Possession Script - Dialogue Transcript

Voila! Finally, the Possession script is here for all you quotes spouting fans of the Neil Labute movie starring Gwyneth Paltrow and Aaron Eckhart.  This script is a transcript that was painstakingly transcribed using the screenplay and/or viewings of Possession. I know, I know, I still need to get the cast names in there and I'll be eternally tweaking it, so if you have any corrections, feel free to drop me a line. You won't hurt my feelings. Honest.

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Possession Script


             They say that women change

             'Tis so

             But you are ever constant  In your changefulness

             Like that still thread  Of falling river

             One from source to last embrace  In the still pool

             Ever-renewed and ever-moving on  From first to last

             From first to last  A myriad of water drops

             And you, I love you for it

             Are the force that moves  And holds the form

            Ladies and gentlemen, you've just heard a snippet...

            ...from one of only two copies of this poem by Mr. Randolph Henry Ash...

            ...poet laureate to Queen Victoria herself.

            And this gorgeous ode to his nuptial bliss, written in his own hand...

            ...begins our bidding today.

            May we start the bidding, please, at       pounds?

            - Bit of an old monster. - Yeah.

            But an important monster.

            - It's Randolph Ash's. - Yes.

            Who are you with again?

            - I'm Roland Michell. - Who?

            - Professor Blackadder's assistant. - Isn't that Dr. Wolfe?

            Was. Fergus got the lectureship at St. John's over me.

            Of course he did.

            Yes, Dr. Wolfe mentioned you. You're that American who's over here.

            I'm sure there are others. After all, you are our favorite colony.

            Any further offers on       pounds?       pounds.

            So when do your little suffragist trinkets come up?

            Look! Maud, it's Mortimer Cropper.

            - That's someone you should know. - You know him?

            Of him. Suffered through a lecture, that sort of thing.

            He's a voracious collector.

            Yes, his penchant for conquest is well documented. A very male quality.

            - It's vulgar, but I have to introduce myself. - All right.


            Sorry. Excuse me. Sorry. Thank you.

            Professor Cropper? Fergus Wolfe.

            We spoke actually after one of your papers at Trinity.

            - You wouldn't remember. - Sorry, I don't. Nice coat.

            - Thank you. - You're with?

            James Blackadder.

            One of his boys from the British Museum.

            Hello. Hildebrand Ash, man of leisure.


            I don't know why Blackadder comes to these things.

            He hasn't got any money.

            He's Irish, you see. He enjoys feeling persecuted.

             Dear Madam:

             Since our pleasant conversation,  I have thought of little else.

             I write with a strong sense of the  necessity of continuing our talk.

             Dear Madam:

             I know that you came to honor  Crabb-Robinson at his small party...

             ... because he'd assisted  your illustrious father.

            Excuse me, sir.

            Meal is served.

            Thank you.

            - Well, hello. - Hello.

            My tenant. Your evening sherry.

             Thank you.

              Candi, this is Roland. Roland, Candi.

              - Hello again. - Be a love and check on the duck.


              Coming in?

              - How do you always know it's me? - I'm a solicitor, I know everything.

              - Candi, huh? - No, please. Candi's just a friend.

              - Why, are you interested? - I told you, I'm off women.

              Yeah, but there's no reason to be off women.

              - Why do we sit in your hall? - It's the best room.

              I bought this place for the hallway.

              I found something pretty incredible in the London Library.

              - A place to sit? - No.

              I found something of Ash's. Randolph Ash?

              Ash? Doesn't he have some sort of celebration going?

              - It's a centenary of his love poems. - Mushy ones? Found after his death?

              - Is the table laid, darling? - What's it cost an hour?

              - Candi's a friend, I told you. - Not her, you.

              What do you charge an hour, roughly?

              - I don't know,    . - Pounds?

              - No wonder you have a nice hallway. - Thank you.

              I want seven minutes of attorney-client privilege.

              Step into my office.

              Ash wrote those.

              - They're not the originals? - Yeah.

              How much time is left? I gotta think of a defense.

              - They're practically love letters. - Rather racy.

              Ash supposedly never even looked at another woman his entire marriage.

              Can you imagine if I proved that Mr. Perfect Husband...

              ...had this Shakespearean dark-lady thing going?

              The duck's done. Would you be a sweetheart and do the sauce?

              Yeah, sure.

              - Duck, huh? - Yeah, Peking.

              No, it's from around the corner.

              Yeah, but that would be extraordinary.

              It'd be rewriting history, old chap.

              Yeah, it would be.

              - Morning. - Morning.

              - Roland. - Professor.

              - I think I made a discovery. - It's been discovered    times already.

              - I don't think so. - Surprise me.

              Ash's copy of "Vico" in the library is full of his own notes on bits of paper.

              - Useful? - Very.

              Better have a look before Cropper turns up with his checkbook.

