All language subtitles for Miss Marple 501

Hesketh-Dubois...

Shaw. Harmondsworth.
God forgive me!

Wickedness!

"...aught that man may question.

You seem to understand me,

By each at once her chappy finger
laying upon her skinny lip.

You should be women,

and yet your beards forbid me to
interpret that you are so.

Speak, if you can. What are you?

All hail, Macbeth. Hail to thee,
Thane of Glamis.

All hail, Macbeth. Hail to thee."

Thank you, lad, thank you.

Good evening, Mrs Coppins.

"Thou shalt be king hereafter."

Wickedness! Wickedness!

Oh, God forgive me!

Perhaps somebody could watch out
for the ambulance?

Mrs Davis...
... Delafontaine...

Mrs Davis, it's Father Gorman.

There isn't much time!

Wickedness! Such wickedness!

I can't die like this!

I must... confess.

Hesketh-Dubois. Shaw.
Harmondsworth.

Tuckerton.

Stopped.

It must be stopped.

I'll do everything that's necessary.

Mrs Davis?

Mrs Davis?

- Is she...?
- She's at peace.

The ambulance is here.
Bleedin' late as usual.

"Now, o'er the one half world,
Nature seems dead."

"And wicked dreams
abuse the curtained sleep.

Witchcraft celebrates pale Hecate's
offerings..."

"... and withered murder, alarmed by
his sentinel, the wolf,

whose howl's his watch,

thus with his stealthy pace,

with Tarquin's ravishing strides,
towards his design..."

"... moves like a ghost."

"Thou sure and firm-set earth,

hear not my steps which way they
walk,

for fear thy very stones prate of my
whereabout,

and take the present horror from the
time

which now suits with it.

Whiles I threat, he lives..."

Oh, thank you, Marjory, dear.

- That does look good.
- You've got a letter.

Oh, so I see.

London W2.
Where's that?

Paddington, I believe.

Is it from a secret admirer?

Hardly. Father Gorman's a man
of the cloth, dear.

So I hardly think it's...

How very strange.

What's Rev. 6:8, Miss?

It isn't done to read other people's
correspondence, you know.

No, Miss.

But what's it mean?

It's the Book of Revelation.

Chapter Six, verse eight.

"And I looked and beheld a pale
horse.

And his name that sat on him was
Death,

and Hell followed with him."

I don't like the sound of that.

Well, it's the Bible, dear. I'm not
sure you're meant to.

- Morning, miss.
- Thank you, Billy, dear.

That can't be right.

- There must be a mistake.
- Miss?

- Whatever's the matter?
- Well...

It's Father Gorman,

the man who just wrote to me.

He's been murdered.

Inspector Lejeune. I've unseamed
your padre for you,

from nave to chops.

Father Gorman. And?

Well and truly coshed. The first
blow probably killed him.

But whoever did it made sure.

Nasty business.

Nastier than you'd expect for
robbery, Dr Kerrigan.

Was it robbery?
Well, his pockets were turned out

and the lining of his cassock
ripped.

They couldn't have hoped for much.

A parish priest? In my experience,
they're usually as poor as... Quite.

But they battered his head in to make
sure. One would like to know why.

- Anyone come forward?
- Yes, as it happens.

Just about to take a statement.

"Dear Jane, I send the following for
safe keeping.

Ormerod. Sandford. Parkinson.

Hesketh-Dubois.

Shaw. Harmondsworth. Tuckerton.

Corrigan. Delafontaine.

Revelations, 6:8.

Will telephone tomorrow evening
and explain.

Yours affectionately,
Patrick Gorman."

What do you make of it?

Apart from the biblical reference, I'm
not quite sure what to make of it...yet.

-The names don't mean anything to you?
-I'm afraid not.

If I might ask how you knew
Father Gorman?

We met during the Great War

at a convalescent home where I was
nursing sister.

He served as chaplain with the
Seventh Royal Irish horse.

- Brave chap.
- Yes, he was.

When did you see him last?

Oh, not for some years.

But we kept in regular touch.

Why do you think he would send this
to you?

Perhaps he thought someone may wish
to take it from him?

A list of meaningless surnames?

They meant something to Father
Gorman,

and presumably to someone else.

The newspaper said he'd been called
out to attend a dying woman

shortly before he was attacked.
- Mrs Davis? That's right.

You've questioned her neighbours
presumably?

Her fellow tenants, yes.

23 Benthall Street is a lodging
house

run by a woman called Coppins.

It's just that, I know from my own
experience,

that people don't always realise the
value of what they have seen.

We have done this sort of thing
before, Miss Marple.

Of course. Forgive me. It's just...

Father Gorman was such a good man.

It's hard to imagine why anyone would
want to hurt him.

Things have changed, Miss Marple.

Goodness doesn't seem to count for
very much any more.

It's an unforgiving world.

And the city is a long way from
country life.

Of course, it is possible, isn't it, that
the dying woman told him something?

Perhaps he had to get those names down
on paper as soon as he could,

before he forgot them?

Anything's possible, of course. It's
what makes my job so interesting.

I'm sorry to have put you to any
bother. No bother at all.

Very public spirited of you
to come forward.

Father Gorman was a good friend.

- He should have justice.
- He will, I promise.

We'll find him.

In the meantime, try not to trouble
yourself.

No. Goodbye.

Goodbye.

The officer said Paddington Station.

Yes, thank you.

Driver?

She was all right Monday week.

She was all right when the gas man
come on the Tuesday.

She was all right on wash day.

Then... That's right.

She come down with the flu.

I told her to rest up, but she would
go out.

It settled on her lungs.

Well, what did she do, Mrs Davis?

Till about a month ago,

I think it was customer relations.

Or research.

Some such.

Had she been with you long,
Mrs Davis?

About six months. Paid her rent
regular.

Seemed like a nice, quiet,
respectable person.

Though what more I can tell you,
I'm sure I don't know.

Not that I wouldn't be willing to
help, if I could.

Well, thank you, but I do need help.

Women know. They feel instinctively
so much more than a man can know.

Don't you think?

When you brought Father Gorman
to her,

was there anything they said that was
perhaps odd to you?

Not odd so much as...

I heard her say something about
wickedness.

Wickedness? Did she?

Yes... They have to confess, don't
they, Romans?

Before they die.

So I suppose that was it.

Was she an unhappy woman, do you
think?

I wouldn't say so.

Business-like, she was. Methodical.

But nothing worrying her that you
knew of?

No, no.

No.

But...

there was that one time.

About a month ago,

she was in the hall by the mirror
putting a coat on for work.

If things aren't all they should be,

it's better not to know, don't you
agree?

I'm sure that's right, dear.

Everything I've done has always been
perfectly straightforward.

I have nothing to reproach myself
with.

'What do you think she
meant?'

'I've no idea.

It struck me at the time as being a
queer thing to say.'

But people do come out with 'em.

Oh, yes.

Yes, they do.

Yes...

The Pale Horse.

- Mr Osborne?
- Yes.

Jane Marple. I wonder if I might
bother you for a moment?

Mrs Coppins said you were waiting in
the street

for the ambulance that attended to
Mrs Davis.

