- Synced and corrected by synk - - www.addic7ed.com -
Welcome to the new Toronto reference library
And let us raise our glasses to Canada's first
International Convention of Novelists
as we write our city a new and glorious chapter in the arts.
Ah.
Mr. Kipling?
If you would be so kind as to do me the honours, sir.
I used to read my boys "the jungle book"
when they were this big.
Put them to sleep every time.
In a good way, of course.
Name?
Thomas Brackenreid.
R-e-i-d.
- Never heard of you. - I'm not a writer.
This is a private party.
I'm accompanying my good friend, the great George Crabtree.
- Never heard of him, either! - Ah! Uh...
Oh, that's the chap over there.
The author of two classic novels that... Oh!
The titles of which escape me at the moment.
But I assure you...
Bloody hell.
Oh, come here.
Not the goldmine I was hoping for.
How many autographs so far, sir?
One. I didn't know him, either.
I mistook him for robert service.
I'm feeling a little out of depth myself.
Nonsense! These are your people.
Get out there, start mingling.
Sir, have you seen who's here?
Henry James, Edith Wharton, L. Frank Baum.
I'm hardly worthy.
You're an invited guest.
Yeah and, sir, look where I am on the poster,
right there at the very bottom.
With all the other up-and-comers!
And spelled with a "g".
George Grabtree.
At a novelists' convention!
I am aware of the irony.
Nobody here has the faintest idea who I am.
Oh! Until now, that is.
Who's that?
Lucy Maud Montgomery.
The writer of "Anne of Green Gardens"?
- Gables. - Oh. You know her?
Oh, yes, sir. We became well acquainted.
I inspired her main character.
A little girl called Anne?
Sir, an orphan, found in a carpet bag,
wildly imaginative.
That must be her fiancé she's with.
I heard she became engaged.
But I have no doubt, sir, she'll thank me. Just watch.
For your troubles.
You must've made quite the impression.
Right, that's me for the night. I'm off.
Well, if you're leaving, so am I.
Anyway, how much fun could we possibly miss?
Right. The tipsy ferret it is, then.
Thank you.
Oh. What have we here?
Sir, Alfred Pope.
One of the writers at the opening cocktail party last night.
That's the man I mistook for robert service.
We should have stuck around longer.
You spoke with this man?
Around 9:30.
He seemed well enough at the time.
I must've gotten his final signature.
Do you think that ups the value?
What have you, Mrs. Hart?
It looks like his heart's been penetrated by a single jab.
He's been dead a few hours at least.
- Who found the body? - Ah, the cleaner, sir.
She found him this morning.
Apparently the revelry went on until the early hours.
Someone was sending a message.
Indeed.
Pages from a book.
Sir, I found several books scattered about the room,
but none of them were missing any pages.
Seems to be some writing on one side, as well.
Red ink, perhaps?
Not a wise choice if you want someone to read it.
Right. George, once Mrs. Hart is finished
with the murder weapon and the accompanying pages,
please bring them to my office.
We also need to speak with all of the guests
in order to retrace Mr. Pope's final steps.
I'm on it.
- Excuse me, constable. - Oh, lord!
Would you have any idea why the convention's been postponed?
I'm afraid there's been a murder.
Oh my lord! Who?
Well, we'll make an announcement once we notify the next of kin.
To think that I was trying to sneak in here last night.
I was hoping to slip one of them my stories.
Last night you say?
When?
Around 10.
And were you able to get in? Were there any doors unlocked?
Ah, they... They were sealed tight, I'm afraid.
I even tried the windows.
Well, did you notice anything unusual?
Anybody lurking about besides yourself, I suppose?
I'm afraid not.
Right, well if you remember anything, anything at all,
I would appreciate you letting me know.
I'm constable George Crabtree. I'm at station house four.
George Crabtree, the writer?
Yes, that's right.
- Do I know you? - No! But I know you.
"Curse of the Pharaohs", "A Man Alone."
I'm a huge fan, sir.
Your words are salve to the soul.
Well, I don't know about that.
I'm Norman Bean. I fancy myself a bit of a writer, too.
Oh, is that right?
I'm very excited to be in your presence.
I can't help but think that this is fate.
Would you allow me to follow you around for a day?
I could help out, if you'd like.
I'd love to delve into the brain of George Crabtree.
Really?
I beg your pardon. Is this seat taken?
Uh, I suppose not.
I suppose everyone turned away
from the novelists' convention ended up here.
