All language subtitles for 02 The Moving Finger

And so I found myself on another night,
in another bedroom, with another girl,

yet again on the verge of oblivion.

I'd spent several years fighting for
king and country, several more fighting

lethargy and drink.

And I decided the time had come to do
something about it.

I rode out of town and into the night.

O no man anything but to love one
another, for he that loveth another hath

fulfilled the law.

For this thou shalt not commit adultery,
thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not

steal, thou shalt not bear false
witness, thou shalt love thy neighbour

thyself.

It was not long after that, the day of
the colonel's funeral, that we arrived

Limstock. Ah, smell that country air.

My sister Joanna had decided to take me
in hand.

My doctor had prescribed a good dose of
clean living and sleepy village life,

and she was determined to see it
through.

A torture, in fact, for both of us, as
we had an absolute loathing for the

country.

They'll think I'm Scottish.

Watch out!

Perhaps country life wasn't going to be
so dull after all.

What's the point of mirrors if you
aren't looking at them?

Things are so different nowadays.

Taxation, of course.

And now my stocks and shares, so safe
I'd always imagined, but now they seem

be paying nothing at all.

Foreign, needless to say.

And really, it makes it all so
difficult, which is why I've decided to

Where will you be staying, Miss Burton?

Oh, I should be most comfortable, Miss
Burton.

I'm lodging with my old parlour maid,
Florence. Such a nice girl.

She lives with her husband in the high
street.

My maid, Partridge, has agreed to stay
on and look after you. I'm sure you'll

find her highly efficient.

This is the drawing room.

Very nice, isn't it, Derry?

Still exactly as it was when Mother was
alive.

Ninety -seven she was when she died.

Marvellous. Wonderful.

Doesn't like the idea of letting to
strangers.

Having seen you, my dear, I feel quite
reassured.

You've nothing to worry about, Miss
Barton.

Do you smoke, Mr. Burton?

Like a chimney, Miss Barton.

Don't worry about my brother. He's quite
harmless, especially on ticks.

He's been on his back for the past five
months. Oh, dear.

Came off his motorbike.

How did it happen? His fault entirely,
wasn't it, Jerry? It was an accident.

He rides like a demon.

Needs a bit of time to get back to full
working order.

Doctor's orders.

Fresh air and a quiet life.

Then you've come to the right place.

I don't know whether it's Dimmington's,
whoever they are. Small coffee, miss.

Not for me, Peacock.

It's the Parkridge, miss. That's the
one.

And we've been invited for coffee at the
Pickridge.

Oh, God.

Now, Jerry, don't be a grump.

And Mr. Cardew -Pye, organist of St.
Peter's Church, requests the pleasure of

our company for afternoon tea.

Well, there's a jolly day. I can hardly
contain myself. It'll be very nice and

rather sweet.

And the whole point is to get you well
and fighting fit.

After all, nothing ever happens in the
country.

Poison pen letters?

Yes. Been going on for weeks.

That's why the colonel shot himself.

Now, Maud, we don't know that for sure.

Nearest damage, Jane.

Always had an eye for the girls, you
see. And one suspects this ghastly

spelt it out in no uncertain terms.

Why shoot himself?

He's a nerd, it seems.

Probably accused him of betraying the
memory of his dear wife.

Poor woman.

Dropped dead during Evensong last year.
They seemed a most devoted couple. Oh,

yeah. And he would see it as the only
honourable course of action, falling on

his sword, so to speak.

Absolutely bang on.

All too much for the poor chap. Of all
people, Heracles Appleton strikes me as

the least likely to take his own life.

And what type would you consider most
likely?

Did you know him well, Miss Marple?

No, Miss Burton. He was a friend of...

Someone I used to know, I wanted to pay
my respects, and Maud very kindly

invited me to stay at the Vicarage for a
short while.

What do you think happened then?

Can't say, Mr Burton.

As yet.

So desperately sad, isn't it, to be
driven to the edge like that? Perhaps

will be able to find the bounder who's
sending them. Oh, without that.

She's an expert, you know.

Now, Maud.

Has a nose for rotten apples.

Better watch my step, then.

Better have.

Have you had any letters, Mrs Dane
Calthrop?

Oh, yes.

A load of silly nonsense it was, too.
Something about my husband and the

verger's wife. Quite absurd.

Because the reverend has absolutely no
taste for fornication. Have you, Caleb?

No, my dear.

Then he never has had.

Good thing he's a vicar, I suppose.

Lives entirely for his books.

The reverend is a great classicist, and
his knowledge of the early church is

really quite formidable.

Always thought he'd make a jolly fine
saint.

that he hadn't been just a little too
intellectual.

Mrs. Dane Calfroff, of course, is not
your average vicar's wife.

Everyone is ever so slightly afraid of
her, and that's not only because she

looks like one of those hideous
gargoyles above the west door.

She's so terrifyingly on the spot, if
you get my drift, and represents to an

uneasy conscience the deity personified.

Have you met the reverend?

Oh, yes. A being more remote from
everyday life I've yet to encounter.

He always has his nose buried in Horace
or the younger Pliny.

and he will insist on spouting Latin.

I tend more towards the Greek.

And you, Mr Burton, what is your
inclination?

Head first over the handlebars, eh,
Jerry? No, tongue in the tang.

And may I say, Miss Burton, what a
pleasure it is to welcome your

style to our little community.

I hope you don't think me impertinent,
but your make -up, it's Grecian ivory

number two, isn't it?

It is, actually.

It's charming.

It's really charming.

Now, if you were a local, you'd have a
dab of powder to take the shine off your

nose, possibly a soupçon of lipstick not
very well applied, and would almost

certainly be wearing all of your
eyebrows instead of only a quarter of

dear, I'm going to look frightfully out
of place, aren't I? Not at all, my dear.

They'll just think you're a little
queer, and what I ask is wrong with

Have you received any letters, Mr Pyre?

Letters, Mr Burton?

Yes, the poison pen variety.

I have, since you asked.

Perfectly horrid, isn't it? Mrs. Dane
Calford was telling us about the poor

Colonel. Terrible business.

Miss Marple seems to think he wasn't the
type to top himself.

What do you think?

I have no opinion on the matter.

We certainly clowned up when you
mentioned letters.

That chap could pout for England.

Hello, I'm Megan. Megan Hunter.

Oh, Megan, for goodness sake. Joanna
Burton, please meet you. Gosh, you're a

of a looker. Do you think so?