That's right. Jolly cold it was,
too.

Were you a friend of Mrs Davis?
Thank you.

No, of Father Gorman.
The priest who...?

Oh, I see. Yes, of course.
My condolences.

Thank you. I wondered, perhaps had
you seen anyone loitering about,

watching the house?

- Well, I did see someone.
- Oh?

He was tall.

About 50-ish. Wore his hair rather
long underneath his trilby.

Oh, he had a sort of half-moon scar
about here.

Oh, yes? He struck a match
to light a cigarette.

- That's how I noticed.
- What was he doing?

Just standing on a corner, smoking.

Then the ambulance arrived, and I
got rather caught up in all that.

- Did you tell the police?
- I mentioned it to the constable.

Not that he paid it much mind.

They seem to think it's a straightforward
case with Father Gorman. Robbery.

Yes. Yes, they do, don't they?

You don't? Well, you see,
on the night he died,

Father Gorman sent me a letter.

- He did?
-Just a list of names, for the most part.

Well, I shan't keep you any longer,
Mr Osborne.

- I've disturbed you enough as it is.
- Oh, hardly, no.

I'm just typing up my sales report
for the office.

- Well, thank you, Mr Osborne.
- Oh, not at all.

If there's anything else I can do?

Oh...

You know, as a matter of fact,

I rather think there is.

Ormerod, Sandford.

Plenty of those.

Parkinson.

Not uncommon.

Hesketh-Dubois. That's a bit of a
mouthful. Can't be many of them.

Hesketh, Hesketh...

Ah, here we are! Hesketh-Dubois.

Lady, no less. Only one in the book.

Outside line, please.
Grosvenor 6457.

Engaged.

Oh, good afternoon, is that Lady
Hesketh-Dubois' house? - Yes.

May I speak with her, please?

Lady Hesketh-Dubois passed away.

"Oh, I'm sorry. When was that?"

Six months ago, early this year.

Um, to whom am I speaking, please?

This is Mr Mark Easterbrook.

I wonder, could you tell me,

do you remember her ever mentioning

a place called The Pale Horse
in Much Deeping?

"Not to my knowledge, no."

No, no, I see.

Well, I'm so sorry to have troubled
you.

Thank you very much. Bye.

It's such a desolate spot.

- I shouldn't have brought you here.
- I asked you to.

- All the same.
- No, thank you for coming with me.

I don't think I should have had the
courage to come here on my own.

Somehow I doubt that. You seem quite
brave indeed.

I don't know about brave, but one
must face things as they are.

The truth, however awful, can never
be as bad as...

..one's imaginings.

I suppose not.

Did you know her well, Mrs Davis?

Only to nod to in the hall,
I'm afraid.

She seemed perfectly nice, though.
What makes you ask?

I just wondered if you'd ever heard
her mention The Pale Horse.

A pale horse? No. No, I don't
think...

Not, not a pale horse, THE Pale
Horse.

I can't say as I did. What is it?

Well, I believe it's a little hotel,

an inn of some kind

in a little village
called Much Deeping

in Hampshire.

Oh, hello?

Hello?

Will you be staying with us long,
Miss...?

Marple?
A few days, I think, Miss...?

Stamfordis. You're down for the
burning, are you?

The...?
The burning.

Each year, the village celebrates
the witch trials.

1664.

It does tend to draw the crowds.

Ghouls.

I can't say I approve, but it helps
keep us afloat.

Thyrza Grey,
proprietrix of The Pale Horse.

Jane Marple, how do you do?

Room five, please, Sybil.

Bella will take your luggage.

Oooh!
Good afternoon, Captain Cottam.

Afternoon.
Mrs Cottam.

Settling in comfortably, I hope.
Yes, quite comfortably, thank you.

Your cleaner, Bella, isn't it?

Well, she came in yesterday to do
the room.

Yes?

Well, we had the "Do not disturb"
sign on the door.

My husband likes to take a nap
between two and four...

I'll speak to her about it,
of course.

Thank you.

See? You only have to ask.

Captain and Mrs Cottam are local
residents.

Rather awfully,
they had a fire last week.

Oh, dear. Yes, I see.

How unfortunate.
Yes, so they're staying here

with their housekeeper, Mrs Harsnet,
until their place is repaired.

We're giving them a rate, of course.

Flight?

Mr Easterbrook?
Yes.

Lejeune, sir. Frank Lejeune.

Six months served in the squadron.
Lejeune!

Well, I never! Hello, old man.
How are you? Very well, thank you.

Well, well, well. Good old Frank.

What are you up to these days?

- I'm a police inspector.
- Heavens! There's a thing.

For my sins.
Well, other people's surely?

As often as not. I read your
articles now and again.

- Oh, do you?
- I enjoy them very much.

That's good of you to say so.

It's probably too late to say now,
but I was very sorry about your wife.

Thanks. That was...

So, what brings you down here?

Well, I was hoping to have a quick word with
Lady Hesketh-Dubois. She does live here?

She did.

Why? What's all this about?

Just following a lead.

Well, I'm sure I can tell you what
you need to know.

- She was my godmother.
- Was?

She died, quite recently.

Is something wrong?

That's what I'm hoping to find out.

What brings you to Much Deeping,
Miss Marple?

Outside of the burning, I'm afraid
we have very few visitors these days.

- Oh, really?
- It was different in the old days.

There was a regular clientele,
commercial travellers and the like.

But since the bypass went through,

I'm afraid we've become something of
a backwater.

Oh, indeed? That is a shame.

Oh, how did I...?

Well, actually, The Pale Horse was a
recommendation.

Indeed?

Might I ask from whom?

You might ask.

As you wish.

Oh, no. Please, no, nothing
mysterious at all.

It's just a friend of a friend.

I'm afraid when you get to my age,
names...

Quite hard to place, Miss Grey.

Of course.

And it's Mrs Grey. At least it was.
He died.

Oh, I'm very sorry.
Oh, well...

Now, the first sitting for supper is
usually at 7.30.

Though, with the burning,

this evening, we're laying on a
running buffet from seven in the lounge.

I see.

It's tonight, then, is it,
the burning?

It is.

If there's anything else you
require,

anything at all...

..the telephone will connect you
with reception.

In the meantime, I hope you have a
very pleasant stay.

Oh, I shall. Thank you. Yes.

Indeed. Thank you.

Hesketh-Dubois - deceased.

Seriously, Lejeune, do you really think this ~
has a bearing on the death of Father Gorman?

Possibly.

Supposing that's the connection?

What?

You mean they're all dead?

Hmmm.

Shaw. Harmondsworth. Tuckerton.

Let us take a few moments to
remember Thomasina Tuckerton.

Mrs Tuckerton!

Where were you, Mrs Tuckerton?
She needed you. I tried to track you down.

Stop it, Ginger! You're not family
and this is none of your business.

Mrs Tuckerton!

Oh, Miss Marple,
what can I do for you?

I thought it would be useful to your
enquiry

to know that Lady Hesketh-Dubois, one
of the names on Father Gorman's list,

died six months ago.

Of an inflammation of the brain.

- Oh, you know, then?
- Yes, I know.