              He made a mockery yesterday.      pounds for a toothpick.

              - Fergus? Where is Fergus? - He's supposed to be teaching.

              - I'll come with you. - No need.

              The novice blunders on the discovery, the scholar investigates.

              You do those requests for Ellen's stuff.

              I'll go straight from there to my class.

              "Thank you, what a wonderful discovery. They're magically delicious."

              - He's a meanie. - That's a nice name for him.

              Wretched requests, please.

              "How many jars of gooseberry jam did Ash's wife, Ellen, make in     ?"

              This is not a job for a grownup.



              Gooseberry jam.

              Cooking,    .

              What about a small, informal party,     ?

               My headache kept me from accompanying  Randolph to Crabb-Robinson's...

               ... for a dinner honoring the poetess,  Christabel LaMotte.

               He was reluctant to attend without me.  I was persistent and persuaded him.

              - Ash, do you know Professor Spear? - I'm delighted.

              Mrs. Jameson.

              - Mrs. Jameson. - Charmed.

              Miss Glover.

              Miss Glover.

              - And Miss LaMotte. - Miss LaMotte.

              The highest pleasure.

               Randolph reported the party went off  very well indeed.

               The discussion of poetry  was animated...

               ... with Miss LaMotte speaking more  forcibly than anyone expected.

              It surprises me that a lady who lives as quietly as you...

              ...would be aware of my modest success.

              I am very aware of it. The papers herald you weekly.

              - It is you, however, who surprise me. - Why is that?

              Judging from your work, I'm surprised you acknowledge my existence...

              ...or any woman's, since you show us such small regard on the page.

              You cut me, madam.

              Then I'm sorry. I only meant to scratch.

              Hey, Fergus!

              Hello, Roland. What is it you chaps always say? How's it hanging?

              We usually just say "Hey". I mean, unless you're gay.

              Listen. Let me ask you. Do you know a Dr. Maud Bailey?

              Yes. I know Maud very well. She teaches gender studies at Lincoln.

              Would she be helpful? I'm checking out Christabel LaMotte, a poet from     .

              Why are you interested?

              I had some requests about Ellen Ash's papers and LaMotte's name came up.

              The keeper of Ellen's flame, that's bottom of the food chain.

              But I gotta stay on the food chain. That's why I do it.

              Right. Publish or perish, as they say. Or in your case, perish or perish.

              So would she, this Maud Bailey?

              - Yes, but I'd be careful. - Why? What's she like?

              - She thicks men's blood with cold. - Great.

              If you prefer the American vernacular, she's a regular ball-breaker.

              Mr. Michell?

              - What? I'm sorry. - Roland Michell?


              - You're Maud. - Bailey. Dr. Bailey. Yes.

              There's nothing in my index, no mention of Ash at all.

              - Ash and LaMotte definitely met. - When?

              June     . At a dinner party given by Crabb-Robinson. It's in his diary.

              You jump from that to the idea they corresponded?

              - I found an unfinished letter... - To LaMotte?

              No, "Dear Madam".

              But of the three women at that party, LaMotte is likeliest.

              - LaMotte's letters may have something. - There aren't many from that period.

              I'm descended from Christabel. I'm her niece, thrice removed.

              - Three greats. - That's what thrice usually means.

              - Maybe I shouldn't have come. - Does seem rather pointless.

              You could have a look through Blanche's diary.

              - Who's Blanche? - Blanche Glover...

              ...Christabel's companion? Her lover? You look surprised.

              - I didn't know... - She was a lesbian?

              - Don't get me wrong. I like lesbians. - Unfortunately, they didn't have video then.

              - I see why you think it's so unlikely. - No. She could have been bisexual.

              There's no evidence she was, but... Did you not read before you came?

              - Is this an oral exam? - I suppose it is.

              You don't know about her, and yet you make these leaps.

              You called her a lesbian, not me.

               Letters, letters, letters. Not for me.

               Letters I am not meant to know or see.

              Thank you, Jane.

              - You do not have to hide them from me. - I'm not hiding them.

              You say they are not hidden, but they are.

              Tucked away. As if they were from Cupid himself.

              What does he want?

              - To be my friend. - Friend?

              - They give what they want a decent name. - Blanche, no.

              No, Blanche, listen.

              What we have is ours.

              No one can change that.

              It is already changed.

              Find anything?


              So, what are those bookmarks, then?

              Blanche writes about letters. Letters that Christabel wrote and received.

              And it nearly drove Blanche crazy. Where are they?

              Lost, destroyed, who knows. There's lots we haven't got.

              Not one of Blanche's paintings has ever turned up.

              So who wrote the letters?

              We've never verified it, but Ash certainly isn't one of the candidates.

              - You've got nothing. - I mean, it's just a thought.

              I've had many thoughts today, and you've shot them all down.

              It seems like a bit of a wild-goose chase to me.

