Inspector Morse

You're not going to really let him put up this Rajput palace, are you?

A lot of good judges consider the architecture of the Mogul empire

at least the equal of Renaissance Europe.

Well, he certainly looks like a Mogul.

The style's appropriate. Andrew Baydon made his fortune selling educational hardware to Asia.

The main aim of the College is to bridge the academic divide between East and West.

Well, maybe this'll do for the Eastern end, but er...for Oxford?

Chinese pagodas in the parks next.

Lyman...

Right this moment, Oxford has 16 frozen professorships.

16 of the major academic chairs in the country unoccupied.

Baydon's gift means we can unfreeze ten of them.

What should we do? Throw the money in his face?

Who's peddling this trash?

There's not a word of truth in it. Not one single word.

- I'm sorry, sir. - It's malicious, scandalous slander!

I don't know where Mr Baydon is. I don't have his agenda.

Your scummy, scabby, filthy, fascist rag will never appear again!

Yes, sir. Certainly.

- You can't hide behind your insurers. - Goodbye.

I'll sue you separately for personal damages,

so you won't have a shoe on your stinking, slanderous foot.

You'll limp in the gutter for the rest of your libelous life.

Yes?

Mr Baydon, sir, the Secretary of State wonders if you can spare a word.

Knob-head! That's the word I can spare. Knob-head.

Brünnhilde's put up with a lot. Siegfried's betrayed her, lied to her,

gone off with another girl.

Of course, she knows he was drugged, but now it's too late. He's dead. Just like a man.

Still, she's ready to die for him... throw herself on his funeral pyre.

It's a grand passion, see?

That's what you've got to go for.

The grand passion. Go on.

I'm sorry, lovey, but you sound like you're giving the weather forecast.

Listen.

But suppose she... I mean, suppose she...

She won't.

Just do what I say, when I say it...

and everything will be OK.

Bravo!

Bravo!

"There are other Oxfords, at least five in Canada alone.

There's one in New Zealand, one in Jamaica.

As for America, there's hardly a state without one.

Oxford, Alabama. Oxford, Idaho.

Mississippi, Maryland, New York.

But, splendid though these places may be.. indeed, in their own way, undoubtedly are...

places of beauty, perhaps...

perhaps - who knows? - places of learning, even...''

You can't say ''even''.

It's too rude. Nor ''Who knows?''

Well, nobody does know. Nobody has the least idea what these places are like.

The people who live in them know. And this one needs their dollars.

Oh, Lord! Very well, then.

''Places of beauty, perhaps. Perhaps, places of learning.''

- There's no ''perhaps'' about it. - It spoils the rhythm not to say ''perhaps''.

It's too...Oxford, Harold.

Oxford, England.

But I am Oxford. The Chancellor of the University is the University.

''Places of much beauty,

I'm sure.

Places of equal learning.''

Much better.

And you didn't see anyone else?

Oh, there's usually a man with a horrible bull terrier called...Snap.

But they weren't here this morning.

But I'm...

I was earlier than usual.

We're off to Greece this afternoon.

Excavation season.

You don't happen to know the name of Snap's owner, do you? Just in case.

We only say ''good morning''. Barely that.

Bull terriers.

Oh, he lives over there,

somewhere. But I didn't mean... I hope you don't think that I...

Oh, I never think. Sergeants aren't allowed to in the Thames Valley.

- What? - Anyway, thanks very much.

If you wouldn't mind waiting till the Chief Inspector gets here.

I'd like a dozen er...

No, no, two dozen of these roses, the long-stemmed ones. They are fresh?

Oh, yes, sir. Some poor sod got up at dawn to pick those. Look, real dew.

Not much scent.

Give them a chance, guv. They've still got the sleep in their eyes. Like me.

Good God.

ls that what they cost?

They do say, with roses, a dozen says it all.

No. No, no, er...two dozen.

To be sent to Miss Gwladys Probert at the Concert Hall.

Ah, the Welsh canary bird.

