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You don't believe him? |
It's Mother you have to convince. He's very agitated. Wait here. |
Emma in Wonderland. Welcome, Mrs. Peel. We've been expecting you. We hope you'll enjoy your stay with us. Decontamination is almost complete. |
Decontamination ? |
And you've a new wardrobe. He does want you to look attractive. He tells me you're very beautiful. |
Doctor Peel, I presume? |
And you must be Steed. Please don't get up. |
I was about to throw in the towel. |
I had a spot of bother at the door. |
I shouldn't wonder. Not a woman inside Boodles since |
1922. Why the kippers? |
Red herring would have been too obvious, don't you think? |
So what was all this some sort of test? |
Congratulations, you've penetrated a bastion of male privilege. I guessed you weren't a stickler for Tradition, doctor. |
Whereas you are. |
Dyed in the wool. But I can admire someone who doesn't play by the rules. |
Rules are made to be broken. |
Not by me. Play by the rules, Doctor, or the game is nothing. |
And just what is the game? |
I say, this is all terribly formal. Must I go an calling you Dr. Peel? |
Under the circumstances, you may call me Mrs. Peel. |
Much better. |
And now that we've settled the matter of honorifics, will you kindly explain why you wished me to meet you? |
I didn't. Mother did. |
Mother? |
... Showers followed by sunny periods. |
We're not here to talk about the weather, surely. |
Ah ... From Trubshaw's. My shoemaker. |
A kipper. Or a red herring? What were they investigating? |
My father always wanted a boy. |
Really? I fail to see the connection. |
I had a feeling you would. Touche! |
Do you? |
Yes indeed. I need protection. |
I thought we were on our way. |
Oh, absolutely, but Trubshaw's a man worth meeting. No point setting out half shod. |
Or half cocked. |
Steed, we really must be |
Ahh. Perfect fit. The luxury of a handmade shoe. As unique as a face or a fingerprint. Or should I say DNA? |
You can but I wish you wouldn't ... |
Thank you, Trubshaw ... |
That place is so absurd, so out of date ... |
Do you really think so? |
You know what I mean. This car and you. Nobody walks around like that. Milk? |
Not all Tradition is bad, Mrs. Peel. No thank you. |
But why? What's the point? |
A Gentleman has to have a code. This is part of mine. A uniform. Think of it as my suit of shining armor. |
And I suppose you're the knight. |
The most unpredictable piece on the board. And always ready to protect his queen. |
That's predictable. When I find a queen in need of protection I'll let you know. |
Sir August Merryweather ... why are we seeing him first? |
As per mother's instructions. |
Do we always follow Mother's instructions? |
For a man in my position |
Just what is your position, if you don't mind my asking. How did a stuffed shirt like you get into this line of work? |
They call me in when they've reached a dead end. Freelance. Like yourself. |
I have no choice. Why should you risk your life? |
After our fencing match, I was rather hoping you would do the risking. More tea? |
No thanks. |
I meant me. |
According to Mother, Sir August owns half of the Highlands. A millionaire. Former head of Special Projects at the Ministry. Now ... |
An eccentric recluse? |
Not so much eccentric. More barking mad. He has a wife called June. And a daughter somewhere Julie. |
June, July ... August? |
The family does seem to be somewhat meteorologically inclined. |
Any other vices? |
All of a piece, really. A fanatical weatherman. Chairman of BROLLY. British Royal Organisation For Lasting Liquid Years. Thinks British weather has been tampered with by ... aliens. |
So ... I distract him while you snoop around? How? |
Small talk. Try the weather. |
Ah, Brenda ... Mrs. Peel? |
You should be dead. How do you feel? |
Strange. |
You were very lucky. Four shots to the heart. I found you after I slipped away from Sir August. Mother brought you here. Not me you should thank. |
I wasn't about to. |
I mean your man Trubshaw. Your bulletproof waistcoat. I thought you were just overdressed. |
I might say the same. |
Mother and Dr. Darling have me under observation. They think I tried to kill you. |
Why should they think that? |
You told them. You said I arrived on a camel, shot you four times. Left you for dead. |
Frankly that's how I remember it. |
But that's absurd. I may not be overfond of you, Steed, but it's not my style. |
Perhaps your memory plays tricks, Mrs. Peel. |
That's possible. Sir August was convinced he'd met me before. But I'd never met him. Another odd thing. When it rained, he said it was just as someone had promised. |
Did he say who? |
No. But he must know. Incidentally, my double left you with this. |
An invitation. To a 'formal picnic'...? |
Did you say formal? I must dress. |
I must say, you look more your old self |
You mean my other self ... |
Either way ... may I ask: why you dress in that fashion? |
I should have thought that was obvious ... I'm in mourning. |
Colonel Crabtree. International Satellite Systems. Formerly of the Ministry. |
How on earth can you tell? |
Elementary, Mrs. Peel. Trubshaw isn't the only shoemaker still practicing his trade ... |
Very good, Steed ... |
What on earth? |
Any ideas? |
Well, he was a fellow of the Royal Zoological Society ... |
Is that written in his shoe? |
Common knowledge, Mrs. Peel ... |
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