All language subtitles for Sister.Boniface.Mysteries.2x10.eng

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Irene Symonds, 43.

Her husband is a quantity
surveyor working in Cheltenham.

He's been informed
and is on his way.

- Any chance it could be
natural causes?

- Nice try, but she was
definitely poisoned.

Some sort of fast-acting
alkaloid, I conjecture.

Query... How was it ingested?

And was it by accident
or intent?

I don't think it's suicide.

"Playing bridge with the girls.
Dinner's in the fridge."

- Sir, It's best you
don't go in there.

- Sir!
- Irene...

Irene...

What happened to her?

- Well, we have to await
the results of a postmortem,

but it looks like
she was poisoned.

- Oh, God.
- I'm so sorry.

I have to ask...

Could she have done it
deliberately?

No!

Irene would never
have tried to...

We were devoted.

We were about to celebrate our
20th wedding anniversary...

Oh, God!

- Do you want me to bag up the
contents of the fridge, Sister?

Uh, negative.

The poison wasn't ingested.

How do you know?

- The toxin was fast-acting,

and Irene was preparing
to go out for the night.

Look at these.
Traces of face powder.

And her lipstick
was freshly applied.

No food or drink passed
those lips after application...

But before she leaves,
a last-minute touch-up

in front of this mirror.

Then finished with
a generous spray of perfume,

judging by the smell
of the corpse.

Rather overperfumed for
a girls' night out, methinks.

Begging the question,
where is it?

Mm, Madame Luxe.

- No! Don't!
- No, no, no!

- Are you thinking
what I'm thinking?

What are you thinking?

- Catherine Jones.
- Catherine Jones.

- Oh, well, that makes things
perfectly clear. W-What?

- Catherine Jones was a victim
of the Good Samaritan.

Myrtle Hunnisweet.

On the surface,
a harmless old lady

who fancied herself
as a Miss Marple.

Good morning, Fred.

- But as well as sleuth,
she also cast herself

as judge, jury, and executioner

to those whom in her eyes
had escaped justice.

- Like Eddie Stevens...
A well-known wife beater

whose wife died
"falling down the stairs."

- So Myrtle made
the grieving widower

a beef and death cap mushroom
casserole.

Ah!

And then there was Dean Orum.

Got poor Violet Newton pregnant
and then denied responsibility.

Violet died at the hands
of a backstreet abortionist,

and Dean died
at the hands of Myrtle

who served him a lethal Bath bun

while manning the tea stall
at the Wurzel festival.

And Catherine Jones?

- Found guilty by Myrtle
for child neglect

after her toddler
fell in the river and drowned.

She won a bottle of perfume
that was poisoned

at the W.I. raffle.

And no prizes for guessing
who sold her the ticket.

- I'll get this back to the lab
for tests.

- Ah, what culinary delights
do you have for us tonight?

What does it look like?

- It looks...
amazing Mrs Clam.

I heard about Irene Symonds.

Her poor husband.

Although there's some would say
it was a blessing.

- Ah, don't stop when things
are getting interesting.

- Well, I'm not one to speak
ill of the dead.

- Of course not.
- Never, Mrs Clam.

She was a Jezebel!

Flaunting a string of men
the minute his back was turned.

Why he put up with it
is anyone's guess.

- I'll do some digging
on Trevor Symonds

first thing in the morning.

Good man.

Mmm! Delicious!

Pub?

They might still have
some Scotch eggs.

I thought you'd never ask.

Thanks, Mrs Clam!

Delicious, Mrs Clam!

Who would poison Irene?

- That's what we're trying
to ascertain.

- Do you know where your wife
got this from?

- Uh, Kendrick's in Cheltenham
I expect.

Irene has...

had an account.

She had several accounts.

Department stores,
beauty salons, dressmakers.

I'm surprised that you
could afford it

with a quantity surveyor's
salary.

Although, judging by the size
of your overdraft,

you... you couldn't.

- What sort of man doesn't want
his wife to look her best?

- The type whose wife wants to
look her best for other men.

It was common knowledge,
Mr Symonds,

that your wife engaged
in many extramarital affairs.

Every marriage is different.

Whatever "understanding"

we may have had
is none of your business.

- You recently took out
a life-insurance policy

to pay out...

£10,000 in the event
of her death.

