Kind Hearts and Coronets

- Evening, Mr. Elliott. - Good evening.

Brrr.

- Just sign the book, if you will. - Yes.

- Been keeping you busy, Mr. Elliott? - Oh, just nicely.

Went up to Manchester on Monday - a poisoner.

Baby-farmer at Holloway this morning. Very ordinary crimes, both of them.

This one we've got for you tomorrow is something special.

Yes, very much so.

Even after all my years in the profession...

I'm quite looking forward to him.

- Well, I must be getting along. - Good night, Mr. Elliott.

- Good night. - Usual cup of tea at 7:00?

Oh, please.

Even my lamented master, the great Mr. Berry himself...

never had the privilege of hanging a duke.

Yes.

What a finale to a lifetime in the public service.

- "Finale"? - Yes, I intend to retire.

After using the silken rope...

never again be content with hemp.

- Quite. Well, here we are. - Oh, thank you.

How will he approach it?

I should think as the calmest you've ever known.

Noblesse oblige, doubtless.

A difficult client can make things most distressing.

Some of them tend to be very hysterical.

So inconsiderate.

Well, Colonel, considering the importance of the occasion...

I shall retire early.

The last execution of a duke in this country was really badly bungled.

That was in the old days of the ax, of course.

Yes.

Oh, I - I almost forgot.

Um, you must forgive my ignorance...

but when we meet in the morning...

what is the correct form of address?

- Your Lordship? - Your Grace.

Your Grace? Oh.

Thank you.

Good morning, Your Grace.

Good morning, Your Grace.

- All right. Sit down. - Ah, good evening, Colonel. Glass of wine?

Good evening, Your Grace. Uh, thank you, no.

I, uh - I called to inquire whether you had any special wishes for breakfast.

Just coffee and a slice of toast, thank you.

Oh, and perhaps a few grapes.

I hate to disappoint the newspaper-reading public...

but it'll be too early for the conventional hearty breakfast.

The appointment is at 8:00, is it not?

At 8:00, uh, yes.

If I may venture to say so, I am amazed at your calmness.

Dr. Johnson was, as always, right...

when he observed, "Depend upon it, sir.

"When a man knows that he's going to be hanged in a few hours...

it concentrates his mind wonderfully."

Yes. Well, if there is nothing further I can do for you-

Nothing. Thank you, Colonel.

We shall have the opportunity of making our adieus in the morning, I presume.

I regret to say, yes.

- Good night, Your Grace. - Good night, Colonel.

A brief history of the events leading thereto...

written on the eve of his execution...

by Louis D'Ascoyne Mazzini, 10th duke of Chalfont...

who ventures to hope that it may prove not uninteresting...

to those who remain to read it.

My good man, it is not by my choice that you keep me company.

If you wish to sleep, pray do me the courtesy of sleeping quietly.

With so little time remaining to complete my story...

it is difficult to choose where to begin it.

Perhaps I should begin at the beginning.

I was a healthy baby, born of an English mother and Italian father-

who succumbed to a heart attack at the moment of first setting eyes on me.

In the circumstances, it will be understood that I have but slight memory of him.

The little I know comes from what Mama told me.

Your father was a very handsome man.

Mama was the daughter of the seventh duke of Chalfont...

of Chalfont Castle.

She eloped with her handsome singer...

and exchanged the medieval splendors of Chalfont Castle...

for the modern conveniences of number 73...

Balaclava Avenue, S. W.

They were poor, but they had five happy and harmonious years...

before my arrival sent Papa off to join the heavenly choir.

Reduced to even deeper poverty by my father's death...

Mama swallowed her pride...

and made an effort at reconciliation with her family.

They did not even reply to her letter.

In order to keep us both alive, she was reduced...

to the horrible expedient of taking in a lodger.

For him, she had to perform the most menial tasks.

She felt that her family had conspired to cheat me of my birthright...

and I passed from infancy to childhood...

in an atmosphere of family history and genealogies.

The dukedom had been bestowed...

by Charles II on Colonel Henry D'Ascoyne...

for services rendered to His Majesty during his exile.

