In the great house of Collinwood, well-meaning governess Vicki is terrified of high-born ne’er-do-well Roger Collins. She had found evidence that led her to suspect Roger of murdering beloved local man Bill Malloy. Roger learned of her suspicions and told her a story that has left her unsure what to think.
In yesterday’s episode, someone unlocked the door to Vicki’s room and started to enter while she was in bed. She screamed, and the door slammed shut. Seconds later, Roger came. He denied having unlocked the door or seen anyone else in the hallway.
Today, Vicki is discussing that event with reclusive matriarch Liz. Vicki won’t explicitly say anything against Liz’ brother Roger, and Liz will not draw any conclusions about him in front of her. When Liz says she can’t imagine who might be in the house that Vicki could have reason to fear, gruff caretaker Matthew enters. This is not the least subtle clue the show has given us that we should consider Matthew a potential threat to Vicki.
Vicki tries to call her friend Maggie Evans. She talks to Maggie’s father, drunken artist Sam. Sam asks her to meet him at the local tavern to discuss a painting he did long ago of a woman to whom Vicki thinks she might be related.
After Vicki has left, Roger comes home. Liz is unhappy that he did not return her call when she telephoned him at his office in the business she owns. He is unrepentant. When she questions him about Vicki, he tells her that he thinks Vicki should leave Collinwood. He says that she is not safe there because she knows too much about the death of Bill Malloy. This does not leave Liz with a particularly sunny view of her bratty little brother.
At the tavern, Sam admits to Vicki that he doesn’t have anything to tell her about the painting. He wants to pump her for information about her suspicions. Vicki says she has something to say to Maggie about that subject, but only to her- she doesn’t want to go through it any more often than necessary. She refuses to tell Sam anything. When Sam gets overheated, she gets up to leave the table. He touches her sleeve. She gives him a look that goes from startled to commanding to wondering to pitying to just sad in the space of fifth of a second. He shrinks into his seat, and she sits back down. He offers her a ride home, she says she would rather walk. After she goes, he gulps a drink, then follows her out.
On the road, a car tries to run Vicki down. They’ve introduced a new set dressing for this scene. I like the signpost:

Vicki must have lost her keys when the car was coming at her, because she pounds on the front door of Collinwood until Liz lets her in. Vicki describes the incident, saying that the car deliberately swerved to hit her. In answer to Liz’ questions, Vicki says she couldn’t see anything but the headlights, and declines to call the sheriff. “I can’t talk to the sheriff. I can’t talk to anyone.” Liz mentions that Roger has left the house, and says it’s too bad he didn’t find her. Vicki replies “Maybe he did.” Liz responds to that by fetching a sedative and insisting Vicki take it.*
While Liz is out of the room, Vicki telephones dashing action hero Burke Devlin and tells him of the incident with the car. We hear only her side of the conversation, but we can presume Burke will do something about it.
*The first of countless sedatives that will be consumed in the drawing room of Collinwood in the years ahead. If the show had lasted another decade, the Ramones might have written a replacement for Robert Cobert’s piece for theremin as its theme song .
One does have to wonder why the heck Liz has sedatives in the house. If Roger is taking them, they aren’t doing a thing because he is the least sedated person in the house. Liz might be, but she doesn’t strike me as the type. Carolyn, like Roger, seems too perky to need or use sedatives. I’m pretty sure kids didn’t get prescribed sedatives, so David seems unlikely. This stops being a question once Julia enters the scene because, as a doctor, she can prescribe pretty much anything she wants.
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Well, you know, the Sixties. Losing track of the number of sleeping pills you’d taken after your nightcap was a perfectly respectable way to die.
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