Yes. To be there for her concert this evening. They'll be sent in by then, won't they?

They'll be singing their little hearts out. Don't you worry.

Give her a big trill!

Now, the message is: ''To the greatest diva of her time,

with grateful thanks from...an admirer.''

Diva? How do you spell that?

D-l-V-A.

It's the Italian for goddess.

Oh, very classy.

She's not classy. She's classic.

Putain! Hwren! Ast!

Down behind the bus station, was it? That's where all the tarts go. Trollop.

They'll never make you a Dame, Gwladys. Not if you talk dirty.

- Where were you? - It's none of your business.

Oh, yes, it is.

You'd be nothing if it weren't for me, Mari Probert.

A bit of nutty slack, that's what.

Scrubbing some coal miner's back in Trebanog and thanking God you had the chance!

- Madame, please. - Other hand, please, Madame.

There aren't any coal miners left in Trebanog. You want to have a look.

Not a pit left in the Rhondda. Shame, really. Everyone out of work.

And you'll be next!

God, all I ask is that you be at my concerts. ls that so much? My own sister.

It was a class, not a concert.

Concert's this evening.

Look at the little slag.

At it all night like an alley cat.

While I'm slaving to put clothes on her back, she's stripping them off for anything in trousers.

Who was he, then? Hm?

Don't know his name? Don't even know his name? ls that it?

Hwren!

(Shouts) Yes?

Mrs Baydon, Madame.

Adele!

Sweetheart! Mwah. Mwah.

My dear. You slept well? The pillows were hard enough?

It was all perfect.

Especially the air. So good for the voice, this country air.

And you, Mari?

- You were quite comfortable? - Yes, thank you, Adele.

You don't care what the room's like,

so long as there's a bed to lie back on.

Loves her bed, Mari does.

Mmm...I had a really nice lie-in.

I think it's time Madame was dressed, Mrs Baydon.

Lord Crewe's benefaction is in one hour.

His name's Grimshaw, sir. Neville Grimshaw.

Oh. What makes you think that?

Well, it's on his driving license and all his credit cards.

How do you know they weren't stolen, Lewis?

Or planted on the body by some fiendishly cunning murderer?

Did the pathologist say when he died?

Several hours ago.

- Several? - Before midnight, he thought.

The pathologist claimed to think?

Still, we've got to be kind to these poor chaps, haven't we?

They've got all their grisly tests to do. Just the one shot, was it?

Yes, sir. There's a lady, sir.

Ah. Cherchez la femme.

No, it's the lady who found him. She's going on holiday. Wants to get off home.

Well, let her go, Lewis. Let her go.

You've asked her all the relevant questions? You're not holding her on suspicion?

No, sir.

Then why should I add to her stress and strain by asking the same questions?

Send her on her way, wish her a happy holiday from me.

I suppose it has to be murder? It couldn't be suicide?

No, sir. No powder burns. Look.

Pity. Such a beautiful morning.

Any sign of the gun?

No, sir.

All right. Better drag the river.

Right, sir.

It would be nice to be able to enjoy the Isis now and then,

instead of always having to fish bodies out of it.

- Are you feeling job stress, sir? - What?

Oh, I was reading in the paper the other day...

Allowing the pages of The Sun to pass before your eyes

does not amount to reading, Lewis.

Police Sergeant, it said, very high-risk occupation.

Long hours, stress and that.

And what about the distress you cause Chief Inspectors?

Not enough time for families and friends, recreation, hobbies...

Well, then, you must make time, Lewis.

Not for hobbies, but for art, for nature.

Last night... Last night...

I experienced...

Well, it's very hard to put into words, really.

Oh, for God's sake, Lewis! ls that all you can think of?

You're supposed to be a married man!

Well, you didn't go off beer just cos the pubs are always open.

But you bring everything down to such a mundane level.

You know, the world is full of such...possibilities.

- Where are we going? - Back to your mundane world.

People called Grimshaw. Life without art or imagination.

B flat, instead of B natural, which she always sings.