              I'd like to do some more reading.

              I suppose you'll wish to stay overnight.

              I can't afford to stay. Unless I huddle in your doorway.

              I suppose I could put up with you for one evening, couldn't I?

              No doubt you know Fergus Wolfe, then?

              - Sorry. We're in the same department. - I imagine he told you that we're...

              ...occasionally on together. - No, he didn't.

              What did he...?

              Did he say anything about me?


              I'll use the bathroom. Get out of your way.

              I'm just a brush and flush kind of guy, so...

              Forget I said that.

              Maud. Can I show you something?

              - Are these...? - The originals.

              - How did you get? - I stole them.

              - Where from? - The London Library.

              - How could you do that? - Impulse.

              Impulse? I've seen that take-what-you-want attitude...

              What? In other Americans?

              God, what is it with you people and Americans?

              I know I shouldn't have taken them.

              I want to find out if he sent the letter.

              You don't buy it, but Blanche's diary suggests that it's possible.

              - Wouldn't someone have unearthed it? - That's why it's big.

              - Potentially so big. - Well, no one has.

              Probably because those were never sent.

              Are you doing your homework?

              No, I was just writing stuff. Stuff for me. It's nothing.

              - You're a closet poet. - More like basement, really.

              - Just fooling around. - So is that what you want to be?

              No, I'll be safe and teach like everybody else.

              Besides, there's no such thing as poets anymore.

              Well, poet.

              Do you want to see Christabel's family home before you go?

              Michell's late again.

              Roland asked for another day off, Fergus.

              - Really? Where's he gone? - I didn't ask. And he didn't say.

              He's an American. He's probably trafficking drugs.

              Did his new discovery lead to anything?

              - Ash's "Vico"? Are you dreaming?  - Vico.

              No, it's about Christabel LaMotte. He went to see Dr. Bailey. A woman.


              - No. - It probably came to nothing.

              - Exactly. - Or he would have told you.

              Wouldn't he?

              Seal Court's over there.

              So how long did Christabel live there?

              Ages. Last    or so years of her life.

              - Excuse me. - Sorry.

              "To a dusty shelf we aspire."

              You should drop by Seal Court before your train.

              What do you do in London, Mr. Michell? Are you a teacher?

              - No, not yet. I'm doing a fellowship. - Which means what?

              On the dole.

              - My field's Victorian poetry. - We had a poet in this house once.

              Terrible sentimental stuff about God. Death. The dew. And fairies.

              Show this young man Christabel's room, Maud.

              And why don't you stay tonight?

              You're under no obligation to stay. Just Joan's way, misses our daughter.

              - It's quite a drive back. - No, we're fine.

              Hardly ever come up here.

              With the wheelchair, of course, we bunk down on the ground floor.

              I haven't been up here since I was a child.


              - Is this the photograph at your house? - Yes, Christabel's niece, May...

              ...my great-great grandmother.

              Christabel wrote dozens of poems about this place.

               What are they, who haunt our dreams  And weaken our desires

               And turn us from a solid face  And in the depth of wintry night

               They slumber open-eyed and bright

               Dolly keeps a secret  Safer than a friend

               Dolly's silent sympathy  Lasts without end

               No rush of action  This is our doom

               To live a long life out  In a dark room


              It's pretty incredible.

              Fergus, it's me. I'm out of town tonight on business.

               I'd like to ask you about a connection  between Christabel and Randolph Ash.

               Call me on    -   -     .


              - Roland. - No.

              Roland, it's me. It's Maud.

              - What is it? - Listen.

               Dolly keeps a secret  Safer than a friend

               Dolly's silent sympathy  Lasts without end


              I was so sure.

              Sympathy. Sympathy. Sympathy. Meaning what?

              Mutual affection or understanding. Favor, pity or accord. That's not it.

              That's not it at all.

              She uses silent sympathy in a more classical context.

              Like structure or support. Dolly conceals it, but not within, beneath.

              There's a door.

              - I can't believe it. - Let me see.

              - Be careful. They're precious. - I will be.

              - We shouldn't be doing this. - Why'd you drag me up here then?

              - What are you doing? - I'm gonna read.

              - We've got to ask the Baileys! - Ask, and you'll see these under glass.

              Stop! Stop! All right. Can we do it properly?

              - Let me get notecards and pencils... - All right. Go, go. Hurry!

              Look at this. We got Ash and Christabel's letters. Listen.

              "Dear Miss LaMotte:

              It was a great pleasure to talk to you at dear Crabb-Robinson's party."

              "May I hope that you too enjoyed our talk?"

              "And may I have the pleasure of calling on you?"

              She says no.

              "But you may write."

               "Would you rather not have a letter,  however imperfect...

               ... than a plate of cucumber sandwiches,  however exquisitely fine cut?"

               "You know you would, and so would I."

              "I was entranced and moved by your portrait of your father."