Menace on that thing. I'm her mother,
Mona Simmington. How do you do? How do

do? Jerry Burton.

Oh. You're the new chaps, aren't you?
Mind if we join you? Yes, please.

Awfully sorry.

Do you know what I mean?

Came flying off yesterday and tore my
stocking. She ought to be in a sack.

I told you to mend that. Darling's such
a bore, isn't it? How would you know?

Crashed a lot, have you? Oh, Megan Ray.
It wasn't a crash. It was an accident.

I had swerved to avoid a child.

Where?

La Blanche. Yes. Yes, actually. I had to
be so frightfully slim to carry our

flab long. And yours, do tell.

She's awfully pretty, not a bit like
you.

Thank you for your invitation to dinner.
We'd love to come.

Brothers and sisters aren't always
alike.

I suppose not. I'm not very like my half
-brothers, and they're not like each

other. Rum, isn't it?

What is? The whole family thing.

Will you always be a bit of a crock?

No, I won't.

I thought that's why you looked so
miserable being a croc all your life.

it's how you always look... I'm just
impatient, that's all.

Don't you ever get impatient?

What about?

Nothing ever happens.

That's not what I've heard.

Then what's that?

That someone's been busy writing
letters.

Oh, those.

It's such a gossipy old place.

So have you had one?

Most people have.

What does it say?

Something about my real father being a
bit of a villain and me being a lazy

young bitch.

Shall we?

Spot on, it happens.

You see, people don't really like me
around here.

And to be honest, I don't much like
them.

Mr.

Simmington will see you now, sir.

Thank you.

Good afternoon, Burton.

Good afternoon.

Thanks for the invitation for Saturday.

Pleasure to welcome you here.

I've also got some share certificates I
need transferring.

Very good.

I'll take a look.

Your secretary seemed a little... Oh,
yes. Poor old Ginch.

Got one of those blasted letters.

Fairly fruity, I must say.

Apparently we're in the middle of a hot
and steamy affair.

Imagine. Ginch and myself.

Quite risible if he wasn't so
nauseating.

It's funny, isn't it?

People say you must be bored to death
living in the country. Little do they

know, eh?

Those your boys?

Yes, they are. Little terrors, but good
lads, really.

And she's their governess?

Yes, yes, Miss Holland.

Lucky boys.

They are lucky, yes. She's very good.

Not sure I'd be able to concentrate on
my lessons.

A bit young for that, old chap.

Yes.

Terry, what is this?

Welcome to Limstock.

That was quick off the mark.

What did it say, if you don't mind me
asking?

Well, it suggested that Joanna wasn't
really my sister.

That one's slightly more colourful
language.

Did she actually read the letter?

Oh, yes. Well, I do hope it didn't upset
her too much.

Well, she found it quite a hoot,
actually.

Which I suppose is the best way to take
it.

Except when he gets out of hand, of
course.

Oh, the Colonel, you mean.

You've heard, then?

Almost as soon as we arrived.

Awful, dreadful business.

I must say, you know, you're tending to
use these as a bit of a crutch, you

know. I thought that was a general idea.

Well, yes, I'm fairly sure you could do
without them as long as you take it

easy. Of course.

Oh, right, I see.

Well, I'll give it a go sometime.

So, the Colonel.

Bit of a lad, I gather. Yes, yes.

But it just goes to show, you know, how
dangerous...

How dangerous these things really can
be.

You don't have any idea who's behind
them, do you? No, no, unfortunately not.

Yeah, there's something of this kind in
my practice up north.

Got pretty nasty, actually.

Yes, well, I've received one, as has
Limmington, the solicitor. He's had one.

And I've met a few other people who've
had them that won't admit to it.

So what did yours say?

Oh, well, the, um, you know, the kind
of...

If you'd rather not.

Oh, no, no, not at all, no.

It actually accused me of interfering
with one of my patients in the most,

most graphic, graphic detail.

Ridiculous, of course, I have to say,
ridiculous.

But I fear that it won't be too long
before another one of these letters, you

know, finds the old bullseye.

Well, um, next week, then.

Will you live?

What? He's doing frightfully well, Miss
Burton.

Oh, that is good news. Yes. Maybe you
should try going a little bit slower

time. Do you know, I've never seen the
point.

I gather we'll be seeing it at the
Symingtons, Dr Griffith.

I can't wait.

Ciao.

Ciao.

And this must not go beyond his
forewarned, but one has heard, and on

good authority it should be said,

that Jamie Blackwell, a rather cocky
young farmhand, has left his wife Mary.

What, that half -witted girl who's
expecting?

It's the very same. But why, my dear
Mona?

Far be it from me to interfere in these
things.

Home with the Borgias? But it appears
that he received a letter. Oh, dear.

Suggesting that he was not, in fact, the
baby's father.

No! And in a fury, he confronted the
wretched girl with the accusations who

unable adequately to respond.

I say!

This is, of course, only what one has
heard.

You're... Very quiet, Doctor.

Do you find this gossip powerful?

Are you all right, Griffith?

What, my darling bro?

I should say not. He's hopelessly
addicted. I'm the wrong way, I'm sorry.

No one can only imagine what he picks up
in the surgery.

And I expect Dickie gets a few choice
nuggets too.

I don't, you know, really I don't. And
your faintly husband, my dear Maud, must

be privy to, well, heaven knows.

Heaven may, but I don't.

Such a pity he wouldn't join us.

He's battling with tomorrow's text.

Evil communications corrupt good
manners. Oh, wait, more.

Shall I clear, madam? No, Agnes.

We'll let you know when we're ready.

Yes, madam.

The letter one hears, and as I say, on
fairly good authority, apparently goes

further and implies who the father
actually was.

Gracious.

Yes.

Colonel Appleton.

But, Colonel... Blimey, crikey. No
wonder he shot himself.

If indeed he did.

You suspect otherwise, Miss Marple?
Whatever the truth may be, Mrs.

the poor man is dead. A young man has
left his wife, and a baby will come into

the world with very little advantage.

Were you close to the Colonel, Miss
Marple?

No, but I knew his qualities.

And his wife?

No closer than to the Colonel.

A formidable bridge player.

Although I always found his bidding a
little aggressive.

Agnes.

Sorry, miss.

Baby.

Let me test the forbearance of a saint.
Time to let the poor man rest, I'd say.

Oh, well, he'll keep.