Rather more to the point,
how do you?

Oh, my.

Oh, I telephoned her house yesterday
and I spoke to a man called Mr. Easterbrook.

Mark Easterbrook, her godson.

- Oh, you've seen him?
- Yes, I've seen him.

I know him, actually. Well, knew
him.

He was one of the best.

Flew Lancs during the war, which is
how we met. I was ground crew.

He's a historian now in English
folklore.

Is he?

Oh, is he now?

Miss Marple, I understand that
Father Gorman was a friend.

But this is a police matter.

Oh, yes, absolutely.
Absolutely, Inspector.

It's just... she was a woman of means,
I could imagine.

Considerable means.
Now, really, I must get on.

And, please, if there are any
further developments,

I will let you know.

Sandford, 12th September.

Tuckerton.

Is there something
I can help you with?

I was just wondering how busy you
were in the spring?

You were thinking
of coming back so soon?

It is such a lovely spot, even at
this time of year.

Well, we like it. Yes, have you been
here long, Miss Stamfordis?

Yes, we've been here seven...

No, eight years.

Thyrza and I bought the freehold in
April '47.

We'd seen it the previous year on a
walking tour.

Really? Did you? But at the time,
it wasn't for sale.

Do you think it would be beyond the
realms of possibility that I might
get a drink?

Is Mrs Grey not in the bar?

Not unless you've cast an
invisibility spell on her.

Apologies.

Hello!

Need some help?

Is this the way to Much Deeping?
I hope so, Miss...?

Corrigan. Ginger Corrigan.
Mark Easterbrook.

I need to get to The Pale Horse.

Me, too. Would you care for a lift?
Er, yes.

I'm afraid Mr Venables can be
something of a Tartar

if he doesn't get what he wants
exactly when he wants it.

I expect it's on account of his...
(WHISPERS) ..polio.

Something I can get you?

A blackcurrant cordial would be nice,
thank you.

(DOG GROWLS)

Damn it, Cottam, I've warned you
before about your bloody animal.

Steady on, good dog.

If I see it around my place again,
I won't be responsible...

Like you wouldn't be responsible for
the fire at my house? What?

I'm not going to sell, no matter
what tricks you get up to.

What are you talking about?
You might have money, Venables.

And good luck to you. But it doesn't
mean you can have what you want.

All I'm saying is, I wish you'd keep
your bloody dog under control.
The bitch is a menace.

I know you've had a few, but watch
your language in front of my wife.

My apologies.
Right.

Mrs Harsnet not joining you for a
constitutional today?

Sorry, never a dull moment.

Oh...

You were going to tell me about how
you and Mrs Grey came to The Pale
Horse.

It was a bad winter.

The village had been cut off by
snow.

And the landlord's wife...
Yes?

He'd been called to Market Basing,
you see,
the landlord.

Had he? Yes, I see.

Found her at the bottom of the
stairs. A fall, they said.

But I should think it was the cold
that did for her in the end.

How terrible.
All that time in the dark.

And the pain.

Well, a broken pelvis.

You can imagine.

The cold seeping into her.

Come the thaw, he put the place on
the market.

And here you are.
Yes.

(LINE CLICKS)

Hello?
Mr Osborne?

Yes?
Jane Marple.

Ah, Miss Marple. You well?
Yes, very well, thank you.

It really is the most extraordinary
place.

Did you find what you were looking
for? No, no, nothing yet.

But there is someone in the village
I'd very much like you to see.

(CHANTING)

(HORN)
No, she ain't got no tail nowhere!

No, sir!

(CHANTING CONTINUES)

Walk with the...the witch!

Quite something, isn't it?
Yes, it is.

Quite something. Mr...?

Easterbrook. Mark Easterbrook.
Jane Marple.

How do you do? May I introduce Miss
Corrigan? Ginger, hello.

It's my first time in Much Deeping.
Thrilling, isn't it?

Rupert Cottam. How do you do?
My wife, Kanga.

My housekeeper, Lydia Harsnet.
How do you do?

You live here or are you down
for the burning?

Locals, albeit displaced ones.

We had a fire last week, so we're
billeted at the inn.

Poor you. How bloody.

The wealthy widow, Goody Carne!

Three past husbands!

Yes, where are they?

(CROWD SHOUTS OUT)

(HORN)
Food for worms!

Didn't catch what it is you do,
Mr Easterbrook.

Oh, I'm a historian.

I'm down here researching the
witchcraft, Wincanton, and so forth.

Have you anything to say?
I'm innocent.

And we say to you...

Guilty!

(APPLAUSE AND CHEERING)

(LAUGHTER)

There's a brass in the church you
might care to see, Mr Easterbrook.

Paid for by the villagers in
remembrance of Goody Carne.

Mrs Harsnet's late husband was vicar
of our little parish. Made a study
of it all.

GINGER: Who's Goody Carne?
Well, it's Goody Carne

whose memory the villagers are
honouring tonight.

The witch?
She was accused by the squire

of having unnatural traffic with the
Devil.

She was. Although, in truth,

I think the squire was really after
her land.

She was tried, found guilty, and
hanged.

From the old willow tree over there.

Burnt at the stake, surely?

COTTAM: Actually, the vast majority
of witches were hanged.

And it wasn't the clean drop used
nowadays, I can tell you.

Ru, must you? Don't know if you've
ever seen anyone being throttled?

Might be about to. Not a pretty
sight, is all I was going to say.

Cripes.
Well, people still say

that good, old Goody is making her
way home

at a cock's stride.

And that when she reaches the farm,

the whole village will go up in
flames.

(CHEERING)

To be honest, I've seen enough fire
in the last two weeks to last me a
lifetime.

If it's all the same to you, I'd
like to go inside before I do
something I regret.

(HUSHED CONVERSATION)

Good night!
Oh, good night.

Miss Grey, I remember now who it was
who recommended The Pale Horse.

A Miss Tuckerton, could it be?

Mrs Tuckerton?

Yes, yes, I'm sure that's what the
name was.

Ah.
Well, good night, then.

Good night.

Oh, Miss Marple!

I wonder, I'm due to call on Roger
Venables tomorrow for lunch.

Perhaps you'd like to join me?
Oh, Mr Venables.

You'd be doing me a favour. He can
be a crusty old devil.

But my husband was fond of him and
I'm trying to carry on his good
work,

make him part of our little
community, as it were.

In that case, yes, of course, I'd be
delighted. Hurrah!

I'd be grateful if you didn't
mention it to Ru...

Captain and Mrs Cottam.

they don't really get on
with Mr Venables. So I gathered.

They wouldn't like it if they
thought I'd been fraternising.

Of course, of course.
Good night, then.

(COCK CROWS)

Good morning, Mrs Grey.
Ah!

I think perhaps you have some gift
for clairvoyance.

Oh, nothing so exotic, I'm afraid.

Just a keen sense of smell.

Well, unless I'm much mistaken,
that's Eau de Lys you're wearing?

I hope you'll forgive me,

but I had the idea -
Bella had it, too -

that you might need us?

Need you, Mrs Grey?

Sybil thinks you came here
to find us.

She's seldom at fault.

Why would I want to find you?

