Mortdecai Page #4

- What have you found?

Well, I will tell you that there is

more here than meets the eye.

No painting takes

three months to clean,

so I believe that Bronwen

was working on the Goya

and discovered something underneath.

I should like to see

her studio immediately.

- In the cars, quickly. Maurice, Oxford.

- Yes, sir.

I've been helpin' out Miss Fellworthy

goin' on five years now.

Just keepin' the place

tidy and whatnot.

You have been grossly overcompensated.

- Her lover was no help.

- Lover? Bronwen?

Yeah, a Duke.

No help whatsoever, randy bugger.

"Love... your...

Bunny."

Love your Bunny?

A child! She spawned a child!

The woman bred! What an odious thought.

Don't imbibe the crime scene.

I found her here, sprawled over the table,

with an arrow out of her back.

Course you did, man,

because the assailant fired from here.

- No, from the window.

- With a spear gun.

- With a crossbow.

- He was left-handed.

Jesus Christ.

Is this how she was found?

- What are you doing?

- Oh, no. To the left a bit.

- Like this?

- Sorry, I meant to the right.

Like this? Like this?

Are you quite finished buggering around?

No.

Because I have a question

for you, old bean.

Will I be given a badge,

nestled in some sort of cheap,

leather encasement, just like on telly?

- Maurice?

- Sir?

Show him the photographs. Excuse me.

These were found in her camera.

Yeah, like I told

the lady earlier today,

Miss Bronwen would take photos

of each stage of her work, bless her.

Which lady?

Well, the lady with the hair and brain.

I may have mentioned Bronwen

to Johanna at lunch today.

You were luncheoning with my wife?

- Let's look at the photographs.

- Yes, let's look at the photographs.

Horrible composition.

Lighting positively medieval.

This one taken by accident,

utterly useless...

Hang on a tic.

- That is not your Goya.

- What do you mean?

That is not the same painting

as the others.

Where have I seen that hand

before in the background?

Finger pointing down. Ring.

Good Lord! It couldn't be!

- Couldn't be what?

- To the library, chaps!

There has never been

an accurate reproduction because...

it vanished after the unveiling, but...

I do remember that there was an etching

or some such hint of... There it is.

The Duchess of Wellington.

Bronwen has found the lost Goya.

Goya was commissioned by Charles IV

of Spain to paint her in 1792.

She was said to be

his greatest masterpiece.

Unfortunately,

she was also said to have been

the King's mistress.

The Queen was unamused.

Humiliated, she ordered

the painting to be burned.

But instead it was stolen

and secreted away.

Some say that Goya himself

engineered the theft.

For 200 years, the painting

was sought by collectors,

craved by the mighty,

and became the stuff of legend.

- And is the legend true?

- Does it matter?

The truth is nice,

but a rumor is priceless.

What does Strago want with it?

If it does exist, it belongs to Spain.

If anyone tried to sell it,

they'd be arrested on the spot.

Yes, well, that is where the story

gets interesting, you see.

The Duchess pops up again

in France in 1943,

looted from some sealed room in an

unpronounceable chateau by the jerrys.

Hermann Goering was said to have been

obsessed with the painting,

and there are rumors

that he inscribed on it

the codes to his numbered

Swiss bank account.

Untold riches and all that, what?

But...

when the allies captured Goering...

Out of the way, out of the way.

There was no mention of the painting.

It had vanished

once again into history,

and the secret bank accounts

along with it.

- What are we talking about here?

- Hundreds and hundreds of millions,

surrounded by all that Gruyere,

chocolate, and fine wines.

- Well, that's what Emil's after.

- The fine wine?

No, the fortune to fund

violent worldwide revolution.

Right!

Multiple attacks over the years to come,

countless lives are at stake.

- That painting should be destroyed.

- Yeah.

Fingers crossed, chaps,

you find it first. I'm off for a wee.

I'm deeply, deeply flattered, young man.

However, I myself do not swing that...

Oh, Golly! I have read about this.

I sunk into an uneasy slumber,

interspersed curiously

with erotic dreams.

Lady Mortdecai,

the Duke is expecting you.

This way.

Her Lady Mortdecai

to see you, Your Grace.

The Duke of Asherboroughdon.

Your Grace. So kind of you to see me.

Lady Mortdecai.

You'll forgive me

just a moment, I'm sure?

Of course.

Lady Mortdecai.

Johnson! Who is this woman Mortdecai

and what does she want?

Well, I don't know. I don't know.

Why wasn't I told?

She's so damned attractive.

Hello? Hello?

Water bailiff.

Had to speak to the water bailiff

about my water.

Fishing tomorrow, you know.

Hate it. Sit.

Bloody nuisance.

Your Grace, I... I understand

you were close with Bronwen Fellworthy.

- Yes.

- I'm very sorry.

Her gardener gave me your name,

and I wondered...

The painting she was

working on in the end...

What?

No, I can't understand a word she says.

I've been trying to get rid of her,

but she's so damned attractive.

Sorry. You were saying?

- You served in the War then, Your Grace?

- Poor old gal.

Done to death with malice

aforethought and so forth.

Poor Bronwen.

The painting, Your Grace.

Did she ever mention

The Duchess of Wellington?

Oh. Beautiful woman.

- Bronwen?

- Must to the lavatory.

Would you care to come

and take a peek at it?

An exquisite invitation, Your Grace,

but I'm afraid I must decline.

- Let's get back to the Duchess.

- Bunny has it.

- I beg your pardon?

- During the War. Nazi bastards.

Bunny rolled it up in a carpet

and didn't tell a soul.

- Bunny is a soldier in your unit?

- 7th Army, 2nd Division.

Captured Goering.

First man in the room.

Do you think that Bunny

still has the painting now?

Must to the W.C.

Do have a look?

I'm afraid I must be going, Your Grace.

Thank you very much for your time.

And you are?

The water bailiff, Your Grace.

Fishing tomorrow's been cancelled.

Thank heaven.

What's that? Funny.

Right. I demand some explanations.

No, no. Change that.

I need a restorative.

How 'bout some finger sandwiches?

Just the usual, you know.

Egg cress, prawn mayonnaise,

possibly a gallon of your finest whisky

just to start the day properly.

You know how it is, gentlemen.

Oh, I see.

Actually, make that caviar.

Some warmed blinis, creme fraiche,

boiled egg whites,

and vodka so ice cold

you need gloves to handle it.

And don't forget the herringbone spoon.

We're not savages, after all, are we?

Welcome to Russia, Mr. Mortdecai.

- And you are?

- Roman Romanov.

Romanov. Sir Graham's client.

So I have him to thank for this.

Oh, that's unpleasant.

Where's the Goya?

- I don't know.

- But you know about art.

A bit. You have a Turner of the Loire,

which cannot be right

because the original is hanging

in the D'Orsay. Terribly sorry.

A magnificent Callow of about 1840,

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