Indeed.
I heard there may have been a murder.
Ah, it's true, I'm afraid.
My husband's a detective on the case.
A macabre profession, to be sure.
I used to be a city coroner.
That's where we met.
Oh, how ghastly!
And yet perversely fascinating.
Do you miss it?
Uh, I'd be lying if I said I didn't,
but life had greater adventures in store.
I suppose so.
I didn't quit because of my child,
if that's what you're implying.
Half the trouble in life is caused by pretending there isn't any.
Well,
I'll have you know,
I'm still very active in the medical field.
Edith Wharton would not appreciate you twisting her words like that.
Forgive me.
I have a nasty habit of overstepping.
I guess we have that in common.
Perhaps my name might help excuse the blunder.
I'm Edith Wharton.
Oh, my.
You are.
My lecture's been postponed.
Any suggestions on what one might do to while away
a few hours in this town?
Oh!
Mr. Kipling?
Remember me?
I'm on police business this time.
Are you familiar with an Alfred Pope?
Uh, I heard. Terrible.
And I heard that you were one of the last people
to leave the party.
Did you exchange words with him, by any chance?
I'll tell you what I know, but you'll have to buy me a drink.
Although, I doubt very much you'd be familiar with it.
Try me.
A pisco sour.
Pisco: Lime juice, simple syrup,
egg whites, angostura bitters.
Impressive.
But did you also know that it was a favourite
of that anti-imperialist bastard, Mark Twain?
May he rest in peace.
Who do you think I got the recipe from?
Join me for a tipple.
Sir, any luck isolating the red ink?
Not much, I'm afraid.
I've tried a number of different light settings,
including ultraviolet, but nothing seems to be working.
I wonder if there's a way to remove the blood chemically?
Precisely what I was thinking.
However, I will need you to transcribe the text
from these pages so we can still identify the book
should the process compromise the ink.
I assumed as much.
I took the liberty while you were with the inspector.
Oh!
Well, then I need you to track down Alfred Pope's wife,
let her know I need to speak with her.
Sir, done so and she's available this afternoon.
Well, very good. Very good.
Then, perhaps you and the inspector should create a timeline
of Alfred Pope's final interactions.
Uh, well...
George, your efficiency is noted.
How did you find the time?
- Tea is ready, sir. - Ah! Norman.
Needs one more sugar.
- Very good, sir. - I've taken an assistant.
I'll take Mrs. Pope's address now, please.
Right. Right.
For 300 miles in 20 days, we pushed through sandstorms
and searing heat, our rations waning,
only to emerge at Kandahar in time to blow Ayub Khan
and his cowardly lancers back to the Stone Age!
"Take up the white man's burden,
send forth the best ye breed,
bind your sons to exile,
to serve thy captives' need!"
I must say,
it's a pleasure to drink with a son of the empire.
Uh, well, I do appreciate your respect
for law and order.
And I will keep an ear open.
Whoever took down Pope must be apprehended.
No one ever said a bad word about him,
may God rest his soul.
Ah...
So, you've brought your book again.
Ah, pretend you didn't see it.
Well, what if I pretended I did see it and I signed it?
That's what you want, isn't it?
- You'd consider it? - I'll do you one better.
I am winnowing a series of essays on sea warfare
for an upcoming collection and I could use
the advice of a war veteran such as yourself.
I would be honoured, Mr. Kipling.
Call me Rudyard.
Rudyard.
I still can't believe Alfred is dead.
We just booked a trip to Hawaii.
He'd boast of visits to Kilauea in his books,
but he never actually went.
It was our little secret.
Now he'll never go.
When did you last see your husband?
We went to the cocktail party together.
I felt a little out of place, so I left around 11.
He offered to take me home,
But I insisted that he stay and enjoy himself.
Did you notice anything unusual?
Any tension with one of the writers, perhaps?
No, of course not.
When I left he was telling a joke.
The last thing I heard was his stupid laugh.
Do you know of anyone who may have wished your husband harm?
Alfred was respected by his peers.
His books didn't sell well,
so he wasn't in competition with anyone.
It doesn't make any sense.
We... We found pages affixed
to your husband's body.
We've transcribed them.
Do you recognize any of this text?
They're from his upcoming book, "Killian's Folly."
He'd just been sent a box of advance copies,
but as far as I know, it's unopened.
It's a thinly veiled assault on the literary community.
What's more, three of the books were missing from a box.
He likely distributed them to his fellow novelists.