              "I write nonsense."

              "If you write again, you shall have an essay on what you will."

              "Yours to command, in some things."

              - "I was born... - Christabel LaMotte.

              ...in a small place too." Not like this, not bare.

               A brilliant, dusty hutch of mysteries.  A cabinet of curiosities.

               What did my eyes first light on?

               I am a creature of my pen.  My pen is the best part of me.

               I send you now two more poems.

               I read your mythic tales of Maia and  found them both charming and sad.

               Your verse is rich  but the metaphor is richer.

               Dear Mr. Ash: I live circumscribed  and self-communing.

               It is best so.

               Not like a princess in a thicket.  More like a spider in her web.

              "Inclined to snap at visitors or trespassers...

              ...not perceiving the distinction until too late. Thus it is unwise to call."

               I know you live very quietly  but I could be very quiet.

               I only want to discuss Dante.  Shakespeare.

               Wordsworth. Coleridge. Goethe.

               Not forgetting, of course, Christabel  LaMotte and the ambitious fairy project.

               Sir, things flicker and shift  all spangle and sparkle and flashes.

               I have sat all this long evening by my  fireside, turning towards a caving in...

               ... the crumbling of the consumed coals  to where I am leading myself...

               ... to lifeless dust, sir.

               My dear friend, for I may  call myself a friend, may I not?

               I speak to you as I would to any person  who possesses my true thoughts...

               ... my thoughts have spent more time in  your company than anyone else's lately.

               Where my thoughts are,  there am I in truth.

              "My dear friend, it has been borne in upon me...

              ...that there are dangers in our continued conversation."

               The world would not approve...

               ... of letters between a woman living in  shared solitude as I do, and a man.

               Even if that man were a great poet.

               And if one is to live in this way...

               ... it's imperative to appear respectable  in the eyes of that world and your wife.

               It is a sealed pact.

               It is a chosen life in which I  have been wondrously happy...

               ... and not alone in being so.

              "I have chosen a way, dear friend. I must hold to it."

              "Be patient, be generous, forgive."

              "May I also request that you return my correspondence."

              "In this way at least our letters shall remain together."

              "I have known incandescence and must decline to sample it any further."

              "This goes to the post. Forgive its faults and forgive me. Christabel."

               My dear Christabel, your letter came  as a shock to me, I will confess.

               I was at first not only shocked,  but angry that you should write so.

               As you have asked about my wife,  however, I will tell you.

               I love Ellen...

               ... but not as I love you.

               There are good reasons I cannot discuss  why my love for you may not hurt her.

              I do not feel I have been a proper wife to you...

              ...without children or any physical... - Nonsense, Ellen.


              There are many types of love.

              All sorts.

              And ours...

              ...that good between us...

              ...has been most profound.

               I must say to you what is in my mind.  I've called you my muse, and so you are.

               I could call you,  with even greater truth, my love.

              - Whoa, whoa. - What?

              Don't do that. What?

              He sends her more letters and she doesn't answer him. She ignores him.


              No. She chose her life with Blanche. It's not typical. It's remarkable.

              "I hope this note is the dove...

              ...which will return with the wished-for olive branch."

               "My letters are like Noah's ravens..."

               They have sped out across the Thames,  and yet have not returned.

               I send this note by hand,  in the hope you might receive it.

              - Where are the letters? - They're gone.

              I tore them up. Burned them.

              - And the others from my desk? - The same.

              I beg for us to be as we were, Christabel.

              Sweetheart, please.

               This house...

               ... so happy once, is full of weeping  and wailing and black headaches.

               I ask myself to whom I may turn  and think of you, my friend...

               ... the unwitting cause  of all this grief.

               I shan't forget the first glimpse  of your form.

               Illuminated as it was  by flashes of sunlight.

               I have dreamt nightly of your face...

               ... and walked the landscape of my life  with the rhythms of your writing...

               ... ringing in my ears.

               I shall never forget our shining  progress towards one another.

               Never have I felt such a concentration  of my entire being.

               I cannot let you burn me up.  Nor can I resist you.

               No mere human can stand in a fire  and not be consumed.

              Mind reading that last part out one more time?

              "I cannot let you burn me up. Nor can I resist you."

              "No mere human can stand in a fire and not be consumed."



              Thank you, and...

              "And I took your hand."

              "Mine rested in yours with trust and belief."

              Do you have regrets?

              I should regret venturing out to Crabb-Robinson's party that evening.

              I should regret it, but I do not.

              Not even in that most sensible corner of my heart.

              What are we to do?

               "I do not wish to damage your life."

               "Nonetheless, I shall be in the church  at noon tomorrow...

              ...with what strikes me as the holiest of prayers...

              ...that you should join me on a journey to Yorkshire...

              ...a journey out of time beyond our lives here on earth."

              - This is unbelievable. - That was the last one.