That I do not know, yet.

But I shall.

Rely on it.

Paul?

Last night, at the burning,

you're sure it was him?

Mr Venables?

Yeah, though God knows what he's
done to himself since.

Oh, the wheelchair.

From what I can gather,

he's been unable to walk for some
years.

Really?

You're sure?

I could have sworn that was the man
I saw.

Could you have been mistaken,
perhaps?

I could have. It's possible.

Unless he has a twin brother.

In fiction, perhaps. But in real
life, it doesn't happen.

It really doesn't.
No.

I expect not.

I'm sorry. I can't help but feel
like I've wasted your time.

Oh, no, please, don't think that.
Not at all.

Your Father Gorman,

someone should answer for him.

They will.

And I think it's possible that
Mrs Davis may have visited The Pale
Horse.

"And what makes you think that?"

I found a list of names which match
those sent to me by Father Gorman

concealed in one of Mrs Davis's
shoes, of all places.

Miss Marple, that's evidence!

Oh, it is, inspector.

But, more importantly, that list was
written on headed notepaper

from the Pale Horse.

Please, don't tell me you've taken
it upon yourself to go down there?

I'm afraid that would be an untruth.

But you see, the names on Mrs Davis's
list have dates beside them

which match certain entries in the
hotel register.

Do they? Well, I certainly think
you might be onto something.

Oh, do you think so? I do.
But, please, do nothing further.

I'm sorry, Inspector,
it's a very bad line.

I didn't quite catch that.

Oh, there go the pips. I haven't any
more money to put in.

Miss Marple...

(DOG WHINES)
Good morning.

The vet's just gone. Ring worm.

Frightfully catching. Don't want the
other dogs getting it. Oh, no.

Or yourself.

This stuff makes their fur fall out,
leaves a bare patch.

But it'll soon grow back. Won't it,
old dog?

Ready for the off?
Oh, yes! Yes. Yes, indeed.

I'm going to show Miss Marple round
the church. Very nice, too.

Yes.

Have you worked long for Captain
Cottam?

Two years, nearly.
After my husband died,

they were kind enough to offer me a
position.

Your husband was vicar here,
I understand?

Yes. Yes, he was.

Philip had been a missionary in West
Africa.

Malaria. Weakened his heart, I
think. Over the years.

Last attack,
wasn't strong enough to...

No. I am sorry.

I hope you don't mind, but I asked
Miss Corrigan to join us.

No, not at all. Good morning, Miss
Corrigan.

Do call me Ginger. Everyone does.

Good Lord, Mr Venables must be
rolling in money.

Yes, and no-one really knows where
it came from.

He's quite the mystery man.
Travelled the world, you know.

So it seems a supreme irony

that I should have emerged unscathed

from some of the most disease-ridden
corners of the globe

only to contract polio in my own
rather dull little country.

Eastbourne Lido.

1949.

God rot the place and all who live
there.

Tell me, Mr Venables,

why did you come to live in Much
Deeping, so far away from everything?

Do you have friends here?
No.

I came to this part of the world
precisely because I knew no-one
here.

Did you? Yes, well, I see.

Yet, for all that, I find I'm now on
the tourist trail.

A site of historic local interest.

Along with the burning, and those
monsters up at The Pale Horse.

Monsters, Mr Venables?

You know what they say, two's
company, three's a coven.

Seems a little harsh.

I know this summer finds them
useful, Mrs Harsnet,

but in my opinion, they should be
driven out,

with pitchforks and burning brands,
if needs be.

What they're up to in that place...

What are they up to?

Wickedness.

All manner of black devilry.

Of course, I was brought up with the
Devil.

Believing in him, I mean.

He always did seem to me so silly.

With hooves and a tail,

capering about like a ham actor.

Call me old-fashioned, but I really
can't go along with this modern

playing-down of evil
as something that doesn't really exist.

- Wouldn't you agree, Miss Marple?
- Yes. Yes, indeed I do.

Evil is powerful, sometimes more
powerful than good.

It's there. It needs to be
recognised... and fought.

Fought, Miss Marple?
Otherwise we go down to darkness.

Last night, Miss Marple, did I hear
you right?

- What's that, dear? - You told Mrs Grey
you knew Mrs Tuckerton.

Wouldn't be Amelia Tuckerton?

Stepdaughter by the name of
Thomasina.

Possibly. As I say, she's just a
friend of a friend. Why?

I worked with a girl at the gallery
called Thomasina Tuckerton.

"Tommy Tucker" we called her.

Well, it might be, it might be.
You must ask her.

That's impossible, I'm afraid.

Tommy died two weeks ago.

Oh, I'm sorry.

'And only a few weeks before, she'd
been so happy.

John had asked her to marry him.

And she'd accepted him. Yes, I see.

We thought it must be some sort of
nervous alopecia.

But she just got weaker.
What did the doctors diagnose?

They didn't know. She was just so...

alone.

(GASPS)

Her stepmother was on a cruise, so
there was only me and John to look
after her.

Then, in the end,

only me.

She didn't want John
to see her like that.

Where was her father? He died himself
less than a year ago,

not long after Tommy's 19th.

I finally ran her stepmother to
ground in Rio.

It was all I could do to persuade
her to come back for the funeral.

There was bad blood between them?

She said John was
only after Tommy's money. Ah.

She was a wealthy girl?
She would have been.

Her father left her a fortune to be
held in trust

until Tommy was 21 or...

Or until she married. Yes, that is so
often the way.

It goes now, I suppose, to the
stepmother? Yes.

Yes. That, too, is so often the way.

There you are. I was wondering where
you'd gotten to.

Why? What's to do? Mrs Grey is
showing Mr Easterbrook her books.

As a consequence, we've been invited
to tea in her sanctum sanctorum.

Apparently, it's in the old
courthouse where Goody Carne was
tried. Come on.

(CHICKENS SQUAWK)

(COCK CROWS)

(FOOTSTEPS)

Goodness, what a lot of poultry you
keep.

Can't say I care for hens.
Mostly cockerels, they be.

Table birds?
Them's useful to us.

Whatever they are,
I don't like them.

Damn things look at you as if they
know what you're thinking.

MRS GREY: Perhaps they do,
Mrs Cottam.

I mean, this is interesting.

Oh, yes, this is powerful.

(GASPS) Honestly, Thyrza, I do wish
sometimes you'd knock.

I'm surprised you didn't divine my
presence, dear.

Mrs Grey, you really do have some
wonders here.

An original Maleus Maleficarum

and this, Grimoire's Saducismus
Triumphatus.

Very rare indeed.

Oh, it's so nice to meet someone who
admires one's treasures.

MRS COTTAM: This is where you do
your seances?

MRS GREY: Ah, that plain and
forthright voice

for which the Antipodes is so
rightly renowned!

You're well informed, Mrs Cottam.
Someone must have been talking.

In a village, I find everyone knows
one's business far better than one
does oneself.

I'm sure the three of us enjoy
a splendid sinister reputation.

Got all you want? Yes, thank you,
Bella. That'll be all.

Give it here!

I'm sure someone will have told you
Bella is the local witch.