Oh, Megan.

Say hello, darling.

Hello.

I hope mother's not boring you.

Megan, she talks all the time, but in
fact says very little.

Good night, Megan.

Why don't you get your milk, dear, and
go to bed?

Good night, then.

Good night. I must say, Mrs. Hamilton,
you have the most delightful daughter.

Do I?

Feisty. I like that.

She's at that awkward age. But she's 20.
She's been at that awkward age ever

since she was mewling and napping.

If only she had some talent or looks.

I think she has a lovely face. All she
ever does is potter around with her

plane.

Perhaps you could give her some tips.

Is the wine all right, Dickie?

The girl of Bone Idol.

Her father was definitely a wrong one.

Prison, I believe, for black male.

It's hardly surprising her mother's like
she is.

I do hope, Miss Marple, that you've not
found our discussion too discomforting.

Not at all, Mrs. Symington. One merely
repeats what one hears.

Yes, indeed.

I sometimes wonder if the tale -bearer
is not as guilty as the tale -maker.

Oops! My dear Miss Marple, you are being
moral, and forget that you are among

friends. I would like to think I am, Mr.
Pye.

Mrs. Hemmington. I have a killing head!

Come on, boy.

Mrs. Hemmington. I hardly knew the
woman, but had decided already that I

heartily disliked her.

Miss Holland, on the other hand, was
growing more delectable by the day.

Daddy!

Hello, boys.

Been behaving yourselves?

Yeah. Good evening, Miss Holland.

Mona!

Mona!

I can't see Mummy until... But I want to
see Mummy!

It's Simington.

I've just heard something terrible, it
is.

Shocking. Don't tell me the bring -and
-by has been cancelled.

It's Mrs. Simington.

She's dead.

So who sighed, you little brat, Colin?

Not Dickie, you vicious, tongue -glued
bitch.

Mr. Burton, isn't it awful?

Yes. You've just missed the inspector.

You've also come to offer your
condolences like this.

Well, I... The poor boy has been naked
too. It'll be very hard for all of them.

Miss Holland is being most solicitous.

Another suicide, Miss Marple.

Or have they all got it wrong again?

I would have thought you were clever
enough to work that out for yourself,

Burton.

Ooh.

No sticks.

Better watch your step.

Good morning.

Morning.

Boss, would you call if you want?

I'm sorry. The door was open. I...
Sorry.

Burton. Jerry Burton.

Holland.

Elsie. We keep seeing each other, don't
we? But we've never... No.

I'm afraid Miss Simmington's not in the
mood for visitors at the moment.

It's all been such a shock. Yes, of
course.

I don't wish to intrude, but it crossed
my mind, well, my sister

Joanna's actually, that maybe Megan
would like to come and stay with us for

few days. Megan?

Stay with you?

Why? Well, we... We thought it might be
a help.

We're supposed to be terribly shaken by
all this. She's such a queer thing. You

never know what she's feeling. If you
think that we're being presumptuous...

No, it's, um... It's probably a very
good idea.

A very kind idea.

I, uh, see that you've...

Got rid of your stick?

Oh, yes,

I have.

And you're still upright.

Yes, I am.

Well, I do hope you manage to stay like
that.

Joanna and I were wondering if maybe
you'd like to come and stay with us for

little.

Stay with you?

Yes. At your house?

That's right.

Oh, yes.

Take me away.

Please take me away.

I'm such a coward.

I didn't know what a coward I was.

Things can be a little shattering, can't
they?

It's so awful being here and feeling so
wicked.

Why should you feel wicked?

I don't know.

I'm sorry, I'm being silly.

But you see, it's rather dreadful when
your mother dies.

Yes.

If you don't like it.

No.

Heaven!

Megan, are you all right?

I do hope that poor Megan, that she
hasn't been too much upset

by all this.

Losing one's mother is a dreadful thing.
Yes, yes, of course.

What I really meant was...

The unpleasantness behind it. Ah, the
unpleasantness.

Tell me, Miss Barton, do you think there
might be any truth in it? No, surely

not.

I'm quite certain that Mrs. Hamilton
never... that the boy won.

I mean, it's quite untrue. Have you
received any unwanted mail, Miss Barton?

Oh, no. No, indeed.

That would be dreadful.

But the fairies... She looks at you
sometimes as if she doesn't understand a

word. Or perhaps she's just not
interested.

Or one banana short of a bunch.

Look, if she becomes too much of a
nuisance... No, she's no trouble.

It's not healthy lounging about at her
age.

It's hardly surprising.

Her mother treated her like a 12 -year
-old. Strictly, Aunt, no. I couldn't

stand a woman.

Of course, we don't want to speak ill of
the dead, but oh, what an acid tongue.

The gossip was all that interested her.

No, I'm afraid I didn't think very much
of her.

But I never suspected the truth.

Mrs. Thinnington was alone in the house.
Her husband was at his office. Her

daughter was out cycling.

And the governess, Miss Elsie Holland,
was out with the two boys.

And the maids, Inspector?

Said Dale, sir.

When did the letter arrive?

By the afternoon post, sir.

Apparently... Mrs. Symington was so
disturbed by its contents that in a

great agitation, she wrote her final
words, I can't go on, before taking

-dissolving water.

I had been treating Mrs. Symington for a
neuralgic condition for quite some

time. Would you say she was generally of
a nervous disposition, Doctor?

Oh, yes. Yes, I would, yes.

What is your estimate of the time of
death?

Oh, between three and four o 'clock. The
allegation contained in that letter was

a calumny.

A foul calumny.

Mona was the most devoted wife, the most
loving mother.

Her health was fragile, her soul
sensitive.

Such a vile lie would have shocked her
great. Whoever wrote this foul letter

murdered my wife as surely as if they'd
stabbed her through the heart.

I condemn utterly the writing of these
wicked and despicable letters.

One death has already resulted, that of
the late Colonel Appleton, and now Mrs.

Symington. In my opinion, the writer is
morally guilty of murder.

I find that the deceased, Mona Patricia
Symington, committed suicide whilst

being temporarily insane.

So gin's your tip, Lizard?

Absolutely. I always have one about now.

What's yours?

Lemon barley water.

You are nice, you know.

You treat me like a real person.

Look.

Well done.

I know, I've made a fearful hash of it,
haven't I?

You know, it's much better if you suck
rather than blow.

Yes, of course, I wasn't thinking.

People think I'm stupid.