And you think if we find them, we may find our culprit?
Possibly. It also means that everyone,
including Kipling, is a suspect.
Not to mention a skinflint. He stiffed me on the bill.
Are you sure we're not overthinking this?
Sir, the book lampoons the literary community.
It creates caricatures out of a number of famed authors,
or so George tells me.
There's no such thing as bad press.
- Mrs. Hart. You have news? - Ah, yes.
I've completed the post-mortem
and I have a smaller timeframe for Pope's time of death.
He died between midnight and 2:00 am.
Well, that makes sense. We've established
that the party continued past midnight.
Yet, all the writers that I checked with,
including Kipling, Lucy Maud and Edith Wharton,
all say they left the party well before midnight.
And none of them recall interacting with Pope,
which I find odd. Anything else?
Actually, yes. I examined the brown liquid on the victim's shirt
and I found sugars mixed with some type of alcohol.
Someone must've spilt a drink on him before doing him in.
That wasn't the only odd finding.
There was also a crusty substance,
which proved to be the proteins of egg white.
Who would put an egg white in a drink?
Bloody hell. A pisco sour.
Meaning what, exactly?
Meaning I need to go and visit a friend.
As I told old Tommy boy,
I was nowhere near Pope that night.
Then how do you explain the traces of pisco sour on his shirt?
Right. So, he and I had a bit of a row.
He called my writing "jingoistic claptrap."
And I responded accordingly.
What time did you last see him?
North of midnight the events began to blur.
So, it's possible you were with him
at the time he was murdered?
If you're implying what I think you're implying,
I'd tread lightly.
You lied about your perception of the victim,
you lied about when you last saw him,
and you lied about your argument.
You seem to have a problem with facts, Mr. Kipling.
The facts are Alfred Pope resented my success
And he was a self-entitled chowderhead.
He deserved a pisco sour on his shirt.
He did not deserve to die. I did not kill him
and he was alive when I left him.
All right.
Can you at least tell me who was with him at that time?
Yes, I can, in fact.
He was in the rare book room getting forward
with a certain Lucy Maud Montgomery.
Sir. Any luck?
The blood and the ink have somehow fused.
No matter how I adjust my hydrogen peroxide chemical bath,
I can't seem to remove one without removing the other.
Might be quite effective for cleaning a stain, though, sir.
- Uh, you asked for me. - Yes.
Lucy Maud Montgomery has been placed alone
at the scene with the victim.
I need you to bring her in.
- Is that a problem, George? - Sir, no.
- Three sugars this time. - Ah, Norman.
Thank you. I owe you.
It's... It's funny you say that.
My... My story. I was hoping that you could read it.
Um, if... when you're not so busy.
Uh, yes. Yes, of course.
Um, I've got some police duty to attend to right now,
but I'll give this a read as soon as possible.
Thank you, sir.
Lucy Maud Montgomery.
Oh.
The coat check boy.
Still?
You really don't remember me?
You took my class. We had a moment?
I'm sorry. You must have me mistaken for someone else.
Now, if you'll excuse me.
Well, actually, Miss Montgomery.
This is not a social call.
Oh.
What were you and Mr. Pope discussing
in the rare book room?
Nothing. I helped him dry his shirt, that's all.
Mr. Kipling intimated that he may have been getting forward with you.
You can't possibly be taking anything Mr. Kipling...
Mr. Kipling is wrong.
Alfred and I were friends, nothing more.
Then why did you lie?
I was afraid my fiancé would get the same idea as Mr. Kipling.
What did the two of you talk about?
Nothing coherent, anyway.
He was more than a little drunk.
Did he imply that he was under any sort of threat?
No.
Alfred could be abrasive, but he was very well respected.
In truth, he was the writer we all aspired to be.
He lived like a poet,
died like a poet.
He couldn't have conceived of a more delicious ending
if he wrote it himself.
It was hardly a delicious ending. He was murdered.
And you were one of the last people to see him alive.
I... I swear to you, Detective,
there was nothing odd about him when I left.
Can you at least tell me who else may have been there?
It's all a little blurry.
But I believe Edith Wharton was still there.
Ah. No hard feelings, Rudyard?
You were just doing your job.
How's your book?
The essays you were gathering on sea warfare?
Excellent. Uh, I think I came up with an opener.
It came to me shortly after I was brought in for questioning.
- Oh, is that right? - Hm. Yeah.
Could I see that book of yours?
- I'd just like to jot it down. - Of course.