Really?
Yes, she has certain powers,

though not as great as those that
Sybil enjoys.

I have always been attracted to the
occult.

Even as a child, I realised I had
unusual powers.

Did you? Really?

Automatic writing came quite
naturally to me.

I didn't even know what it was.

I'd just sit there with a pencil in
my hand, without a clue what was
happening.

Automatic writing.

The difference between that
and mindless scribbling is...?

Interpretation.
Ah, yes.

Yes, of course. You don't believe any
of this, do you, Miss Marple?

But you do, don't you?
I don't believe, Miss Marple.

I know!

Why else have people come through
the ages to the necromancer?

And the witch doctor?

There are only two things people
want badly enough

to risk damnation.

The love potion

and the cup of death.
Ah.

So simple, isn't it, love and death?

The love potion...
to win the man you want.

A draught to be taken at the full of
the moon.

Recite the names of the devils.

Draw patterns on the floor.
All window dressing.

The truth, of course...

The aphrodisiac in the draught.

And the cup of death?

Untraceable poisons perhaps?

Poisons? Childish stuff.

There are new horizons, Miss Marple.

The mind.

Knowledge of what it can do
and what it can be made to do.

Made to do?

Influence your subject to commit
suicide, is that it? No.

The psychologists
have shown us the way.

The desire for death.

It's there in everyone.

And that desire can be stimulated.

You don't need to kill your victim.

All you need to do
is will him to death.

Can you do that?
(WOMAN SCREAMS)

(WHIMPERS)

Kanga!

Oh, my God!

Lydia, what is it?

Oh, God!

What's wrong with him?

What happened here?

Oh, my Ru! Darling!

(WEEPS)

Excuse me, sir.

Good heavens, Lejeune.

What are you doing here?

Be with you in a moment.

When I got back from lunch
with Mr Venables, Ru had...

Oh!

Captain Cottam had already retired.

It was his custom to take a siesta
at that time of the afternoon.

I took him a cup of tea at four
o'clock.

Yes, around then.

And...

that's when I found him.

Rupert was in the garden
with the dog.

That was the last I saw him.

He was so full of life.

We were so happy.

And I wasn't there.

I wasn't there.

(COCK CROWS)

Hello.

Oh, hello.

I thought you might like this.

Oh, thank you.

You been seen?
Yes.

Though what the police think I can
tell them...

There's no suggestion there are any
suspicious circumstances?

Not so far as I know.

I've been meaning to ask.

How was it you heard about
the Pale Horse?

It's my field.

English folklore.

Yes, of course.
What's your interest.

Oh, just bad old curiosity.

I'm not sure...
I believe that for a moment.

In fact, you strike me as the sort of
young woman

who's never had an idle thought in
her head.

I'll take that as a compliment.

You should.

I thought it best we meet somewhere
where we could talk in private.

I've asked the local pathologist to
pass his findings on,

but first impressions are Captain
Cottam died of natural causes.

Natural causes?
His heart.

It would appear he'd been...
exerting himself.

After a fashion.

I understood he'd gone for an
afternoon nap.

It's possible he may not have been
having 40 winks by himself.

Oh, I see.

I must say, I thought there was
rather more

to their arrangements
than simple housekeeping.

And Mrs Cottam party to it,
would you think?

I would think so, wouldn't you?

It goes on. You only
have to read the Sunday papers.

But it doesn't mean
there's anything sinister about it.

Look, I'm sorry, I know
you have the best of intentions

but the long and the short of it
is...

I can't go poking my big London nose
into Hampshire Police business

because you've got a feeling.
It isn't done.

No, no, of course.

Mind, you could have knocked me down
with a feather

running into Mark Easterbrook again
so soon.

I'll admit it's a rum go
finding him down here.

Not that I'm suggesting that he was
involved

with what happened with Father
Gorman in any way.

No. No, of course not.

It is a long while
since you've seen him.

The man you knew...

He does seem changed.

But he's more cause than most.

Maybe since Isla.

His wife.

Whirlwind romance, head over heels.

Whisked her off to Italy for a
honeymoon. Amalfi coast.

Car accident.

Brakes failed.

She was killed outright.

I imagine Mr Easterbrook
was lucky to survive.

She was...

with a friend.
Ah.

Local police tried to pin it on
Mark, of course.

Jealousy, but it didn't stick.

Anything in it?

I'd have sworn not, but...

(SIGHS)
Given the right circumstances,

who knows what a chap might do?

Tell me, Inspector, have you ever
heard of

a physician called Sir William
Dougdale of Harley Street?

He's a nerve doctor, isn't he?
So I believe.

Yes, we use him sometimes if one of
our men

goes down with a bad case of the
jitters. Why, what about him?

Perhaps you might like to ask him
about one of his patients?

Name of Venables.

Price Court.

Much Deeping.

Bye, Miss Marple.
Goodbye.

Miss Marple.

Oh, Miss Corrigan.
You said evil had to be fought.

Otherwise we go down to darkness.
Did you mean it?

Every word.

Is there something you'd like to tell
me perhaps?

Yes.
About your friend, is it?

Tommy Tuckerton?

You're worried that her death was
perhaps not entirely a natural one?

C R Bradley.

I found it at Tommy Tuckerton's
house. Her stepmother had it.

That's what led me here.
Charing Cross, 6502.

Have you tried to contact Mr Bradley?

I'm ashamed to say I was afraid to
on my own.

Well, there's two of us now.
Two of us?

Yes, you see, I too lost a friend.

A very dear friend.
His name was Father Gorman.

And somehow, the Pale Horse,

perhaps with the help of Mr Bradley,
was at the heart of it.

And now with Captain Cottam's
murder...

Murder? I thought a heart seizure.

Oh, no, my dear.

He was murdered, I'm quite sure of
it.

But why and by whom...?

We'll get to the bottom of it.
I know we will.

Oh, yes, but we must beware.

For even while we are hunting him...

I fear he may well be hunting us.

Please be careful, Miss Marple.

Don't worry.
I'll be back from London tomorrow.

See you then.

Well, dear lady,

how may one be of service?

Oh, no, thank you.

Well, I'm not sure how this is meant
to work, Mr Bradley.

I suppose the first thing to ask
is...

how much?

That's not how we go about things,
dear me, no.

We haven't introduced ourselves yet,
have we?

I don't think
I ought to give you my name.

Oh, cautious, yes, I like that.

Admirable quality, but...

I think we may allow ourselves
a moment's candour.

Who is it sent you to me?

Let's just say a friend of mine has a
friend who has a friend.

Quite.

You know my calling, I presume?

Turf commission agent?

Interested in horses?

Betting?

Any particular horse
you had in mind?

A pale horse.

Very good, very good.

Excellent.

Oh, you yourself, if I may say so...

seem to be rather a dark horse.

(LAUGHS)

Let me assure you that there's no
need for any anxiety.

I'm a lawyer myself.

Disbarred, I understand.

Unfairly, of course.

Just so.

But disbarred or not,

I do know my law.

And everything I recommend here
is perfectly legal.

It's just a question of a bet,
you see.

A bet?
That's right.

A man...

or in your case, mutatis mutandis,
a woman

can bet on anything he pleases.