I don't.

That you're not like the others.

See, what they don't realise is that
inside I know exactly what they're like

that all the time I'm hating them.

Hating them?

You'd hate people too if you knew you
weren't wanted.

Mummy never liked me.

Of course she did.

She didn't, because I reminded her of my
father and he was very cruel to her and

what she really wanted was to be left
alone with my stepfather and the boys.

And now she's left us alone.

It's difficult, I know, to see things
clearly.

But in time, I promise, things do get
easier.

It's all out there, all to play for.

We should all remember that.

Do you mean leave here?

Why not?

You mean like earn a living?

If you wanted.

What would I do?

Well, we'd have to think of something.

We?

You'd have to think of something.

Any chance of a top -up?

I didn't know you were here.

Yes, yes, yes. I've just popped round to
take Joanna out for a bit of a bath.

A little what?

What? For a walk.

For a walk, actually.

Yes, but make sure you don't overexcite
her. No, no, no.

Miss Marple.

Good afternoon, Mr. Pike.

I'm afraid my fingers have forgotten how
to dance.

They have of late become accustomed to a
more funereal pace.

Yes. A most distressing time for you
all.

Quite so.

I understand you knew the Colonel.

A little.

Many years ago, he fought with a friend
of mine who was killed in the Great War.

He was kind enough to inform me of the
circumstances of his passing.

And you, Mr. Pike?

Oh, I hardly knew the man.

We occasionally locked horns over a
rubber, but that was the extent of our

acquaintance.

I must confess, I would never have
imagined him taking his own life. Would

Mr. Pike?

Well, the man is dead, Miss Marple. Can
that not be an end to the matter?

This village used to be such a peaceful
little pocket.

That is how I see this country.

Full of little pockets.

But tragically, this particular pocket
has become rather grubby.

One rotten apple.

And we are all contaminated.

So you too, Mr. Pye, have been
contaminated.

Yes, I have.

Let them do the worst.

I'll not go under.

No more hole and corner for me, Miss
Marple.

Goodbye.

Poor thing.

Poor thing.

Suicide, such a ghastly business.

Oh, you mean Mrs. Simmington.

Ah, a heron. So when you said poor
thing, who did you mean?

The person who wrote the letters, of
course.

Don't you understand how desperately
unhappy somebody must be to sit down and

write these things?

How lonely.

How cut off from people.

Poisoned through and through.

Poor soul.

Have you any idea, Mrs. Dane Calthrop,
who it might be?

Oh, yes.

But then I might be wrong, mustn't I?

Poor Dickie Symington. How awful for it
all to come out of the inquest.

He was adamant there wasn't a word of
truth in the letter. Well, he would say

that, wouldn't he? He's a real
gentleman, is Dickie. I've known him for

time. Really?

I thought your brother only bought this
practice a few years ago. He did.

But he used to come and stay in our part
of the world, up north. I know him very

well. He's quite reserved, but proud.

And he can get very jealous.

Well, perhaps that's why Mrs. Symington
was afraid to tell him about the letter.

Good heavens, Mr Burton, do you
seriously think any woman would swallow

if the accusations weren't true?

An innocent woman would laugh it off.
Throw it away. That's what I would do.

We should all have a career, Mr Burton.
I wanted to be a doctor, but my parents

wouldn't hear of it. I'm sorry.

Don't be. I'm one of the happiest people
I know.

Toodle -oo.

Oh, good morning, Mr Burton. Not finding
it too dull, I hope?

Hardly.

Look.

You painted Trollope. Go back to your
bastard child.

Nice.

Very nice indeed.

Yes.

The words have been cut from an old
book.

Early 19th century, I'd guess.

Probably no fingerprints of any
distinctive nature, as the culprit was

very careful to wear gloves.

Now, the envelope was typed on this, a
Windsor 7 typewriter with the letters A

and T out of alignment, you see.

Well, sir, who does it belong to?

The Women's Institute.

It was an old model donated by the
office of Galbraith, Galbraith and

So it could be... Yes, any one of them.

The ladies are always in there, sir.

You can probably tell by the type, sir,
that that was typed in one finger.

So it's someone not used to typing? Or
somebody who is.

Doesn't want us to know.

Hmm.

Well, that's interesting.

What is?

But the you in Burton seems to have been
changed.

From an A, I think.

Perhaps she's not such a good typist
after all.

Or maybe cleverer than we think.

I wonder how she feels.

Who knows?

But this little beauty is going back.

And mark my words, the picture will go
to the well once too often.

Yes, what is it, Partridge? That was
Agnes, sir. Oh, yes? She was in service

here, and coming from the orphanage, she
got in the habit of talking to me so I

could tell her what's what, you see.

Get to the point, Partridge.

Well, she works for the Symingtons now,
and I'm wondering if you might give your

permission for her to come to tea with
me this afternoon.

It's her day off, see, and she's got
something on her mind. She seems a bit

upset. Yes, yes, of course.

Thank you, sir.

I must go home.

What? Today.

Today? Why?

Well, it's been awfully good of you
having me, and I expect I've been a

nuisance, but I have enjoyed it awfully,
really, I have.

Only, now I must go back, because after
all, it is my home, and I can't stay

away forever.

Bye.

We had a lovely tea with Miss Barton,
Partridge.

Pleased to hear it, miss.

How was yours with Agatha?

Agnes Smith.

That's the one.

She didn't turn up, miss.

Oh, I'm sorry.

Doesn't matter to me.

Good.

She wanted to meet and then she didn't
show.

And not a word of apology either.

Perhaps she's not well.

And perhaps she's just ill -mannered.

That doesn't matter.

I've never been able to bear it when you
tell her.

I'm not sulking. You are sulking.

You've been sulking ever since Megan
left.

In fact, you've been sulking ever since
you were a child.

I haven't.

Yes, you have. You were sulky then,
you're sulky now.

You're the sulky type.

I could do with a drink.

Might cheer me up.

Then why don't you have one?

I might just do that.

In fact, have as many as you want.

And when you're so drunk you can't even
remember who you are, then why not go

for a spin and this time make damn sure?

It wouldn't act that way. You're a
perfectly hopeless liar. It's really

pathetic.

So I'm hulking, I'm a drunk and I can't
even lie properly. Is it any wonder

that... What, Jerry?

Is what any wonder?

What does it matter?

How could you do it?

If that's what you want to believe.

How could you think that it wouldn't
break my heart?