Thank you.
Ah, ooh.
Ah!
Yes, yes.
It went a little something like...
This.
Hm.
Now we've never met.
Ha.
Ah!
No hard feelings.
So, Edith Wharton was there?
Although it is possible Miss Montgomery's memory
of the evening was... compromised.
Sir, that is a phenomenon I have experienced personally.
And inspector Brackenreid says Ms. Wharton claims
to have been at her hotel.
Yes, I confirmed as much with the concierge at The Empress.
Sirs? That's false.
What's false?
I'm embarrassed to admit that
after failing to break into the cocktail party,
I heard that Edith Wharton was staying at The Empress.
So, I tipped a bellman to...
To slip her my manuscript.
Well, it's possible she pretended not to receive it.
Perhaps, but... But the bellman insisted that... That
not only was she not there,
but that she had never been there.
I... I knocked on her door myself.
So, if she said she left that party
and went straight to her hotel room...
Then Edith Wharton is lying.
Hmm. I would love to go back to France.
It's been far too long.
I don't know why anyone lives in America at all.
It's... It's all right to visit,
but it's not exactly Europe, is it?
Mm.
William!
Come!
My friend and I got into the wine.
I can see that.
You won't believe who it is.
She's very eager to meet you.
That's why I'm here.
You left me a message at the station house.
Oh... Oh.
Charmed.
Julia has told me a great deal about you.
Did she also tell you that I need to bring you in for questioning?
What?
William, what are you saying?
You're embarrassing me in front of my friend.
She may be your friend.
But she's also a suspect for murder.
What were you doing between midnight and 2:00 am last night?
I was sleeping.
Where?
In my hotel.
Hm. We've confirmed with the hotel bellman
that you never returned last night.
So, where were you really?
You can fix this, Mrs. Wharton.
Just tell us where you were.
I prefer to speak with my attorney.
Fine.
In the meantime,
we have a lovely spot for you to sit and wait.
You've thrown Edith Wharton in jail?
We're giving her a chance to cool off.
Maybe she'll decide to say something of substance.
And you agreed to this?
She lied about her alibi.
Well, perhaps she had a good reason?
She was the last person seen in the company
of a murder victim.
Well, by a woman who was impaired.
She refuses to answer any of our questions.
What are we supposed to do?
She's as stubborn as a mule!
We're doing all we can.
Well, not quite.
Not exactly your country house in Lennox.
Edith, I want you to know that whatever you say to me
will remain between us.
How can I trust you?
You're basically part of the constabulary.
I'm a woman.
And, even though we just met, I hope a friend.
You lied about where you were.
That's an unusual decision.
This is a very serious murder investigation.
I didn't have a choice.
Well, please, help me understand.
I love my husband very much.
Teddy was once a joyous soul but is no longer.
Marriage can be complicated.
Mine especially, I'm afraid.
Teddy suffers from melancholia.
Living with him is no longer viable.
I needed an outlet.
So, you had an affair.
His name is Morton Fullerton
and he's the foreign correspondent for the Times of London.
Which is to say that he has the means to travel discreetly.
It's an open secret,
emphasis on the word "secret".
So, you fear the repercussions.
Hm. The vultures want their carrion, Julia.
Such is the cost of excelling in a man's field.
This reminds me of a quote I read recently
in a magazine excerpt.
"That life is just a perpetual..."
"Piecing together of broken bits."
Indeed.
Apparently, I have far too many of them.
Tell me where your friend is staying
and I promise to keep your secret.
William? Any progress?
Not much.
I've managed to corrupt two pages
and I'm down to my last piece of evidence.
No matter the formula, I can't seem to extract enough blood
to reveal the red ink below.
That sounds like quite the undertaking.
It's like changing the tint of the ocean
to see the fish.
Why not change the fish?
Focus on the ink.
The peroxide bond is indeed weak and unstable.
By switching the H2O2 with 3H60,
you could let the acetone work on the message itself
with minimal damage.
Julia Ogden, I have never loved you more!
Well, perhaps this is a very good time to ask for a favour.
Anything.
Release Edith Wharton.
Except that.
William, she had her reasons to withhold her alibi.
She won't tell you and she won't tell the inspector,
but she did tell me and...
I confirmed her claims are legitimate.
I can't just take your word for it.
Well, I understand.
But know this:
if you continue to view her as a suspect,
you're wasting your time.
_
- Sir? - Perfect timing, George.
I think I've discovered a way to read the hidden ink message.