Whether it will rain tomorrow?

Whether the Russians can send a man
to the moon?

Or...whether...

Mrs X...will die before Christmas.

Do you follow?

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I saw
you at Kensal Green Cemetery.

Er...

You did. I would have mentioned it
myself,

but running into you again,

I didn't want you to get the idea
I was some kind of oddball, you know.

Following you.
What were you doing?

I was visiting my late godmother Min.

More properly,
Lady Minerva Hesketh-Dubois.

BRADLEY:
Let's assume a hypothetical case.

Someone would like to know when
Great Aunt Eliza is going to die.

Eliza could live on, pepped up by
doctors, for another ten years.

You'd be delighted,
you're fond of the old girl.

But how useful would it be to know?

You follow?
Oh, yes.

This is where yours truly comes in.

You bet me a certain sum...

..that Aunt Eliza will be hale and
hearty till Christmas.

I bet that she won't.

There's nothing against that, is
there?

She was a...decent old stick.

Good innings, mind.

71.

But she went through it, poor thing.

I mean it was quick,
quick as you like, but...

all over in a week. But...

you wouldn't let a dog suffer like
that.

She wasted away to skin and bone.

Her hair...
Her hair?

It just came out.

Clumps.

Dignity. You know.

For a woman, especially, crowning
glory, when all is said and done.

No matter how old you are.

You were fond of her?

Yes.

Yes, I suppose I was rather.

She was always there when things...

..got bad.

Did they get bad often?

Once. Very.

We draw up a contract, sign it,

I give you a date,

I say that a fortnight from that
date...

..Aunt Eliza's funeral service will
be read.

You say it won't.

Supposing you lose?
Well, I pay up.

Naturally.

And if you lose...
Supposing I don't...pay up?

I really shouldn't advise so.

I'd like to think about it.
Of course.

Of course, by all means, yes.

Never rush into anything ever.

If you decide to do business,

you come back and we'll go into the
matter more fully.

No hurry in the world.

No hurry at all.

Thank you.

Where does the pale horse fit in?

More things in heaven and earth,
Horatio, than are dreamed of...

Don't ask me how they do it.
I don't know.

But rest assured...

..whatever it is they do do...

..it works.

Bradley, eh?

I should have known.

Caused us no end of trouble over the
years.

But he's a slippery customer.

Knows every legal dodge in the book.

Somehow always stays
just the right side of the line.

But we were talking about murder.
Organised murder.

That's partly what I can't square.

Bradley's a wrong'un, but...

something like that? The chance of
having his neck stretched?

I'd have said that was right off his
beat.

Yes, I agree with you, Inspector.

Mr Bradley's involvement begins and
ends with a financial transaction.

He's a go-between.
Nothing more.

And I did hear back from Sir William
Dougdale,

the nerve chap
you asked me to get hold of.

No go, I'm afraid.

Venables has as much chance of
walking as I have of flying.

You know, Inspector, despite all the
evidence to the contrary,

I think it would still be worth one's
while to keep an eye on Mr Venables.

Really?
Oh, yes.

I would go so far as to say

he may well be key to unwrapping this
whole affair.

There are dark forces at work here,
Inspector.

They must be forced into the light.

Somehow I don't like the sound of
that.

Whatever suspicions you may have,
you must leave things to the police

and not take any action of your own.

No, no, of course, Inspector.

No, you're right.
I wouldn't dream...

Dear me, no.

According to the tail I put on
Bradley,

he left yesterday in his lunch hour

to deliver a letter to an office
on the other side of town.

The place looked derelict,
but we've run it down.

Registered offices of
Customer Reactions Classified.

Some sort of market research outfit.

The registrar of companies lists the
director

as an Ian Morris Noone.
With an "E".

Oh, well, it would be, wouldn't it?

It's a front obviously.

What?

Ian Morris Noone...

I, M, Noon.

I am no-one.

Or "I'm number one". Both probably.

The man's got a sense of humour,
then.

And it would seem to confirm your
instinct

that Bradley is just the middle man.

Forgive me, but wasn't there some
mention of consumer reactions

with regard to Mrs Davis?

Yes, but the neighbours say that

no-one's been near the office in
months.

You really think the Pale Horse is
connected? Don't you?

It's a big jump from putting on

scare shows for the gullible to
actual murder

All these people who died, presumably
somebody profited by their deaths.

Oh, yes. Lady Hesketh-Dubois
left about £50,000.

Niece and nephew inherit.
Both could do with the money.

But both were abroad
when she fell ill.

Thomasina Tuckerton, her father left
a very large fortune

but since she died unmarried before
the age of 21...

It reverts to her stepmother.

It's pretty much the same story with
the whole list. Yes.

I think it's time we spoke to Miss
Corrigan.

Why?

Good heavens.

What are you doing here?

(RAISED VOICES)

..time after time!

I've given you the same answer!
Every time you persist!

Every time you persist.
Argh!

For God's sake!

For God's sake, woman.

You take it!
I do not love you any more!

You will pay for that.

Oh.

Oh, Miss Corrigan, I thought you were
here until the end of the week.

I've been called back to work.
An emergency at the gallery.

Oh, I am sorry.
I shall be sad to see you go.

Your bill, Miss Corrigan.

Thank you.

Mrs Grey,

I wonder could you do me a favour?

While packing, I seem to have
misplaced a glove.

Brown suede, the left.

I'll send it on to you.

Well...

(SIGHS)

Bye-bye.
Goodbye.

Safe journey.

Oh.

Miss Marple.

Well, well, well.

Now...try not to worry.

These things happen.

If she won't play fair,

you're not really left with much of
an alternative.

Obviously, with the time factor,
it will have to be...

reflected in the size of the bet.
But...

you just leave that with me, hmm?

Thank you.
No. Thank you.

(PHONE RINGS)

The Pale Horse.

Oh.

Tonight?

LEJEUNE: 'I've had the preliminary
findings on Captain Cottam through.

Doesn't look to have been
a heart attack after all.

The pathologist says he's never seen
anything like Cottam's insides.

It looks as if he drank about a
gallon of drain cleaner.'

Morning.

Oh, great heavens.

Of course.

Yes. Oh.

Now I see.

Once the invocation is completed,
there can be no going back.

Death will have its dominion.

You are resolved?

Very well.

You have brought what you were
instructed to bring?

Er...yes.

It belongs...
No, no.

No names.

Oh, yes.

This is most suitable.

The physical emanations of its
wearer

are very strong.

Sybil.

We're ready for you.

I must impress upon you the
necessity

of remaining absolutely still.

I am summoning forces into this room

dangerous to those who do not know
how to control them.

Argh!

(DEEP) I am here.

Is that you, Macandal?

I am Macandal.

Are you prepared, Macandal,
to submit to my desire?

I am.

The dead must be sent to cause
death.

It shall be so.

(DRUMMING)

Paul! Paul!

Oh!

Well, did you get
a look at his legs?

No, I didn't.

But I think I know how he's been
doing it.

You do?
Yes. Let's just...

watch for a while.

(CHANTS IN DEMONIC LANGUAGE)

Our father which art in heaven...