God, it breaks my heart even now to
think you could feel so wretched.

You know, it strikes me as the most
extraordinary irony that you managed to

survive the war with such flying
colours, yet seem to find the peace so

defeating.

You're utterly dumb, isn't it?

We could always go back.

You miss all the fun.

Do you know, it's exactly a week ago
since Mrs. Simington's death.

You'd think the police would have
something by now.

A fingerprint or something.

Exactly a week ago?

Mm -hmm.

Maids have one day off a week, don't
they?

Yes.

Same day every week?

That's the usual sort of thing,
apparently.

So exactly a week ago, Mrs. Symington
was alone in the house because it was

maid's day off.

I'm afraid the penny's refusing to drop.

Megan?

She proposed to come for tea with
Partridge, but she didn't turn up. And

would that be a particular concern to
you?

I'm not really sure.

I found it uneasy for some reason or
other.

With every call, it now transpires.

You have sensitive antennae, Mr Burton.

So do you, Miss Marple.

Just passing, were you?

Mr Burton.

Miss Holland?

I was wondering, is Megan all right?

She's having a lie down.

Mr. Bell.

Sorry. Did Agnes say anything to this
part of June, did she? She'd have been

too anxious to divulge anything over the
telephone, Inspector. Thank you, Miss

Marple.

Well, Agnes normally went out after
lunch, but it appears she never left

she was wearing her apron and cap when
we found her.

Do you have any idea of the time of
death? Yes, between 8 and 10 .30.

And how was she killed?

Sharp load on the back of her head.

followed by a skewer and a third in the
base skull.

Good God.

Quite appalling, isn't it?

But why?

Well, we may never know exactly, but we
can make a guess. Well, she knew

something, didn't she? That would be a
fair assumption.

Yes.

On the afternoon that Miss Sillington
died, when the two maids were supposed

be out, Agnes, she came back rather
early.

You see, she has a boyfriend.

Freddie Fairbank from the fish shop?

Yes. And on that particular afternoon,
they had a row when they first met.

I gather that young Fairbank received a
letter suggesting that Agnes had other

fish to fry, but there is something
else.

The letter that Mrs. Symington received,
it was never actually posted. It was

faked to make it look as though it was
posted, but it was, in point of fact,

pushed through this letterbox here
before the afternoon delivery.

And my guess...

That Agnes was looking through the
window here, waiting for her boyfriend

turn up to apologise.

And she saw the culprit deliver the
letter.

Exactly.

But how would the letter writer know
that she was home?

Well, it's a kind of miracle, Mr Burton,
how things get around this place.

Now, I may be wrong, of course, but...
Temptingly simple, isn't it?

But tell me, Inspector...

If Agnes knew who the letter writer was,
then why, I wonder, didn't she say

something?

Miss Holland.

Mr Burton.

I'm sorry, I didn't mean... I don't know
what's come over me.

I think it's the shock.

Pretty grim, isn't it?

That poor girl.

Just think it could have been any of us.

Even those two little angels murdered in
their beds like princes in the tower.

The awful thing, Mr Burton, is that
yesterday afternoon we were having tea

Mr Simmington up in the schoolroom.

And all the time, Mr Burton, that poor
girl was squashed into that cupboard

as a dodo.

And what about the other week, Miss
Holland?

You can call me Elsa, you know.

Right.

I'm sorry, what did you ask?

What happened last week?

The day Mrs.

Simmonds... Yes.

Well, she always rested after lunch, you
see.

She suffered from neuralgia and it would
come on after meals.

So she'd take one of the cafes that Dr.
Griffith had given her and tried to

sleep. So did anyone bring up the post
to her?

Turned detective, have you, Mr Burton?

Why not call me Jerry?

Jerry.

Yes.

Well, Jerry, she'd often come down and
get it herself.

She didn't necessarily sleep through the
whole afternoon and sometimes she'd

stay down and other times she'd go back
up.

The letter she received... Disgusting.

And the very idea that little Colin...
Doesn't even bear thinking about.

Mrs. Symington loved her husband.

She was a sensitive woman and very
particular.

Anything of that sort would have
appalled her. I mean, it's evil.

I'll see if you have any letters.

No, I haven't.

They're not very nice to get, I know,
and sometimes people don't like to admit

they've had one. I haven't.

Really, I haven't.

Agnetha's inquest brought no new facts
to light.

The only possible verdict was returned.

Murder by person or persons unknown.

So poor little Agnes was duly
dispatched.

Her killer no doubt witnessed her
passing.

You look all in.

Do I? I'm sorry, I'm rather a lot on.

I hear you were there quite early.

Where? At Dickie Symington's, the
morning after the murder.

Oh, yes, well, Agnes was supposed to
come for a cup of tea, but she didn't

So you feared the worst, jolly smart.

It's our first murder. We need terrific
excitement.

Whack it in the head and then tap
through the neck.

Such an insignificant little thing.

Looks like a boyfriend to me. What do
you think?

I haven't a clue.

Very inbred round here, you know.

Must have given the hunter girl quite a
shock, finding her in the cupboard.

It did.

Not too strong in the head department,
that girl.

She's one of the brightest people I
know.

Well, blah, blah, fish cakes, but a
thing like this could send her

off her onion.

By the way, Miss Griffith, was it you
persuaded Megan to return home?

She can't shirk her responsibilities, Mr
Burton.

Tongues wag, and I felt it my duty to
drop the hint.

I don't think for a minute there's
anything in it, but she's young and good

-looking. Well, boys will be boys.

What do you mean?

A thoroughly nice girl, but people will
talk.

They're saying she has her eye on
becoming the next Mrs Simmington.

I feel sorry for him.

People think such naughty things.

Which is why I more or less told Megan
that she ought to go home. It looks

better than having Dickie and that girl
in the same house.

You look shocked, Mr Burton, but I'm
afraid our little village likes to think

the worst.

All rise.

And the Lord said unto the sinful,

I will cast my net over you and haul you
on high in my neck.

Cast you into the mud and mire.

The village parliament.

What would we do without it? We're all a
dog, aren't we, Miss Barton?

Shocking. Quite shocking.

What must you think of us, Miss Martha?

Strikes me as rather a quiet little
place.

Oh, I feel we're going to the dogs.
First the letters, then the murder.

So you think the two are connected, Mr.
Pike? One can't help but wonder.

Such a nice girl.

She used to be in service with me, you
know.