I refuse to say another word

until I have
a solicitor present.

That can be arranged.

A word, please, Inspector.

- Let him go.
My office.

- Mr Symonds,
you're free to leave.

- The Good Samaritan's
calling card.

One was sent to the police
after each murder.

- The flower is symbolic
of their alleged crime.

A red tulip for Eddie Stevens.

Aggression, wrath, and danger.

Dean Orum's was a black dahlia,
denoting betrayal.

And a red dahlia?

Infidelity.

Right.

Surely Trevor Symonds
could have sent this.

- The information
was never made public.

We couldn't trace it back
to Myrtle

so it was never submitted
as evidence.

Who else knew about this?

Just us.

- Does this mean
that she wasn't guilty?

- Oh, no, she was guilty,
all right.

She'd cultivated a poison patch
in her garden.

Geo-thingies.

Geoforensics.

Thingies.

Matched the plants to the poison

found in the victim's
stomach contents.

- Her kitchen was a veritable
minefield of residues

from concocting
her lethal brews.

- Could she have had
an accomplice?

- The evidence didn't point
to that.

And it doesn't explain

why there's five years
between murders.

- Then she could have shared
the information with someone.

Another prisoner who has
now been released?

Myrtle wasn't in prison.

She pleaded not guilty
on the grounds of insanity.

Oh, what you making?

I'm knitting a tea cosy!

- Oh, lovely. I look forward
to seeing the end result.

Thank you!

- Nice lunch?
- Oh, yes, thank you.

Any news today?

Jenny Popplewell's had twins.

Isn't that lovely?

Lovely.

The, uh, police have requested
a visit.

- Oh. Whatever do they want
to see me for?

I'm just the messenger.

I know you're not fond
of the police.

- Oh, no, well, that young
Inspector Gillespie

was most impertinent.

No manners whatsoever.

I don't know what his parents
were thinking of.

Shall I say no, then?

Yeah.

Oh...

I do confess...

I'm rather curious
as to the reason.

Oh, and ask if they can send
that little nun.

She's rather entertaining.

Okeydokey.

Thank you, dear Brenda.

Oh, and any news of your
young man's promotion?

They gave it to someone else.

Ohh!

There's always another time.

I'll keep my fingers crossed.

Mr Oswald Blower?

- I wondered how long
it would take you.

Wipe your feet.

You've been expecting us?

- The world and his wife know
you arrested Trevor Symonds

only to let him go.

People are starting to talk.

And what are they saying?

- That it was
the Good Samaritan.

- On the 3rd of May,
you visited Myrtle.

You're her only visitor
since she arrived at Sanctum.

May I ask you why?

- I'm writing a book
claiming the case

was a classic miscarriage
of justice.

Myrtle Hunnisweet was
a well-meaning old busybody

with a slipping grasp
of reality.

She was ripe
for taking the fall,

whereas the evidence against her
and convicting her

was overwhelmingly
circumstantial

and based on the crackpot
scientific theories

of a Catholic nun

engaged by the police
as some form of experiment.

- And do you have a publisher
for this book?

Not as yet.

But in light of recent events

I'm expecting a veritable
flurry of interest.

We'll show ourselves out.

- Oh, how nice to see you again!

Brenda has kindly
arranged refreshments.

- Sugar?
- Yes, please. One.

Okay.

There.

You certainly have a talent.

- Oh!
- The Archangel Gabriel.

Yes, revered as one of
the two archangels

mentioned in the Bible

and also as the bearer
of very good news.

Although I conjecture

it isn't good news
that brings you here.

- It's about a lady
called Irene Symonds.

- No, I-I don't think...

Oh!

Was she the girl
Frank Peter's youngest married?

No, no.

No, that was Irene Siberry.

So, no, in that case, no,
I can't help you.

Well, she was poisoned

with a bottle of perfume
laced with ricin.

- Ohh.
Oh, like poor Catherine Jones.

- And the next day
the police received this.

- Oh, yes, this I recognise.
Yes.

The police showed me some
of these when I was arrested.

You know, they say, um,

that imitation is the
sincerest form of flattery.

Though, personally, I've always
thought that was rather off.

To put in the work only
for someone else to take credit.

Though we can only assume
that someone else

knew about these messages
other than you.