Our father which art in heaven

hallowed be they name.

(CHANTS IN DEMONIC)

Which art in heaven....

hallowed be thy name.

You are set free

to be at one with the owner of this
glove.

Only death solves all problems.

Only death.

There is always a weak spot.

The tissues of the body obey the
mind.

Tissues...

Towards death.

(CHANTS)

Death the conqueror.

Death...the conqueror.

Strength!

Death!

Dea-ea-eath!

What if he had a twin brother,
you said?

Rather foolishly,
and to my everlasting shame,

I dismissed it as belonging to
fiction.

But you got me thinking.

After all,

what better cover for a murderer
than a man confined to a wheel chair?

I don't understand. How did he
manage to fool the doctors?

You mean he really does have a twin?
Oh, no, no, no.

Nothing like that.

But just suppose Mr Venables had made
contact with a genuine polio case.

Someone in poor circumstances
to whom he made a proposition.

Look!

Look, look! Look!

Just as I thought.

Well, well.

Brilliant, Miss Marple.

You see, it's the genuine sufferer
passing himself off as Mr Venables

who visits the Harley Street
specialist to be examined.

And there you are.

As far as the world is concerned,
Mr Venables is a hopeless invalid.

While, in truth, he's able to come
and go as he pleases.

I thought there had to be an answer
of some sort, but...

do you think it's enough?

I mean, it's just my word.

Well, we have to see what Inspector
Lejeune says, but...

I suspect we may yet have to make a
little magic of our own

in order to expose him.

(COCK CROWS)

Just give me a moment.

Ooh.

There.

Oh, dear.

Oh.

I think I must be moulting.

Are you sure you're up to this, Miss
Marple?

I think I might be
coming down with a cold, but...

I'm not gonna let it stand in my way.

Now...are we for the off?

Inspector,

I think I'd like to know what the
hell is going on.

You come in here, you commandeer my
hotel... It's a damned outrage.

Actually, Mr Venables, I believe
there's a matter

on which you might be able to assist
us.

Really? And what might that be?

On the 5th of March

a parish priest by the name of
Father Gorman...

was murdered.
In Westbourne Street, Paddington.

Is that so?

I must confess,
now the moment's here,

I'm more than a little nervous.

I must admit, I'm somewhat
apprehensive myself.

My only regret is I wish I could be
there to see the look on his face.

Yes, but we must follow
Inspector Lejeune's advice.

You're our star witness.
Only you can identify him.

If this is to work,

we must time your entrance
to maximum effect.

You see, Father Gorman had been
called out that particular evening

to attend the death bed
of a Mrs Davis.

She had become unwittingly entangled
in a criminal organisation

which specialised in the removal
of unwanted persons

for a substantial fee.

These removals were ostensibly
brought about

by what might be called
psychological means.

So the victim dies a perfectly
natural death.

Do you really believe that?

The headquarters of this
organisation

is said to be a place called the
"Pale Horse".

Thyrza Grey's nonsense?

You really believe she spouts some
mumbo-jumbo

and as a result, somebody dies?

Oh, no, Mr Venables.

Cause of death
is much simpler than that.

Thallium poisoning.

What did you say?
Poisoning.

By thallium salts.

Only, the killer was at pains
to disguise that fact.

And what better method

than a pseudo-scientific
psychological set-up?

Full of modern jargon and reinforced
by old superstitions.

Thallium salts?

I don't think I've heard of that
one.

No? It's extensively used
as rat poison.

More specifically,
for animals with ringworm.

Odourless, tasteless.

It's obtained quite easily.

In fact, I think that Inspector
Lejeune retrieved a jar of it

from your house only this morning.

I know nothing about that.

Nothing at all.

Oh, your enterprise is very well
organised, Mr Venables.

Financial details arranged by a
debarred solicitor,

name of Bradley.

Mr Bradley has an office in town

and prospective clients who want rid

of a wealthy relative for their own
gain,

visit him there and do business.

That is to say, there is a bet made
on whether someone will die

within a stated period.

When Mr Bradley wins his bet,

the money has to be paid over quite
promptly.

Or something unpleasant
is liable to happen.

That's all Mr Bradley has to do.

Make a bet.

Simple, isn't it?

It would certainly seem so.

Oh, it is so, Mr Venables.

For, barring the depositing of
certain monies together with

the name of the intended victim to a
certain address,

that's the end of Mr Bradley's role
in the affair.

Miss Marple.
Thank you, Inspector.

The client then comes here to the
Pale Horse,

where a show is put on
by Mrs Grey and her friends

which usually impresses
in the way it's meant to.

I hope you're not suggesting that
I'm involved.

Oh, no, not at all.

Well, not in the actual killing.

Although that's certainly
the impression

you like to give, Mrs Grey, isn't it?

Cat got your tongue, Mrs Grey?

I thought as much.

For all that you enjoy letting
people think

that you really do have power over
life and death,

like Bradley, your involvement was
merely so much pantomime.

Pantomime?
Financially rewarding no doubt,

but pantomime all the same.

How dare you!
Oh, I dare.

You see, this whole rigmarole you
lay on down here

is simply part of the murderer's
grand design.

It's a failsafe. Like Bradley.
Another way of keeping

the real killer at one remove from
everybody else.

And if anyone should go to the
police

with wild tales of murder being
committed by black magic, well...

we'd as soon phone the funny farm
as Scotland Yard.

You mean people really have died?

My God.

We didn't know. Tell them, Thyrza.

We didn't even know who it was we
were meant to be cursing.

Well, not their names.

And there was never any money
involved.

Tell them, Thyrza.
Oh, for God's sake, Sybil.

How else do you think we've kept
afloat

since the bypass went through?

Do you think all of this
just pays for itself?

I just...

thought...

..it was a bit of fun.

Fun, Miss Stamfordis?

And now to the simple facts behind
the scenes, as it were.

Certain women, to the best of their
knowledge,

bona fide employees
of a consumer research concern,

are sent by the anonymous head of the
enterprise

to canvas a particular neighbourhood
with a questionnaire.

What bread do you prefer?

What toilet articles,
cosmetics do you use?

And so to the last step.

The only action performed by

the mysterious head of the enterprise
himself.

He may pose as a plumber,
electrician,

a workman of some kind,

in order to gain entry.

But whatever his role,
his object is simple.

Replacing an article he knows,

by means of the consumer research
questionnaire, that his victim uses,

with a poisoned substitute.

Which sooner or later
does its deadly work.

The victim falls ill.

A doctor is called, but sees no
reason to imagine anything untoward.

You see, but for the hair loss,

thallium poisoning looks like nothing
more than a natural death.

You see the beauty of this scheme,
Mr Venables?

The only person who knows what the
head of the organisation

actually does is the head of the
organisation himself.

There is no-one to give him away.

No-one to give him away?

What utter tosh.

What about Bradley?

What about the witches?

Neither Mr Bradley nor anyone at the
Pale Horse

so much as know his name,
never mind what he looks like.

You see, that's the key to the whole
operation.

Mr Bradley is handsomely paid, of
course,

as is Mrs Grey.

But so far as the world is concerned,

the man behind it doesn't even exist.

