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?
- 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...