But we may not need it, sir.
I think I know who the killer is.
Look at this.
Liquor, lime and a trace of egg white.
Sniff!
Oh, wait!
Pisco sour.
Sir, this must've been what Pope was holding
when Kipling threw the drink on him.
That would explain the strange powder
Mrs. Hart mentioned.
George, where did you get this?
Sir, my number one fan:
Norman Bean.
I met Alfred Pope before the party.
He was the only one that would talk to me.
I managed to slip him my story.
He said that he would read it right away.
The anticipation was killing me.
So, you weren't sneaking into that party
to give out your story.
You were trying to get it back.
I wanted to see his thoughts, sir.
You expected a response that quickly?
It's a really good story.
At any rate,
you lied about not being able to get into the party.
Not entirely.
The back exit was indeed locked at 10.
But I neglected to add that
I had come back once more to see that it was open.
- What time was this? - Around 1:30.
Somebody had opened the deadbolt
and kept the door ajar to prevent it from locking.
I couldn't believe my luck.
What did you do then?
I was elated to find that
not only was Alfred there,
but that he was alone.
So I mustered up the courage to...
Ask him what he thought about my story.
He didn't like it.
He read it aloud,
laughing at all the serious parts,
mocking my superhuman zantar character,
who I was dumb enough to think was destined for greatness.
So, you killed him.
No.
You were hurt, humiliated.
It would have been understandable under the circumstances.
- I didn't kill him! - What did you do, then?
I wanted so much to just give him a piece of my mind!
But I just snatched my story back
and went out the same door that I came in.
- That's it? - Yeah.
You expect me to believe that you broke into the party,
found the victim alone,
had a humiliating altercation with him
and then simply left,
without a single guest as a witness?
I know it seems a little far-fetched,
but that's exactly what happened.
Allow me to counter with an alternate story,
one where a man ingratiated himself with my best constable
in order to get close to a case
because he had murdered a man out of fury and shame.
- No. - I'm sorry, Mr. Bean,
but the evidence strongly suggests
that you are guilty of murder.
Well, we finally got our man.
He was playing you all along, bugalugs.
Sir, I feel quite the fool.
There was absolutely nothing murderous I saw in Norman Bean.
Flattery is a powerful tool in the devil's arsenal.
Somewhat ironic, isn't it, sirs?
Alfred Pope's death will surely cause a surge in his book sales.
Mm. Mr. Pope will finally achieve the success
that has thus far eluded him.
Perhaps not so ironic after all.
"Aloha..."
"Aloha, meine schnecke "?
What the bloody hell does that mean?
We had just booked a trip to Hawaii.
Couldn't have conceived of a more delicious ending
If he wrote it himself.
It means Mr. Pope went to extreme measures
to cement his legacy.
"Aloha, meine schnecke ."
Both hello and goodbye, as I understand it.
He was making apparent his suicide to you
and to the world in order to generate sales.
But Alfred never cared about sales.
It doesn't make any sense!
Well, perhaps it was just to you?
Uh, "meine schnecke."
His pet name for me.
The German word for "slug".
He knew how much I hated that word.
He used to tease me with it all the time.
It always made me laugh.
Somehow it's not working this time.
Your husband found the most succinct way possible
to tell you that he loved you.
Did he not understand that
I would rather we be free together?
Thank you for your husband's work-in-progress.
I can see by the notes in the margins
that they match his handwritten notes.
He was always editing in the margins
with his stupid red pen.
I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Pope.
I do hope that you can find some peace.
I'm not sure I know how without Alfred.
- Keep the change. - Thanks.
It's nice having a bill paid for a change,
unlike some people.
Ah! There you are.
Thanks.
"If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
or walk with kings nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
if all men count with you, but none too much.
If you can fill the unforgiving minute,
with 60 seconds' worth of distance run,
yours is the earth and everything that's in it,
"and which is more, you'll be a man, my son!"
Truer words were never spoken,
If I may say so myself.
I don't disagree.
I think it's one of your most brilliant pieces.
And hot off the presses, too.
If by committing my new poem, if, to memory
you are trying to grovel back an autograph,
It's working.
I don't grovel.
I'm here to tell you
that the man of virtue described in your poem
is not the man that sits before me.
And I'd sooner have the bartender's autograph than yours.
Oh, and, uh,
I picked up your tab so you don't stiff him again.
Men of virtue pay their bills, sir.
Son of a gun!
It works.