              - You're kidding me. - No.

              Did she go with him or not?

              Hands up!

              You two?

              What's this, then?

              - There's been no harm done, George. - How do we know?

              It was very clever of Maud to find your treasure.

              Yes, well...

              Must take advice, Joanie.

              How long before he takes advice?

              He'll dither around for a while, but not long.

              Blanche's diary has nothing for that period.

              - Did Ellen keep a journal? - Yeah, in London...

              ...but it's mostly housewife stuff. - Gold is in that stuff.

              We should check it.

               - Bailey here. - Bailey?

              Is that Dr. Heath?

              No. I'm a friend of Maud Bailey's.

              - Is she there? - No, she isn't.

              Could you get off the line? I'm expecting the doctor.

              - Have you seen Roland Michell?  - Not since this morning, no.

              But his work went well?

              The fairy poet? I haven't the foggiest idea.

              - Do you mean Christabel LaMotte?  - Get off the line!

              I looked in Ellen's diary and there's nothing.

              But this should cheer you up.

              It's in her correspondence.

              - I won't ask if this is the original. - I wouldn't.

              "Dear Mrs. Ash: I am at present totally unknown to you...

              ...but I have something to impart to which concerns both of us...

              ...and is, in my case, a matter of life and death."

               "May I trespass on your time  and come to see you?"

               "You would do wrong to keep this  evidence which I send to you now."

               "It is not mine, it is also not yours."

               "What I say is true and urgent,  as you will see."

               "Yours sincerely, Blanche Glover."

              Mrs. Ash...

               Maybe Blanche kept the letters  and showed them to Ellen.

               It all fits beautifully.

              Perhaps both of our departments should work on this together.

              - Is that what you want? - Do you?

              No. I want to find out what happened. I wanna follow their trail.

              I need to know.

              I thought you were mad when you came to Lincoln with your stolen letter.

              Now I feel exactly the same.

              I haven't really thanked you. I mean, properly, for all of this.

              I have difficulty with compliments and such.

              - Giving or receiving? - Both, actually.

              Well, I won't tell you you're amazing-looking then.

              - Thank you... - I wouldn't act on it anyway...

              ...with Fergus and all. - What does "and all" mean?

              Nothing. It's just a little problem that I have, socially.

              - Do you take anything for it? - It's not that kind of a problem.

              It's just relationships on the whole, they're not really for me.

              - Anyway... - Yes.

              - Anyway, thank you. - You're welcome.

              - Thank you for agreeing to meet me. - You made me rather curious.

              - Scotch with just a dash of soda. - I'll have the same.

              I wanted to learn of the connection between Ash and Christabel LaMotte.

              LaMotte and Ash? There isn't any.

              Roland Michell has made a discovery with a colleague of mine, Maud Bailey.

              - Who is Roland Michell? - Blackadder's research assistant.

              American. Blondish...

              Well, he seems to know you. And he thinks it's important.

              - Does Blackadder agree? - I don't believe he knows about it.

              Do you wish to be lodged separately?

              - Respectably, elsewhere from me? - I want to be with you.

              I understood that was what we had decided.

              These four weeks only are ours.

              But ours alone.

              - I hope you will accept this ring. - I brought a ring too.

              You see? Proof of my resolution.

              You take my breath away.

              Not yet.

              No, no. Not yet.

              Shall we go out then, to explore?

              Here's your bathroom.


              Your lovely view.

              And, of course, the bed.

              - We'll look for another hotel. - But this is where Ash stayed.

              - Then we'll have to share. - I can bring up a folding bed...

              ...if that's your problem.

              - We work together. - We were expecting two rooms.

              I'm sure it's more complicated than I can imagine.

              That's a lovely brooch you're wearing, miss.

              It could be one of Isaac Greenburg's designs.

              I'll get the book and see if I can tell.

              Where did you get this?

              I've had it for ages. It was in the family dress-up box.

              Don't you see?

              Ash bought the brooch for Ellen, the clasped hands, here. We know that.

              - And this for Christabel. - Right.

              So he bought this and said, "I'll have the eternal embrace for my wife."

              He wouldn't have said anything, he would have just bought it.

              It was accepted between them.

              Are you writing fiction now?


              But I'm having fun. Are you?

              Yes, I suppose I am.

              Don't grimace when you say it, it's more convincing.

              I suppose I can be a touch empirical at times.

              Just a touch.

              You want to go for a walk? I mean, after this?

              For sure it's earlier than the death of Victoria's Albert. Probably late '  s.

              -     s, maybe. -     ...


              I think we're getting near Thomason Foss.

              - Cropper mentions it... - Mortimer Cropper?

              Ash's biographer. All-purpose asshole.

              He's tracked Ash's entire life. He's happy to tell you that.

              - More than happy, I'm sure. - You know him?

              That is beautiful.



              I think Christabel did come here.