So how do you know so much?

There's nothing so reliable in court
as the testimony of an eyewitness.

For example, Mr Venables,

this gentleman here is willing to
swear

he saw you following Father Gorman
on the night of the 5th of March.

I did see you.

I described you exactly.

Didn't I, Miss Marple?
Yes, you did.

Rather too exactly perhaps.

Because I'm afraid you didn't see Mr
Venables

that night you were waiting for the
ambulance.

What?
Let me introduce you, Mr Venables,

to Mr Paul Osbourne, late of Benthall
Street, Paddington.

You'll feel a personal interest in
him when I tell you

that Mr Osbourne, who, like yourself,
has been under observation

by Inspector Lejeune for quite some
time,

was unwise enough to plant a jar
of thallium salts in your house

only this morning.

No, I didn't.
Be quiet.

You see,
not knowing of your condition,

Mr Osbourne amused himself by casting
you as the villain of the piece.

Miss Marple...

And being a very greedy, as well as a
very vain and very stupid young man,

he refused to admit
he'd made a mistake.

Worse, he tried to implicate you
further

by murdering Rupert Cottam.

Who should we look to if murder was
suspected other than the man

with whom the late captain had such
a longstanding and bitter feud?

How do you suppose I managed to
achieve that?

You said yourself that's not how
thallium works.

But it wasn't thallium you used on
poor Captain Cottam.

Oh, no.

In the kitchen, Inspector, you will
find a jar of dried beetles.

Lytta vesicatoria
of the meloidae family.

More commonly known, I believe,
as "Spanish fly".

Crushed to a powder,

and in the minutest doses, it has a
reputation as a powerful aphrodisiac.

Alas,

the potion I saw Lydia Harsnet buy
from Bella Ellis,

as I believe was their longstanding
arrangement,

was of no such minute dose.

But rather one that had been tampered
with

and prepared to a lethal strength.

So that when Captain Cottam drank it,
voluntarily,

his insides were burned beyond
saving.

Argh!

Is that not the case, Mrs Harsnet?

Lydia?

Kanga, I'm... I'm so sorry.

Ru insisted.

We'd used it before.

Well, you know we had.

You!

Wicked, wicked boy!

How could you?

Even then one couldn't be sure

that Paul Osbourne was the brains
behind it all.

The mysterious head of the
enterprise.

Not without seeing how he was going
about it.

So we asked Mr Easterbrook

to commission a little murder of our
own.

As Inspector Lejeune says,

there's nothing so reliable
as an eyewitness.

Miss Corrigan.

This brave girl put her life at risk.

Is this the man who came to your
door this morning to read the meter?

Yes!
That's a lie.

It's her word against mine.
You've not one whit of proof.

We have.

Officers were watching Miss
Corrigan's flat.

You were seen entering
and leaving the building.

You're lying!

If that were the case,

you would have arrested me
there and then.

And miss giving you a chance

to plant thallium at Mr Venables'
house?

Miss Marple thought
you might go for it.

And you did.

Hubris, inspector.

The arrogance of a murderer who's
escaped justice for so long

he thinks no-one will ever catch him.

You have no idea what you're talking
about.

Perhaps you're right.

Perhaps it was another Paul Osbourne

who was imprisoned at the age of 12
for murder?

Having poisoned his stepfather.

Too young to hang, he was detained
at His Majesty's pleasure,

until he was deemed cured
and ready for release.

But he was not cured.

For there was nothing wrong with him
in the first place

beyond a greed for money and a
propensity for wickedness.

And for that, I'm afraid,
there is no cure.

Save one.
You dare...

..to call me stupid?

If you knew...

If you had any idea...
what I've done.

Oh, I know what you've done, Paul!

You killed Father Gorman.

Argh!

And now I know why.

Really? You realised Mrs Davis
would have told him

what she knew of the Pale Horse.

And how do you imagine Mrs Davis
knew about the Pale Horse?

I imagine it began with something as
simple

as recognising a client's name
in the obituaries column.

And once you've seen one, well...

I suspect she followed Bradley
back from one of his trips

to the headquarters of Customer
Reactions.

Consulted him perhaps,
much the same as we did.

And that's what led her here.

And, well, you couldn't have that.

So you poisoned her.

You suspected Mrs Davis knew the
names

of all the people you had murdered.

Well, you were right.
She'd made a list.

You think you know it all,
don't you?

We'll see who has the last laugh.

You'll be sorry.

I presume by that

you're referring to the pot of face
cream I keep on the dresser?

The one you laced with thallium.

Well, fortunately for me,
I'm rather set in my ways

and I always keep the labels on my
potions turned towards me.

It's so much quicker

to see what you're looking for.

But you're ill.
As I said...

I may well be coming down
with a cold.

Your hair.
Window dressing, Mr Osbourne.

As Mrs Grey will confirm.

The trick with magic...

..is always to show the audience

exactly what it is they expect to
see.

Now you see it.

Now you don't.

You...

are an interfering old witch.

And I'll kill...

You won't be killing anybody,
not where you're going.

Get him out!

You'll all be sorry!

Not as sorry as he'll be...

I fancy. My apologies, Miss Marple.

No, no, Inspector.

Not at all.

You know, I...

I rather think I'd like a brandy.

I'm astounded, Miss Marple.

I had my mind firmly set on Mr
Venables.

You might have given me a hint.

I couldn't afford to give any hints,
I'm afraid.

One has to play these things
very close to one's chest.

In truth,
we didn't have very much to go on.

Which is why we staged things
the way we did.

With Mr Venables' co-operation,
of course.

Most fun I've had in years.

We had to lead Osbourne up the path

then turn on him suddenly.

And hope to break him down.

Look, look, look.

Just as I thought.

And it worked.

When did you begin to suspect him?

Well...

it's extraordinarily difficult to
make up a description of anybody.

Try it. You'll find you're
unconsciously describing

someone you know or you've seen
somewhere.

I'd say Osbourne saw Mr Venables
sitting in his car one day

here in Much Deeping

and was very struck by his
appearance.

But if he'd seen him that way,

he wouldn't know he's confined to a
wheelchair.

And what about Thyrza Grey's part in
all this?

Sybil Stamfordis and Bella.

I wouldn't worry too much about them,
Mr Venables.

I shouldn't be surprised
if some dark and moonless night,

they just mounted their broomsticks
and slipped quietly away.

Cheers.

(COCK CROWS)

Well, Miss Corrigan.

Good to see you looking so well.

Thank you, for everything.
If it hadn't been for you...

No, it's Father Gorman
we should thank

and Mrs Davis.

They set the ball rolling.

And paid for it with their lives.

You gave her justice, Miss Marple,
Mrs Davis. And Tommy Tuckerton,

Lady Hesketh-Dubois, Father Gorman,
all of them.

WE gave them justice.

So thank you, both of you,

agreeing to take part
in our little subterfuge.

I hear Mr Easterbrook played his
part to perfection.

According to Inspector Lejeune,

Mr Bradley still can't believe
you were a stooge.

He really did think
you wanted me out of the way.

I suspect, my dear, that nothing
can be further from the truth.

Well, I'd...I'd better be...