I cannot believe it.
So, it was a suicide all along?
Yes. The answer was right under our noses the whole time.
This was a plot development I never saw coming,
Which just goes to show you I'm not much of a copper.
Or a writer, for that matter.
Now, on that matter, I'm not so sure.
I read your story, Norman.
It's so full of action and heart and valour.
I found it nothing short of remarkable.
Are you having me on?
Not at all. I wouldn't change a single word.
I do think you should try a pseudonym, however.
Something a little snappier than Norman Bean.
Norman Bean is a pseudonym, sir.
I didn't want to risk embarrassing my family
in case my book was a failure.
Well, what's your real name?
Burroughs.
My name's Ed Burroughs.
Ed Burroughs. That's not bad.
It could use a little souping up.
My proper name is Edgar Rice Burroughs.
I would go with that.
That has some real gravitas to it.
I also think you should consider changing the name of your hero.
Zantar sounds a bit like a magician.
I also considered Tublat Zan.
That sounds too much like a creature from outer space.
It's not quite right for a superhuman man-ape character.
What would you call him?
Well, I would reverse it.
Uh, ape-man?
No, I mean Zantar. I would reverse that.
- Tarzan. - Yes!
Actually, I was thinking Zartan, but Tarzan could work.
Tarzan, the ape man.
There we go.
Here, let me buy you a pint.
I owe you that much, at least.
I finally get to draw on your wisdom?
I have a feeling I'll be drawing on yours, sir.
Murdoch. A moment.
If you've got any of your adhesive thing-a-majiggy
and could stick this lot back together...
It's a lost cause, isn't it?
- I'm afraid so. - Mm.
Oh but be happy with what you have.
You have some big names here.
Including Alfred Pope,
who I think will be worth more than the others
since it's his final signature.
Especially now that "Killian's Folly" is set
to become such a big hit.
- Is this it here? - Yes. Why?
You saw him sign it himself?
I saw him do it with my own eyes.
It's different.
What do you mean?
In Alfred's final aloha to his wife,
the A was written by someone else.
But that's impossible.
Unless...
It was her.
The "aloha" on these pages
matched the notes in your husband's manuscript.
What I failed to identify was who wrote them.
I trust you know the direction I'm heading in.
Haven't the foggiest.
They were both yours, Mrs. Pope.
You were your husband's unofficial editor,
the person behind the scenes who would do anything
to ensure he got that bestseller.
Is it against the law for a wife to help her husband?
It's against the law to murder him.
Were you tired of living in his shadow?
My husband was too flimsy to cast a shadow.
A shadow implies mass.
Yet, you made it seem as though his obscurity was a virtue,
that the respect of his peers was all he needed.
For him, maybe.
But what about me?
I did half the work.
Do you know how many hours I spent sculpting his words,
just so he...
So we could finally have one bestseller?
So, it was about money.
It was about pride.
"Killian's Folly" had hit written all over it
And he refused to do the legwork.
He was a serial self-sabotager,
missing meetings, making drunken scenes,
insulting publishers.
He felt that made him a real artist.
You saw things differently.
He promised me trips,
Spain, Ireland and, yes, Hawaii.
He wintered on Arthur Conan Doyle's yacht
while I stayed home
And ate tinned ham and day-old bread.
What would have made it easier was to have one bestseller.
Just one.
I needed that, Detective.
I needed that at any cost.
"A man is most dangerous when he's broken..."
"For he has nothing left to lose."
You did read my book.
Of course I did, fathead.
Twice.
It's really good, George.
I was sure you didn't remember me.
Well, you're cute, but not that bright.
You didn't pick up on my signals about my fiancé, Ewen.
- Ah. - He's a minister.
Mm-hmm.
Well, he's not quite comfortable with my previous dalliances.
I didn't want him to know... that.
I think of you, though. Often.
I think of you, too.
I heard you got married.
I did. Her name is Effie. You'd like her.
You'd like Ewen, too.
Perhaps one day we can all get together.
Your book is a cracking good read, by the way.
You've read "Anne of Green Gables"?
Yes, of course! It's lovely.
Uh, the imagery is so picturesque, so moving.
It should be a moving picture.
No! A series of moving pictures.
Uh, several incarnations
That win the hearts of Canadians from coast-to-coast.
Well, I've always loved your wild imagination, George.
Now, you take care of yourself.
And Effie, too.
You too, Lucy Maud.
- Synced and corrected by synk - - www.addic7ed.com -