               Three elements combine  To make the fourth

               But above the water and the light  Together made

               A halo in the darkened cave

              That poem is dated      July.

              See, if there's a cave behind it, that might be all the proof we need.

              I know it's an awfully repressed English thing to say...

              ...but what the hell are you doing? - There's only one way to find out.

              Of course, we could have just asked someone.

              I found it!

              Your hands are shaking.

              Are you afraid?


              A little.

               These are and were there  The garden and the tree

               The serpent at its root  The fruit of gold

               The woman in the shadow of the boughs  The running water and the grassy space

               They are and were there

              I don't mind that.

              See? You could grow to like Ash.

              Yes. He's sort of a soft-core misogynist.

              Why do you always tie your hair up like that?

              - It's to do with Fergus Wolfe mostly. - Fergus? How to do with Fergus?

              When we met, he drove me mad quoting Yeats:

               Who could love you for yourself alone  And not your yellow hair?

              Then I was accused by feminists at a conference of dyeing it to attract men.

              - Really? - Yes.

              So I shaved it off. All of it.

              - And did he? - Did who what?

              Fergus love you without your yellow hair?


              With or without.

              I don't even like him. But I can't seem to...

              It's Freud:

              On the other side of attraction lies repulsion.

              Or was that Calvin Klein?

              - Do you believe that? - I wouldn't know.

              I don't allow myself to do that Ash-Christabel grand passion thing.

              - Allow? - No.

              Jealousy. Obsession. All that. Not anymore.

              You're lucky, then.

              It all gets so... Just such a tangle.

              It's a tangle most people want.

              Not me, though.

              My antics made a lot of people unhappy.

              One horribly so.

              For me...

              ...whenever I feel anything for anyone...

              ...I go cold all over.

              - What makes you do that? - Fear, I suppose.

              Fear of being burned up by love.

              - Listen to us. - Yes.

              Aren't we just modern?

              Maud, you should let your hair out. You should let it breathe.

              Don't do the icy thing. You have nothing to worry about from me.

              - Christabel said, "Fear all men." - Yeah, well, Christabel didn't know me.

              I don't want to take anything from you.

              So then we're both...

              ...perfectly safe. - Right.

              How can we bear it? Every day we will have less.

              - Would you rather have had nothing? - Oh, no.

              I thank God that if there had to be a dragon, it was you.



              - I was trying to get out from the covers. - No.

              We shouldn't be doing this. It's dangerous.

              - I don't... - Because I like you. I like you a lot.

              I just don't want to blow it here.

              - It doesn't matter to me, honestly. - What do you mean?

              It's all right. We're probably just...

              These cramped quarters. It was a mistake.

              I didn't mean that.

              Let's not beat the thing dead.

              - It happened. It's over. We're adults. - Speak for yourself.

              I can't imagine what you're like after you actually sleep with someone.

              Maud, I think that you are very...

              You know?

              No, I don't know.

              So we're friends now, is that it?

              - Yeah, but that's a lot. - I agree, it's fine.


              It's perfect.

              Anyway, we're getting off the track.

              We came to investigate them, not us.

              - So whatever happened to Blanche? - Blanche drowned.

              - Where was Christabel? - We don't know where she was.

              - The year before is a bit blank too. - That entire year?

              There's speculation she went to France. But I've nothing to support that.

              Okay, so...

              Christabel comes here with Ash, then disappears. On paper, at least.


              - And Blanche suicides. - Jesus.

              What are you doing?

              - It's a poem I've been writing. - You're not pleased with it?

              On the contrary, I think it perfectly expresses the joy I have felt with you.

              Then why that?

              These feelings, I want them to survive.

              I know I can never declare all this...

              This love.

              There, I've said it. I know it cannot be declared to the world.

              All I may do is scatter these words from the train and hope that they take root.

              They will flourish. I swear it.

              So, what next? I mean, for you?

              I'll check the archives to see where Christabel might have been that year.


              I guess I'll just...

              I don't know.

              Go look up shit on the microfiche. Suffer over you.


              See you.

              Lost your way? Don't do tours here.

              - Sir George Bailey? - Who wants to know?

              Professor Cropper, curator of the Stant Collection...

              ...Robert Owen University in New Mexico.

              And this is Dr. Wolfe.

              - I'm a busy man. My wife's ill. - I can quite understand that, sir.

              I believe you may be in possession of some documents...

              ...by Randolph Henry Ash.

              - Don't shoot. - Get off my land.

              Do you have any idea what we're talking about?

              Do you have any idea how much such pieces, if they existed...

              ...how much they would be worth? - Worth?

              Mind if we swing past the university? Bit of unfinished business.

              Miss Bailey, I presume. The accomplice.

              The very same.

              - God! You're like Bonnie and Clyde. - I needed a picture of her.

              I've never seen you like this. Just go.

              Take the Porsche and go.

              Fergus, what?