I really can't... If you'll excuse me.

Something of a period piece, I've always
thought.

You have a favourite suspect, Mr. Pike?

Oh, I'd rather tear out my tongue, Mr
Burton, than commit a slander, but

to say that as a student of
abnormalities, I often find the most

doing the most surprising things.

Don't you agree, Miss Marple?

Well, on the contrary, Mr Pye, I usually
find the most likely people behaving

exactly as I would have expected.

Moratorium te salutant. Don't just stand
there looking pathetic, because it

won't wash.

It can't be true. Do I? Do I, Miss
Holland?

To be honest, I'm not sure I know
anything anymore. Dearly beloved, we are

gathered here today to pay homage to a
sister of our parish,

Agnes Brown, known to one and all for
her goodness... What was that all about?

Even a fearful update.

Hardly surprised that you're not
sideways since Mummy's death and now

What was Holland mean when she said it
can't be true?

He was sort of implying...

Well, that she's been writing the
letters.

What? And maybe even did for Agnes.

That's ridiculous.

Is it?

Maybe you're right.

This murder's really perked things up.

Must be the most exciting thing that's
happened to these people since Henry

smashed up the Priory.

Except for Barple, of course.

Behaved as if she knew something the
rest of us were just too stupid to

What did he want?

If you mean Owen, he very kindly walked
me home.

What's that?

Oh. It's a photograph of a diseased
spleen.

Owen gave it me.

Have you ever had a chocolate?

He thought I might be interested.

I'm not entirely frivolous, you know.

He wrote me, I thought.

He had something on his mind.

Yes, a rotting spleen, perhaps.

Or you.

For heaven's sake, Jerry.

What's the milky voice?

It's gone.

But as guilty as I am, stupid of me, of
course Miss Barton's hardly the type to

go around slugging young women on the
head.

Oh, don't be deceived, Mr. Burton. These
little old ladies pack quite a punch,

believe me.

Well, what was Agnes Hickrich?

Well, we don't know as yet, but these
ladies do carry rather large bags.

She'll probably have evicted us now.

Well, I'll have this tested for
fingerprints so I don't hold out much

Not having much luck, then?

Slowly, slowly, catchy monkey.

Have you been able to eliminate anyone?

Well, there are those who are more
likely than less likely, but one

wish to leap to any conclusion.

No, no, I can see that leaping isn't the
order of the day.

Take Amy Griffith, for example.

She was due at a brownie meeting the day
of the murder, but she arrived rather

late. And then, of course, there's Mr
Pye. Didn't have an alibi for either

Said he was in the garden on both
occasions. Very strange man, Mr. Pye.

Made a few inquiries. Found that he'd
come to the attention of my colleagues

the West Country.

In relation to what?

Matters of a hardly savoury nature,
shall we say.

And then, of course, there's Mrs. Dane
Galthrop.

Says she was birdwatching, apparently,
the day Agnes was murdered. But we can

hardly ask the birds now, can we, sir?

It's incredible.

Makes you imagine things.

Yes. All from really wondering whether
the person you share a pot of tea with

buy your sausages from is in fact a
criminal lunatic.

Excellent, Inspector.

I was wondering, on the subject of Mrs.
Simmington's suicide, the powder Dr.

Griffiths prescribed for her neuralgia,
would an overdose have been fatal?

Not unless she'd taken about two dozen.
No, it was cyanide that did. No

question. If you had a choice, wouldn't
a soporific be preferable to prussic

acid? That would be my preference, sir.

Actually, on the subject of Dr
Griffiths, a few days ago on one of his

my sister, I saw him at the bookcase,
browsing through a book, and... Well, I

was just wondering if... He was our man.

Well?

Getting a taste for it, aren't we, sir?

The odd sort of thing.

No, I just... I can't help feeling so,
but in this case, our man is a woman.

If you get my drift.

There was something about Joanna's note
that bothered me.

In fact, the whole ridiculous charade
was starting to bother me.

I'm so sorry, Mr Burton. I didn't mean
to startle you.

The back door was open, so I took the
liberty of letting myself in.

Method dropped off.

I thought we'd have a little talk.

It's horrid business.

The letters and now murder.

Really can't go on, can it, Mr Burton?

No, it can't.

I'm sure the police are doing their
best.

I'm sure they are.

But as relative strangers in the
village, perhaps we're at an advantage.

I don't really see how... Were you
dreaming just now?

Yes, I suppose I was.

Dreams are funny things, aren't they?

Mine are usually just nonsense.

May I ask what it was?

Just a blur, really.

Half -remembered memories.

Your scrap of paper, a telephone
message, a girl's face.

Yes, I heard you mention someone's name.
It doesn't have to talk nonsense.

But then it's all nonsense, isn't it,
Miss Marple?

I look around at what's going on, how
stupid and petty, and think to myself,

this really what we fought to save?

We should all try and see the good in
each other, Mr Burton, however much we

disappoint. Yes.

Probably the whiskey.

A little bit of the old touch of
courage.

I'm sure you're courageous enough.

Some of us aren't as brave as people
think.

Like your Colonel Appleton, for
instance, wouldn't surprise me at all if

done away with himself.

After all, who knows what he was
fighting?

Fear can come in strange disguises.

Couldn't tempt you, could I?

Yes.

Tell me, Mr Burton, you made mention of
a telephone message, was it?

Oh, yes, well, Joanna, you see...

She left a message on the phone pad, and
there was something about it that

bothered me.

Would you think me very inquisitive if I
asked what the message was?

It was pretty trivial, really. Along the
lines of, if Dr Griffith calls, I can't

go on Tuesday, but I could go on
Wednesday or Thursday.

I see.

Thought it might be something like that.
Like what?

Something quite ordinary.

Another thing that's been nagging away.

The envelope that Joanna's letter came
in.

The U in Burton had been changed from an
A.

And Inspector Gray didn't seem to think
there was anything particularly

significant in that, but I can't help
thinking, Miss Marple, that it's

important. I think you might be right.

You know, Mr Burton, you should have
more confidence in yourself.

You've received one of these letters,
haven't you, Mr Burton?

Yes. Well, so have most people, apart
from Miss Barton. Oh, so she says.

It's rather reticent when it comes to
unpleasantness.

And Elsie Holland.

Miss Holland?

Yes, we haven't had one either.

Well, that is interesting.

The most interesting thing I've heard
yet.

It wasn't Elsie, was it?