Later, for services rendered to His Majesty...

after his restoration by the duchess...

the title was granted the unique privilege...

of descending by the female as well as the male line.

- Louis. - It was therefore theoretically possible...

that via Mama I might inherit the dukedom.

Mama scraped and saved...

and sent me to the best school she could afford.

One little incident of my school days occurs to me as amusing...

in relation to my present situation.

Lionel Holland.

What is the Sixth Commandment?

Come, come now.

Someone else then.

I know, please, Miss Waterman.

Louis Mazzini. Tell him.

- "Thou shalt not kill." - Quite right, Louis.

The Sixth Commandment is "Thou shalt not kill."

No, in those days...

I never had any trouble with the Sixth Commandment.

As to the seventh, I was hardly of an age to concern myself with it.

Although I was old enough to be in love.

So Sibella enters my story.

Sibella and her brother, Graham, were my only close friends...

and we grew up together.

In their case, Mama relaxed her objection to my associating with the local children.

At least their father, Dr. Hallward, was a professional man.

Louis, we must think very carefully about your future.

Well, it should be quite easy to get a job.

Not a job, dear. A career.

I had hoped for Cambridge for you.

The D'Ascoynes always go to Trinity.

And then, perhaps, the diplomatic.

But I'm afraid it's no use looking as high as that.

However, when you've passed your examination...

that should equip you for a start in one of the professions.

People of quite good family go into the professions nowadays, I understand.

Now, who do we know who could help us?

We don't really know anyone, except the family, and they don't know us.

The least we can do is try once more.

I shall write to Lord Ascoyne D'Ascoyne.

He can surely do something in that bank of his.

Bank, Mama? Is that a profession?

This is a private bank, Louis, dear.

They don't pass money over the counter.

The letter was duly dispatched...

and this time we did get an answer.

"Madam, I am instructed by Lord Ascoyne D'Ascoyne...

"to inform you that he is not aware of your son's existence...

as a member of the D'Ascoyne family."

Signed by his secretary.

It's very stupid of him- of them all- not to admit your existence...

when one day you might be duke of Chalfont.

It's a very big "might," Mama.

There must be at least 12 people before me...

to say nothing of the ones who haven't been born yet.

Stranger things have happened.

I don't wish to be unchristian, but in view of their attitude...

I could almost wish those 12 people should all die tomorrow.

All except one, Mama.

Because you must be duchess of Chalfont before I'm duke.

It will have to be a job, not a career, after all, Mama.

I'm afraid so, Louis.

A D'Ascoyne in trade.

Did poor Mama's silly dreaming...

plant in my brain some seed which was afterwards to grow...

into the most sensational criminal endeavor of the century?

If so, I was not conscious of it at the time...

for there were things of more immediate concern.

Even potential dukes have to eat.

Mr. Perkins, our lodger for nearly 15 years...

did his best to be helpful.

He was employed as shopwalker in a local drapery store...

and found employment for me there.

The possible future duke of Chalfont...

became what was known as a general assistant at the drapery.

This humiliation continued for two dispiriting years.

And then one day, Mama, who had broken her glasses...

and could not afford to have them mended...

was knocked down by a tram near Clapham Junction...

and fatally injured.

- Louis. - Yes, Mama.

I should like to be buried at Chalfont...

in the family vault.

Yes, Mama.

I wrote to the duke informing him of Mama's dying wish.

His reply was the curtest possible refusal.

Standing by Mama's poor little grave in that hideous suburban cemetery...

I made an oath that I would revenge the wrongs her family had done her.

It was no more than a piece of youthful bravado...

but it was one of those acorns from which great oaks are destined to grow.

Even then I went so far as to examine the family tree...

and prune it to just the living members.

But what could I do to hurt them?

What could I take from them...

except, perhaps, their lives?

I indulged for a moment in a fantasy of all 12 of them...

being wiped out simultaneously at a family reunion...

by my unseen hand...

of the penniless boy from Clapham being

miraculously transplanted to his birthright.

I even speculated as to how I might contrive it.

But there were other more urgent problems.

Mama's tiny income came from an annuity and had died with her.