              If Fergus went out to get Indian food, I'm gonna feel really stupid.

              No, he didn't.

              India wouldn't be far enough away, actually.

              Come inside, I'll explain.

              You sure? I mean, about me coming in?

              Yes, very.

              I left Fergus a message from Seal Court...

              ...which put him on our trail. And he came here looking for answers.

               - He and Cropper from the sound of it. - So that was Cropper's car outside.

                I think Fergus found something. He's been spooking around the museum.

                Sending out a bunch of faxes.

                I wouldn't be so quick to do that.

                The British Museum fax log sheet.

                "To University of Nantes from Wolfe. Subject: Christabel LaMotte."

                "Information on LaMotte genealogy. Request journal of Sabine de Kercoz."

                Unfortunately for Fergus, we have to log our faxes.

                You're shameless.

                So, what are we gonna do now?

                Are we gonna try to beat him to France or...

                Or are we just gonna stare at each other?

                That is the question, isn't it?

                - I have another one for you. - What's that?

                What are you really doing here?

                I needed to see your face.

                I just want to let you know whatever happened in Whitby...

                ...which, unfortunately, was not much...

                ...it's not because anything that you did.

                Not at all.

                I just didn't want to jump into something.

                I mean, I did and I do...

                ...want to.


                I just didn't want to mess this up.

                And I just want to see...

                I want to see if there's an us...

                ...in you and me.

                Would you like that?

                I'll take that as a "yes".

                When will she be back?

                Could you check for us?

                She will return on Thursday.

                What about you and your shoplifting? I can't take you anywhere.

                "Dear Professor Wolfe:

                I have made another discovery. Among Sabine's papers was her journal."

                "She writes about LaMotte's visit to Brittany in     ...

                 ... and the subsequent arrival  of a mysterious visitor."

                I know how things are. I wish to help you.

                You know? Tell me, Cousin Sabine, how do you think things are with me?

                I am a grown woman, you are a girl. I do not desire any help from you.

                 Christabel's condition became worse  after she received word from London...

                 ... that her close friend had died.

                She left England because she was pregnant...

                ...and Blanche committed suicide.

                - What happened to the baby? - Must've been stillborn. Or died.

                - Maybe it was taken in by a local family. - And brought up here?

                I'd like to think that...

                ...but I wonder. - You wonder what?

                I don't know, I just...

                She comes here alone, hears that Blanche has killed herself.

                She's pregnant, distraught.

                - I mean, I've no evidence for it... - Can you imagine how she felt?

                Yes, I can.

                So when do we see Christabel next?

                Autumn,     . In the references to the Vestal Lights.

                It was a group of women who met with mediums regularly.

                Really? You know Ash hated spiritualists, pretty openly.

                - Is it a connection worth tracking down? - I don't know.

                Please, make a circle with your hands.

                Close your eyes.

                White earth. Valley.


                Child laughing.

                Two people.



                Two people.


                - Death. - What have you done?

                A field.

                Where is the child?

                What have you done with the child?

                You have made a murderess of me.

                "I understood that Mr. Ash was inquiring about the spirit of his departed child."

                "But I am told that this could not be the case as Mr. Ash is childless."

                Was there any mention of Hella Lees in your research?

                I don't know.

                Nor do I care. Look, I've got to get back.

                - What's going on? - Nothing, I'm just tired. I should...

                Come on. What's wrong, seriously?

                I don't actually want to discover anything else about them.

                Do you know?

                I'm finding things out that are...

                It's horrible, when you think about it, really. Men and women together.

                She gave up her life, didn't she?

                A perfectly decent life I've always admired. And for what? For nothing.

                - Not nothing. - Really? For what, then?

                A child who died. A lover drowned. And to what end?

                She and Ash. My own parents. And every relationship I've ever had.

                It's all doomed. We can't seem to help but just tear each other apart.

                Well, what about us? You didn't include us. What about that?

                Look, l...

                I can't think about anything right now.

                So okay. So this is the icy, pull back part then?

                - What? - You get close. You pull away. You get...

                - It's the pattern, right? - What are you talking about?

                Your "fear men" mantra from Yorkshire, that's what I'm talking about.

                If that's the way you play it, that's the way you play it.

                Do you honestly believe that?

                Is that what you think this is to me, a game?

                Is it?

                All this talk of us really comes to nothing, doesn't it?

                Yes, I guess you're right. It's nothing.

                 Dear Professor Blackadder:

                 I did try to tell you  about my discovery before...

                 ... but found that I couldn't.

                 Please read these two letters...

                 ... and you will begin to understand.

                 I'm sorry for deceiving you.


                 ... Roland Michell.

                It's well-documented that Ellen set a box on Ash's coffin.

                A sealed container. We'd always imagined it was just trinkets.

                But in light of Michell's discovery, who knows what may be in it.

                Morally, that box is mine.