Whose name I mentioned when I was
asleep.

I can't be absolutely sure, but it
sounded more like... Morgan.

I have been to seek a wife, she's the
idol of my life. She's a young thing and

cannot leave her mother.

Oh, where does she live, Billy boy,
Billy boy?

Oh, where does she live, charming Billy?

She lives on the hill, forty miles from
the mill. She's a young thing and cannot

leave her mother.

Next time you might try the right key.

Thank you. Thank you, Brian and Colin.
And now my Harvest Soiree takes us

further back in time to the ancients, in
fact.

A recitation from our most revered
reverend, who is going to regale us

An ode by Horace.

Rectus vivus.

You spoil us.

I didn't know Victorian salmons were up
your street.

I beg your pardon?

The book you were reading the other day.
I found you in the drawing room.

I hope you're not suggesting that...

Do you

plan on

staying? At the party?

No, in Limstock.

Oh, good heavens, no.

Only until the boys go away to school.

And then?

Who knows?

Another post in another town.

Or something else entirely.

Arnie, you never can tell. No, I'm
sorry. Don't be.

Now, this might hurt.

Sorry.

Don't...

Isn't

that a bit much?

A rapine rose, my dear, is the shade du
jour.

You can never wear too much.

I want to go home.

Don't be silly. It's a giggle.

Fulgoru Montes!

Thank you, Reverend.

Thank you. No one does Horace quite like
you.

Right there, Mr.

Barton.

That's an unfinished business.

It's finished now.

Yes, I think it is. And so, ladies and
gentlemen... Oh, Miss Barton, what an

unexpected pleasure. I didn't know you
were going to favour us with a turn.

I'm sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Pye,
but this is not a turn.

I will be very brief.

I have lived in this village all my
life.

It greatly saddens me, therefore, to
know that people are talking behind my

back, making insinuations.

Yes, the book from which the pages were
torn was found in my bookcase, but

it was not I who tore them. I have
nothing to do with the recent

unpleasantness. That is all I have to
say.

Thank you.

Oh, God.

Oh, dear.

Thank you, Miss Byron.

And somewhat in the same vein, I would
like to read you a letter.

My dearest Cardew, it is with a heavy
heart that I write these lines, but to

continue as I have been would be
unsustainable.

Be true to yourself, as I was never
able, or indeed brave enough, to be.

Your loving friend, Heracles Appleton.

I can think of no more appropriate
moment to follow the Colonel's advice.

I hope this puts an end to the rumour
and doubt surrounding his death.

There was no murder.

Only malice.

No issue of paternity.

Only love he dared not express.

And I, for one, will always remember
him.

Miss Holland, please take the boys home.

Away!

Away!

Scrubs up well, doesn't she?

Don't be mean. Oh, dear girl.

Megan, look!

Butting.

Megan? Megan?

What are you doing?

I just needed to clear my head.

It's been a rather muddling night.

You haven't just been in there, have
you?

The Women's Institute?

Yes. Why on earth would I do that?

I don't know.

What a very odd question.

You look jolly nice, you know.

Jolly nice?

I look like Coco the Clown. Megan,
please. I'll never be accepted round

Never.

What I want to say is... Well, I rather
think you

like me.

Do I?

Yes.

And I rather like you.

And we get along together awfully well,
don't we? I think.

Sometimes.

So it might be a good idea if we thought
about perhaps one day...

Been together for quite a while.

You mean you're in love with me?

Yes, I suppose I am.

Oh.

But I'm not in love with you.

Then I'll make you love me.

I wouldn't do. I don't want to be made.

You're one of the nicest people I know,
but...

I'm not the right person for you I don't
believe that It's true I don't believe

it I can see myself back

Poor Elsie. I'm surprised it's taken so
long.

What did it say?

The usual muck. Some rot about stepping
into a dead woman's shoes. And if she

didn't get out of town, she'd end up
like Agnes.

It's like something out of a western.

Yes, only this is the real thing.

Hello, sir. Good afternoon, Doctor.

Terribly sorry to interrupt you, sir.
Just wondering whether I could have a

with your sister, sir. With my sister?

Where for?

Car lights again.

In right, sir.

It's ridiculous.

As though I'd write this sort of tosh.
Do you deny writing this, Miss Griffith?

Yes, of course I do.

Then I must tell you that you were
observed in the Women's Institute typing

envelope between the hours of 1 and 1
.30 this morning. This is absolutely

outrageous. What's going on?

Amy, what's the matter? Oh, go away.

Please, Nicky, go away.

You need a solicitor. Not you. I
couldn't bear it. Amy, what's happened?

Please, I'm in.

I'll get my own man.

He's first class. Really first class.

Amy.

It isn't true.

I'm sure it isn't true.

The police were lying in wait.

They saw her.

Perhaps they did.

And the pages torn from the book were
found in her understairs cupboard.

She must have a partial for hiding
things under the stairs.

Something else.

I remember Griffiths telling me about a
similar story that took place up north.

Which makes me wonder if maybe Amy had
been involved and was at it again.

The torn pages you say were hidden in
the house?

Yes. That is horrible.

Really wicked.

What do you mean, dear?

What can one do?

There must be something.

You know who did it. Tell us, Jane.

Tell us who it is. Not now, dear.

Not now.

I want a word.

You haven't been telling the truth, have
you? I don't know what you're talking

about. What were you up to last night? I
told you. What, Megan?

I was clearing my head. I don't believe
you. Is this your idea of being in love?

And I don't think Miss Marple does
either.

What was she just saying to you? It's
got nothing to do with you. Tell me,

Megan. I've got to know.

That day in your bedroom when you said
you felt so wicked, why did you say

Leave me alone.

And hating people, what did that mean?
Kill me!

Get off! Get off me! Of all people I
thought that you understood, but you're

just like the rest.

I had a perfectly dreadful time and
everyone knows it.

Megan, I thought you were in bed.

I want to speak to you.

Alone.

Oh, alone.

So, what is it? What do you want?

Well? I want some money.

Couldn't it have waited till morning?
No, it couldn't.

You think your allowance is inadequate,
do you? I want much more than that.

In a few months' time you come of age.

The money entrusted by your grandmother
will be turned over to you. You don't

understand. I want money from you.

Nobody's ever told me much about my
father, but I do know that he went to

prison, and I know why.

Well, I am my father's daughter, and I
want you to give me money, because if

don't, I shall say what I saw you doing
that day in my mother's bedroom.

