming things.

- We thought to ourselves what if this key

was still in his possession when he d*ed

and one of his sons may have found it?

- Remember, Clemency

Landrigan heard the front door

being locked when the

m*rder*r left the house

after having k*lled Swithun Kirk.

- Realistically, how

could the k*ller be anyone

other than the Russell

brother whose first name

begins with an E?

- Max, you were the only guest who knew

John and George would

be here, weren't you?

- Yes, yes, I was hoping to persuade you

to write your memoirs, case

notes of The Generalists

or some such, a fabulous

title, don't you think?

- So if you were the only one

that knew we were coming here

and were clearly excited

about a prospective book,

you may have mentioned it to your brother

and business partner Edmund Russell?

- I expect I did, yes.

- So Mr. E knew we were coming here.

- It has to be him.

- Well done, John and George Danes.

The Generalists.

And your little band of sleuths.

- Edmund, why are you here?

- Sorry, Max old boy, they're quite right.

I am Edmund Russell, also known as Mr. E.

And I am indeed the m*rder*r.

- You k*lled my mother.

- If only I had a

Kn*fe I'd s*ab you to death!

- Be my guest.

- Don't!

- Drop the Kn*fe!

- No, Peter!

No!

- Here you go, guv.

- Just as I thought, a Kn*fe.

- If anyone wants to use it, feel free.

Death would probably be

preferable to years in prison.

- Kn*fe.

- So, we were right

about your identity then.

Mr. E is Edmund Russell.

However, I really don't

understand your motive.

- Yes you do, Mr. Danes.

You've just explained it to them.

Strong desire to avenge the death

of tragically deceased

father, et cetera.

- I understand that part,

but why would you introduce

yourself to us as the guilty party

and reveal that you knew

we were coming here.

Obviously that would make us suspect you.

- And then you k*lled Swithun

Kirk thinking he was John

because you feared we were onto you.

- But the person putting

us onto you was you.

- Oh dear, you really

don't get it, do you?

How disappointing.

- I think he wanted to get caught.

- Clever boy.

I witnessed what Harriet's

decision did to my father.

She knew more than anyone how

to use words like weapons.

And so I watched helpless as

my father fell into despair.

My mother left because of his drinking.

His business went to ruin.

Our home was repossessed.

A kind and proud man, who

just wanted to be free

to express his own creativity.

He lost everything, destroyed by a cruel,

manipulative, petty minded narcissist.

- Oh, how dare you.

- You didn't have to k*ll her.

- My father would still be alive today

if it wasn't for that selfish monster.

Can't you all see that?

- He was my father too.

- But you've always been so weak, Max.

Look at you, still fawning

around the Landrigans

like a loyal puppy.

- I only ever wanted to finish

what our father started,

to publish Harriet Landrigan's books

and share them with the world.

Without the m*rder.

- Maybe you shoulda talked

more to your brother, sir.

- Not at all.

I wanted revenge.

And I wanted to get away with k*lling her.

And I did.

I was pleased with myself for awhile.

I stole the most revealing

letters from the company archive.

Anyone who read the poison

words Harriet wrote to my father

and knew about his tragic

decline would've worked out

that somebody close to him

had a powerful motive for revenge.

- Or m*rder.

- Exactly.

So, I made those words

disappear to cover my tracks.

- So why contrive all this

now when you'd gotten away

with it all this time?

- The strangest thing happened.

It started to bother me

that my great achievement,

a successful m*rder, had gone unnoticed.

If years pass and one gets no credit

for one's ingenuity,

well, it's pretty galling.

- What kind of sick individual are you?

- Eventually I thought to myself,

what if I were to turn it into a game?

Find a likely opponent

and set them a challenge.

Tell them only that I'd m*rder*d someone,

no more than that.

I did not k*ll Swithun Kirk

thinking he was you, Mr. Danes,

his posture's quite different from yours.

I'd have never mixed you up.

I k*lled him because I knew

you weren't going to catch me

unless I provided further clues.

By committing a second

m*rder under your nose

I gave you a crucial clue;

that the k*ller must have

a key to Idlewyld House.

You were immediately convinced

that the second m*rder

was committed to cover up the first,

when in fact the opposite was true.

The second m*rder was

committed because without it

you'd of believed the

tragic accident line.

- So Swithun Kirk dressing

up in my hat and coat

was a stroke of luck for you.

- Yes.

- Stand by your beds, you honourable lot!

No, I'm not feeling that today, Swithun.

What can you bring me?

Ooh loose and jaunty, I like it.

A top.

Cagoule, no, I know I shouldn't.

It's tempting.

Matching blazer.

And perfect, now all we need is a walk.

I'm strolling down the

boulevard in Paris, oh yes.

I'm probably at a cafe with all my chums.

- I let myself

into the house intending

to k*ll a random guest, possibly Anders,

just to make sure you were in no doubt

that there was a k*ller here to be caught.

- Lunch I will have, I think-

Who are you?

- I'm new here, sir.

- Are you?

- How may I assist you?

- Actually, they've been

hiding the booze from me,

so if you could help me locate

some, that would be good.

- Well, we keep our best

vintage in the basement, sir.

- Really?

Well let's go and have a look, shall we?

Where's the light?

- When I saw Mr. Kirk

dressed in your clothes,

I thought how perfect,

I knew you'd assume

I was trying to k*ll either one of you,

and that you would thereafter be convinced

that an attempt to cover

up a m*rder was under way.

- Right, well, that's

more than enough for me.

Come on, Mr. E, the m*rder*r.

- Double m*rder*r.

Now I'm doomed to live

in a confined space,

just like one of Harriet

Landrigan's last four novels.

Except I haven't been framed.

I say, that was rather good, wasn't it?

- And now the final award,

for those of you still here,

the Outstanding Achievement

Award goes to Oscar Landrigan

for services to justice.

Well done, Oscar.

- Can I do my speech?

- No, no, it's not the BAFTA's I'm afraid.

Off you pop, there's a good chap.

- Nice one, Oscar.

- Outstanding Achievement

Award for services to justice.

Peter, at last.

- Well done, Oscar.

- Do you think the Vosses saw?

I think they left in rather a hurry.

- Yes, I should think the whole town saw,

or at least heard your

reaction, Mrs. Landrigan.

- Everyone, you're all welcome to come

and celebrate with us

back at Idlewyld House.

Anders has made sandwiches.

Salz Garcon esta impostur!

- Your son, he never

hands in his homework,

he doesn't deserve that award.

- How dare you!

- Sorry, what homework, Miss?

Please don't make a scene Gwen.

- Objection, your honour.

- Overruled.

Let's let the Landrigans

have their moment, shall we?

Are we still on for dinner?

- Depends how many of her sandwiches

you shove down your gob.

- Dear John and George

Danes, please accept payment

for advising Peter Landrigan

on how to rid himself

of his unwanted guests.

As a result, Irene Coggins

is busy translating

the recovered letters into every language,

which she will then take on tour.

Max Russell is enjoying great success

with Swithun Kirk's diaries.

"One Man & His Cagoule" is selling well

up the Himalayas apparently.

I believe John is very much

in touch with Laura Taylor,

so I won't go into that.

The section of floor where

Swithun met his demise

was bought by Terence Eastman,

who then sold it as Modern Art

for a figure that has

enabled him to retire.

Following Oscar's assistance

with solving the mystery of Mr. E

I understand he's interested in becoming

your apprentice at some point.

Mr. Morrison, the woodwork teacher,

has offered to give him a reference.

I shall miss his presence

terribly at the estate

as you can imagine.

Peter Landrigan and all

of us at Idlewyld House

send our sincere thanks and

best wishes to the Generalists.