Sherlock Holmes and the Woman in Green (The Woman in Green)

I won't forget that morning,

not if I live to be 100.

I counted the men as they marched out of the Yard.

They'd hardly slept for weeks.

We at the CID had slept even less,

for the nightmare that kept us awake

was all the same nightmare.

That's why we weren't surprised

when the Commissioner had asked us up to

the conference room for a bit of a talk.

He would talk to us plenty, we knew that.

It didn't help any to know what was ahead of us.

Must we have that window open, Gregson?

Oh shut it if you want to.

The Chief will be in enough of a temper

without having a ruddy blast down the back of his neck!

Gentlemen, the Commissioner.

Stuffy in here.

Be seated, won't you?

Gentlemen, if you wish to know what able men you are,

read any of the works of popular fiction

that glamorize your achievement

but don't, I beg of you, read the daily papers.

They might give you an inferiority complex.

I hate to mention it,

but we're confronted with a series of

the most atrocious murders since Jack the Ripper.

And in the meantime,

the CID might as well be playing at shove hate me

for all the good we've accomplished.

Now, look

here, here and here.

Each of these red flags scattered through the city

stands for a woman brutally murdered,

a woman's terror,

a woman's death agony.

These are no ordinary crimes.

These are the works of a fiend who kills first

and mutilates afterwards.

A ghoul who hacks off a part of his victim's body

and carries it away with him,

a loathsome souvenir of his butchery.

Three women murdered so far,

and you haven't turned in one clue.

You haven't given me one lead.

Here you sit and wait for news of a fourth victim

with your arms folded.

Well, we hadn't long to wait.

It was down Lamberth Way

where a young woman was hurrying home late last night.

She saw something and stopped.

It was a Constable.

He spoke to her,

and he walked along with her just in case.

He saw her go down the stairway

to the basement lodging where she lived.

I can only surmise what happened after that.

So I put my pride in my pocket

and went to see the man that so often helped out

Inspector Lestrade and myself in the past

Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

If ever a man needed help, I did.

This makes four, Inspector.

Four defenseless women here in the heart of London.

And every one with the right forefinger hacked off.

Not hacked, Inspector Gregson,

cleanly, expertly severed.

The work of a skilled surgeon.

That's our only clue.

Much about the age of my sister's girl.

Is there no way of stopping this, Mr. Holmes?

Yes, there's a way somehow.

A fiend that did this.

I promise, I promise.

We've nothing go on, that's the rotten part of it.

We can't get far without knowing the motive.

Well, at least we know what the motives were not.

It wasn't robbery nor passion, nor vengeance,

because they all came at totally unrelated families.

Steady, Inspector, steady.

I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes.

I don't turn a hair when it's a bloke that can look after himself,

but a little slip of a thing like that.

Yes, it's horrible. Come on, let's get a drink.

- Good evening, Mr. Holmes. - Good evening, Vincent.

Whiskey and soda, please, and a double for my friend here, Inspector Gregson.

Very good, sir.

Make mine Irish.

It's noble to give me a hand on this thing, Mr. Holmes.

Always a pleasure to be of help to Scotland Yard, Inspector.

A little out of my line, looking for a maniac

that murders just for the fun of the hunt.

Or perhaps, just to get a human finger.

In all four cases,

The murderer risks capture,

by stopping to secure a finger.

I wonder what for?

Who knows? He's just a madman.

Perhaps there's a method in his madness.

If we could just trace those missing fingers.

If?

If we could just drain the English Channel,

we might find a penny.

Oh, thank you.

You may keep those, Mr. Holmes.

Thank you.

Sir George Fenwick, isn't it?

Yes.

Is that his daughter with him?

Don't be so naive, Inspector.

You know everyone, don't you, darling?

Well, hardly.

A week ago, I didn't know you.

A week, how fast it's gone.

I collect these things.

How very quaint of you.

- Shall we go? - Yes.

What are you looking at, Mr. Holmes?

Looking at a very handsome woman.

Not fond of the purple,

but giving an excellent invitation.

Would you like to come to my flat for a nightcap?

- Lovely idea. - Yes, isn't it?

I wonder where she's taking Sir George Fenwick?

Don't be so naive, Mr. Holmes.

- Good evening, ma'am. - Hello, Crandon.

- Any messages? - No, ma'am.

Thank you.

Uh, drinks, Crandon one of your nice surprises.

Yes, ma'am.

I say, you don't mean that--

Crandon's a marvel, aren't you, Crandon?

Yes, ma'am.

You wouldn't believe the things she can do.

Hmm.

Ah, charming place, delightful.

Really, you think so? I'm so glad.

Do sit down.

Do you mind?

Do I mind?

What a question.

I don't mind anything, really,

except not being with you.

Now, you really don't want me to believe that, do you?

- Not too seriously. - Good.

We're both quite grown up, aren't we?

Quite.

You're a treasure, Crandon.

And lower the lights a little as you leave.

I prefer a more flattering light.

In any light, you'd be--

Would I?

And don't you know it.

Perhaps I do.

Oh, that priceless woman.

You wouldn't believe it, but she's absurdly romantic.

She loves dreamy music, and she thinks that we--

But we do, don't we?

Do we?

Well, it's rather soothing, restful.

Yes.

And we all need rest at times.

Like tired children who played too long.

You've played with wooden soldiers, I suppose?

Funny, hadn't thought of that for years.

Toy boats were my special joy.

Anything I could set afloat anywhere.

Like this, and this.

Toy boats sailing into the never-never land,

the land of beautiful dreams.

Look.

Look odd, isn't it, how the light is reflected.

Little specks of light that move and move,

like stars on a slowly-moving stream.

- You know Holmes I'm very sensitive to atmosphere. - Oh?

Yes, I can tell by the feel of this room

there's been a murder committed here.

It may interest you to know, my dear fellow,

it was at the other side of that door

at the foot of the stairs that the poor girl was murdered.

If only I could find it.

Find what?

The one thing these unfortunate victims have in common

that might give us a motive for these murders.

There must be something.

Another Jack the Ripper, if you ask me

a homicidal maniac.

No, Watson, in the case of Jack the Ripper,

there was one thing in common.

His victims were all from one walk of life,

living in the same section of the city.

In this case, the murderer chooses his victims

from all walks of life and from different sections of the city.

No, my dear fellow,

this is not the work of a homicidal maniac.

It's something infinitely more sinister.

You're giving me the creeps.

What on earth are you talking about?

Watson, I'm convinced

that these murders are only incidental