Summary
In a candle-lit drawing room that reeks of old port and older secrets, a languid aristocrat—equal parts libertine and lovelorn ghost—presses a cheque as blank as his own stare into the gloved palm of a married woman whose smile could thaw a cathedral. The next morning, the woman’s ever-absent husband—part-time stockbroker, full-time opportunist—inks five intoxicating zeroes beside the five, hands the scrap to a bewildered bank clerk, and saunters out whistling. What follows is not a whodunit but a who-will-do-what-when-the-pièce-de-résistance-of-shame lands on society’s breakfast table. The film unspools in chiaroscuro interiors where mirrors double as judges, in hansom cabs that rattle like guilty consciences, and in a final act garden party where every champagne flute trembles with unspoken valuations of honour, desire and liquidity. Turnbull and Knoblock’s scenario strips the drawing-room melodrama to its marrow: a single signature converts romantic capital into hard currency, and the aftertaste is metallic enough to cut tongues.
Synopsis
A Lord gives his beloved a blank cheque and her husband fills it in for £500.
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