Possession Page #2

I'm surprised you'd even | acknowledge my existence...

or any woman's for that matter | since you show us such | small regard on the page.

You cut me, madame.

I'm sorry.

I only meant to scratch.

Hey, Fergus.

[Running Footsteps] | Ah, hello, Roland.

What is it you chaps always say, | " How's it hanging?"

Well, we usually | just say "hey." | Unless you're gay.

Oh. | Listen.

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

Maud! Oh, yes, | I know Maud very well.

She teaches Gender Studies | at Lincoln.

Oh. Would she be helpful? | I'm checking out | Christabel LaMotte.

She's a poet, | writing around about 1859.

Yes, yes. Why would you | be interested in her?

Oh, nothing. It's just | I had some requests | about Ellen Ash's papers.

But LaMotte's name | came up, so...

The keeper of Ellen's flame. | I mean, that's the bottom | of the food chain, old sport.

Yeah, but I got to stay | on the food chain, old sport. | That's why I do it.

Right. Well, | " Publish or perish," | as they say.

Or in your case, | " Perish or perish."

So would she... | this Maud Bailey person?

Oh, yes, but I'd be careful | if I were you.

Why? What's she like? | Well, she thicks men's blood | with cold.

Oh, great. | Or if you prefer | the American vernacular...

she's a regular ballbreaker.

## [Headsets:
Jazz]

Mr. Michell?

What? I'm sorry. | Roland Michell.

Yes.

You're Maud. | Bailey. Dr. Bailey, yes.

There's nothing in my index. | No mention of Ash at all.

Well, Ash and LaMotte | definitely met.

Really? When? | June, 1859.

At a dinner party | given by Crabb-Robinson.

It's in his diary. | [Scoffs]

And you jumped | from that to the idea | that they corresponded.

I found an unfinished draft | of a letter in a book...

Addressed to LaMotte? | No, just " Dear Madame."

But there were three women | at Crabb-Robinson's | dinner party,

and out of the three | it's likeliest to be LaMotte.

[Roland] | So maybe there's something | in LaMotte's letters.

There aren't many | from the Richmond period... | the time you're interested in.

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

Three grades. | That's what "thrice" | usually means.

Oh, maybe | I shouldn't have come.

It does seem | rather pointless.

Well, I supposed since you're | here, you could have a look | through Blanche's diary.

Who's Blanche? | Blanche Glover.

Christabel's companion. | Her lover.

Oh, you look surprised.

I didn't know she was... | Didn't know | she was a lesbian.

No. I mean, | don't get me wrong, | I like lesbians.

Yes, well, unfortunately, | they didn't have | video cameras in those days,

so you're out of luck.

Now I see why you think | it's so unlikely.

Not from that point of view. | I mean, God, she could | have been bisexual.

There's no evidence she was, | but in theory...

Did you not do any reading | before you came?

Is this like an oral exam? | Yes, I suppose it is.

I mean, you don't know | the first thing about her, | and yet you make these leaps.

Hey, you're the one | who called her a lesbian, | not me.

[Blanche's Voice] | 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 always try | and give what they want | a decent name.

Blanche, no. | No, Blanche, listen.

What we have... | is ours.

No one can change that.

'Tis already changed.

- Find anything? | - Maybe.

So what are | those bookmarks then?

Blanche writes about letters.

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, for instance.

So who do you think | wrote the letters?

We've never been able | to verify who he was,

but Ash certainly | isn't one of the candidates.

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

Of course, I've thrown out | a lot of thoughts today,

and you've pretty much | shot them all down, so...

Yes, well, | it seems like a bit of | a wild-goose chase to me.

I'd like to do | some more reading.

[Sighs] | I suppose you'll wish to | stay here overnight then?

Well, I can't really afford | to stay overnight.

Unless you want me huddled | downstairs in your doorway.

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

No doubt you know | Fergus Wolfe then.

I'm sorry. | Uh, yeah, we're in | the same department.

I imagine that | he told you that we're...

occasionally | on together.

- No, he didn't. | - Well, did he...

Did he say anything... | about me?

Uh...

No.

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

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

Forget I said that.

Maud. | [Clears Throat]

Can I show you something?

Are these... | How did you get... | Those are the originals.

I took them. | I sort of stole them. | Took them?

Where from? | The London Library.

How could you do that? | It was on impulse.

Impulse?

Right. I've seen that | take-what-you-want attitude | in other...

What, in other Americans?

[Scoffs] | God, what is it with | you people and Americans?

Look, I know that | I shouldn't have taken them. | I know that.

But, Maud, I want to | find out what happened?

Did he or didn't he | send the letter?

You might not buy | into my theory, | but to me,

Blanche's diary | suggests that it's possible.

Wouldn't someone | have unearthed | a thing like this?

- That's what makes it so big. | - Potentially so big.

- Well, no one has. | - Probably because | those were never sent.

Are you doing your homework?

No, I'm just... | writing stuff.

Stuff for me. | It's nothing.

You're a closet poet. | Uh...

more like basement, | really.

I'm just, uh, | just fooling around.

Is that what | you want to be | when you grow up?

No, I'm gonna | be safe and teach | like everybody else.

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

Well... poet,

do you want a secret | about his family home | before you go?

Michell's late again.

Roland asked for | another day off, Fergus.

Oh, really? | Where's he gone?

I didn't ask, | and he didn't say.

He's American, for God's sake. | He's probably off | trafficking drugs.

Did his new discovery | lead to anything?

Ash's Vico. | Are you dreaming?

Vico? | No, no, this had something | to do with Christabel LaMotte.

He went to see | Dr. Bailey in Lincoln... | a woman.

LaMotte. Hmm. No.

- Well, it probably came | to nothing then. | - Exactly.

Or he would have told you.

Wouldn't he?

Seal Court's | over there.

So how long | did Christabel live at | this Seal Court place?

Ages. The last 20 | or so years of her life.

Excuse me. | Sorry.

"To a dusty shelf | we aspire."

You should drop by Seal Court | before the train.

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