I don't know what you're talking about.

Yes, you do.

I saw you tampering with her medication,
one of the powder caches by the bed.

You did, didn't you?

You really are a very foolish girl.

Perhaps you should buy some clothes.

At least try and look like a young lady.

Silly child.

Jerry?

Jerry.

She's the most honest person I've ever
met.

Even Marvel thinks she's guilty. Oh,
you've asked her, have you?

I saw her the other night, outside the
women's institute.

You're not thinking clearly, Jerry.

But the thing that she said to me... And
it's not surprising.

Just suppose that you've got the wrong
end of the stick, which, let's face it,

wouldn't be the first time.

What does that mean?

Accusing Owen of all people.

He was lurking by the bookcase. And poor
little Miss Barton?

If her book for God's sake...

Suppose that Marvel's actually trying to
help Megan.

And rather than drinking yourself stupid
and feeling sorry for yourself, why the

hell don't you go round and find out?

Most crimes, you see, are so absurdly
simple.

Quite sane and straightforward, in an
unpleasant sort of way.

The truth was really very obvious.

You saw it, Mr Burton?

Did I?

What happened to the confidence to put
two and two together?

Misdirection.

The conjurer's trick, making everyone
look at the wrong thing. In this case,

there was horrid letters.

The whole point was, there were no
letters.

Of course there were.

I got one. Jerry got one. Oh, yes, but
they weren't real.

Simply didn't ring true. Some hit the
mark, but others were wide of it. The

letters you received, for instance.

So, if we put aside the letters, just
one thing actually happened.

Mrs. Symington died.

And the Colonel.

And Agnes and Megan.

Yeah. Midnight, back old chap.

Megan! Richard Symington, I'm arresting
you for the murder of your wife, Mona

Symington and Agnes Brown, and the
attempted murder of your stepdaughter,

Hunter. Megan, are you all right?

It went rather well, didn't it?

I'm sorry.

What a brave girl.

She could have died.

Something had to be done.

There was no evidence against this
clever and unscrupulous man. I needed

to help me. Megan fitted the bill
perfectly.

It was too risky.

Of all people, Mr. Burton, you should
know that we are not put into this world

to avoid danger when lives are at stake.

As I was saying, the only actual fact
was Mrs. Symington died.

And I'm afraid the very first person one
thinks of in such a case is the

husband. Of course, there has to be a
motive, usually another woman.

And there we have Miss Holland.

A radiant young creature, suddenly
entering the life of this repressed, dry

He wanted her.

But he also wanted his reputation, his
children, his home, his respectability.

And the price he was prepared to pay for
that was murder.

He typed all the envelopes.

before donating the machine to the
Women's Institute.

You unwittingly hit upon this, Mr
Burton, when you noticed that the U had

changed from an A on your sister's
envelope originally addressed to Miss

And taking the pages from Miss Barton's
book would have been easy enough. He

visited her on more than one occasion to
give advice on financial matters.

That, it was what you told me about Miss
Holland that was the most important.

important thing of all.

She had never received a letter that
exposed Mr. Symington's one weakness.

How could he write a foul letter to the
girl he loved?

I've never believed there's such a thing
as a perfect murder. There'll always be

something that doesn't quite fit. That
suicide note, for example, was all

People don't leave suicide notes on
scraps of paper. And I think...

That's what bothered you, Mr. Barton,
about your sister's message.

If Owen rings up, I can't go on.

Tuesday, but could manage Wednesday or
Thursday.

I see.

Mr. Symington must have come across such
a message from his wife, saw its

possibilities, and kept it for when the
time came.

Finally, he decided to stage the real
thing on the servant's day off.

Before going to work, he put cyanide in
the cachet his wife would have taken for

her neuralgia.

Then he'd have got back to the empty
house at the same time as Miss Holland

the boys.

He put a little cyanide in his wife's
glass to make it look like suicide,

planted the note, and threw the poison
pen letter in the grate.

But what he didn't know was that little
Agnes... I didn't focus. come home early

after a quarrel with her young man.

She stood at the window waiting for her
young man to come and make it up. And

she saw something. On the contrary, she
saw nothing.

What's the point?

No one came to the house, not the
postman, not anybody. And in time she

how odd this was if Mrs. Simmington was
supposed to have received a letter that

afternoon. Miss Partridge, it's Agnes.
The thing is, last week, the day the

mistress died...

Something I don't understand.

Don't quite add up. The wretched girl
had seen something, knew something, and

couldn't afford to take any chances.

He pretended to leave the house and
waited till Agnes was alone.

Not Amy. The police actually saw her
write the letter.

Amy Griffiths has been in love with Mr.
Simmington all her life.

Well, I never... Poor thing.

Then the gossip began about Elsie
Holland, and Amy would have seen her as

designing minx, quite unworthy of her
beloved Dickie. Why not one more

letter to frighten the girl away?

When Mr. Simmington heard the police had
actually seen her, he couldn't believe

his luck.

After her arrest, he'd have found an
excuse to return to the Griffith house

plant the pages, thus clinching the
case.

And that would seem to be that.

An end at last to this frightful
business.

Quite an eventful convalescence, Mr.
Burton.

Yes. Everything mended now?

No bones still broken?

No bones broken, no.

The Symington boys start school next
term.

Probably for the best.

Children are very resilient.

More than their elders, I often think.

Your sister intends staying, I gather.
For a while, yes.

See if she might take to being a
doctor's wife.

Somehow I doubt it.

Love makes us do the strangest things.

And you?

Mr. Burton, what about you?

I'm going away.

To do what?

Do you know, I haven't a clue.

I expect I'll find something.

Perhaps what you're looking for is right
here under your nose.

She doesn't want me, Miss Marple.

Faint heart, Mr. Burton.

I once let someone go.

He had a commitment, you see.

A war to fight.

But I have often wondered if, under
other circumstances, I would have done

same.

It seems to me, Mr. Burton, that we
should count ourselves blessed if we are

allowed just one shot at happiness.

Thanks for pulling me out of the oven.

It's all right.

I suppose you've changed your mind.

No.

Because I'm absolutely sure, you see,
quite, quite certain that to look after

you, to make you happy and keep you from
harm, is now the purpose of my life.

So there's nothing I could say or do to
make you reconsider.

Not even that?

And so I found myself on another
morning, with another girl, and for the

time in my life, on the verge of
something bright and good.