                Once you become Lord Ash, it's absolutely yours.

                Until then, we keep it secret. Then you discover it among old Lord Ash's things.

                Then I purchase it from you. It's all aboveboard, no one the wiser.

                Cropper, you absolutely sure of that?

                Where is it?

                "I place this letter in his hands, and if ghouls dig it up again...

                ...then perhaps justice will be done when I am not here to see it."

                 Dear Madam:

                 We are older now,  and my fires, at last, are out.

                 I know that you are  more than aware of my name...

                 ... but I find you must see it  in print one last time.

                 It has been made known to me  that your husband is near to death.

                 So I have writ down,  for his eyes only, some things.

                 I find I cannot say what things  and have sealed the letter.

                 If you wish to read it,  it is in your hands...

                 ... though I must hope  that he will see it first and decide.

                 I have done great harm,  though I meant none to you.

                I'll see they get back, no questions asked.

                You're more enterprising than I gave you credit for.

                Was there a compliment in there somewhere?

                Yes. Probably.

                What I can't believe is Fergus Wolfe conniving with Cropper.

                - I thought I was a better judge of men. - That's where you went wrong.

                You gave him credit for being one.

                Thank you.

                - Thanks for coming. - Sure.

                I believe that may be her.

                - I'm sorry, I lost it totally. - No, I'm sorry. Honestly, it wasn't you.

                So why don't we all talk some strategy?

                Let me introduce you to... Professor Blackadder, Paola...

                ...this is Dr. Bailey. - Maud.

                How do you do?

                So do we really think that Cropper's capable of robbing a grave?

                - The idea of opening a grave's creepy. - Let's just keep going.


                 Moping owl doth to moon complain

                Are you ready?

                Hold the light up.

                Fergus! Fergus!

                - That it? - Yes. It's gotta be.

                I found it, Fergus. I found it.

                Oh, my God.

                I found it, Fergus.


                Hey, Cropper.


                This has nothing to do with you people.

                Get off of me! Get off!

                No, you don't!

                You traitor, you! Bloody conniver!

                What are you doing?

                - Are you sure we should do this? - I said we'd take a look...

                ...before we handed it over to the museum.

                Can you hold that there?

                Maud, look at this.

                It's her handwriting.

                "My dear, my dear:

                They tell me you are very ill."

                "Perhaps I am wrong to disturb you at this time with unseasonable memories."

                "But I find I have...

                ...after all, a thing which I must tell you."

                "You will say it should've been told    years ago but I could, or would not."

                "You have a daughter...

                ...who is well and married and the mother of a beautiful boy."

                "I sent you her picture."

                "You will see she resembles both her parents...

                ...neither of whom she knows to be her parent."

                 "When I said at that terrible sťance  that you had made a murderess of me...

                 ... I was speaking of poor Blanche,  whose end torments me daily."

                 "And I thought, let him think so then,  if he knows me so little."

                "I had a secret fear, you see."

                "I was afraid you would take her, you and your wife, for your own."

                "But I could not let her go."

                 And so I hid her from you.

                 And you from her.

                 She loves her adoptive parents  most deeply.

                 Me, she does not love.

                 So I am punished, living at Seal Court  with them and watching her grow.

                 I have been angry  for so long with all of us.

                 And now near the end,  I think of you again with clear love.

                 Did we not?

                 Did you not flame and I catch fire?

                 Was not the love that we found  worth the tempest that it brought?

                 I feel it was. I know it was.

                "If you are able, please send me a sign that you have read this."

                "I dare not ask if you forgive."

                "Christabel LaMotte."

                Ash never read this.

                He never knew he had a child.

                You're descended from both Christabel and Ash.

                My God!

                All these clues...

                ...they're for you.

                For us.

                You're so beautiful.

                 There are things that happen  not spoken or written of.

                 A poet walked out  one summer's day...

                 ... seeking forgiveness  from a love long lost.

                 He found something else instead.

                 This is how it was.


                - Good morning. - What's your name?

                May Bailey. But I have another name I don't like.

                Do you?

                What's that?

                Maia Thomason Bailey.


                Maia was the...

                The mother of Hermes.

                - And I know a waterfall called Thomason. - A waterfall? Really?

                Yes, in Yorkshire.

                With a lovely cave hidden behind it.

                Where do you live?

                I live in the house there. And my mother lives there...

                ...and my father and my two brothers.

                And my Aunt Christabel too.

                Yes, I think I know your mother.

                You have the true look of her.

                No one else says that. I think I look like my father.

                You look like your father too.

                Can you make daisy chains?


                Yes, I'll make you a crown.


                ...would you give me a lock of your hair?

                Like fairy story.

                Just so.


                Would you take this note...

                ...give it to your aunt?

                Tell her that you saw a poet who was coming to meet her...

                ...but met you instead.

                I'll try to remember.

                Thank you.


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