That is correct, yes.

The person responsible
for all these awful crimes.

Because I-I know for a fact
that I could never,

never have done something
so wicked!

No.

- I-I think she's had enough.

Yes, of course.

Oh, of course you do know
what this means?

Whoever did this...

well, they've started again.

Albion Bugle.

This is the Good Samaritan.

Uh, can you repeat that?

I-I can't understand you.

This is the Good Samaritan.

Listen carefully
to what I have to say.

- Where did you get
that information?

- I see you felt the need
to bring a posse.

- In case we need to tear
this place apart.

So you might as well
tell us now.

It's your time.

And unlike Ruth Penny,

this journalist never
reveals a source.

- Cut the crap, Clem.
That is evidence.

I can quote you on that?

You aren't denying that
Irene Symonds' killer

sent you a calling card,

the same calling card you chose
to withhold from the public?

Norman Whalley.

Something to tell us?

No.

He's lying, sir.

He looked the same
when he put a mouse

in Miss Totton's desk at school.

The whole class was punished
because no one owned up to it,

but we all knew it was you.

Zip it.

- All right, Felix, arrest him.

What for?

- Obstructing the course
of justice.

Aiding and abetting a felon.

How long's the sentence?

Up to 15 years.

- All right!
All right.

Were they male or female?

- We don't know, sir.
They used a, um...

Colonel Mesmericon
voice changer.

A whaty?

- A children's toy that makes
you sound like

Colonel Mesmericon, sir.

- Who?
Oh, never mind.

Well, it's a ruddy great spanner
in the works, and no mistake.

- Is it possible that Myrtle
could be innocent?

- Possible, yes.
Probable, less so.

You see, Myrtle transpired
to be a prolific writer

of complaining letters
to The Bugle.

It was Ruth who spotted
the connection

to all of the victims.

- Sir, I write in regard
to the rising incidences

of domestic violence...

Sir, I write in regard
to the increasing number

of unmarried mothers...

- Turns out, she complained
several times

to the police as well.

The witnesses
confirmed it was her

delivering Eddie Stevens'
lethal casserole

and sold Catherine Jones
the winning raffle ticket.

- Well, it was
an open-and-shut case

as far as we were concerned.

The jury thought the same.

- Which leaves us in conclusion
that she must have

shared details of her crime
with someone else.

Query Oswald Blower?

Her only visitor and author of
a book claiming her innocence.

Sir, there's been another one.

Saul Cropper.
88, lived alone.

His only family
is a granddaughter.

She's been informed,
and she's on her way.

He was 88.

Are you sure this isn't
natural causes?

- Now, it looks like parsley,
but note the glossy sheen.

I'd wager a pound to a penny
this is hemlock.

Hmm.

Find out where
that came from, Button.

Sir.

Mr Cropper's granddaughter.

What happened?

I'm so sorry for your loss.

Brenda and I have met.

She's a psychiatric nurse
at Sanctum Hospital.

He was fine on Sunday.

Was it a stroke?

- Did your grandfather
have any enemies?

- Well,
he wasn't exactly popular

on the account of him being
a conchie in the first war.

A conchie?

A conscientious objector.

Why are you asking?

Do you think he was murdered?

By the Good Samaritan?

Like the woman in the newspaper?

We can't comment on that.

But can I ask,
did Myrtle ever discuss

details of the case with you?

How?

She doesn't remember a thing.

Dementia-induced fugue.
It says it on her notes.

- Did you ever talk to Myrtle
about your grandfather?

We aren't allowed to discuss
our personal lives

with the patients.

D-Does this mean that she's been
locked up all this time

and she didn't do it?

- The greengrocer's boy
makes a weekly delivery.

But Mr Cropper disliked
talking to people,

so he always left it
on the doorstep.

- It can't be a coincidence that
Saul Cropper's granddaughter

is Myrtle's favourite nurse.

But what motive would she have
for killing him?

- About £7000.
- What?

- The value
of Saul Cropper's estate,

which he has now left to his
only surviving relative...

Brenda Bristow.

- This arrived.
No surprises there.

- Oh.
A yellow rose for cowardice.

- The bad news is
that Myrtle's solicitors

have lodged an appeal.

Top brass has ordered
the original case be reopened.

- It's a waste of our time.
There's a poisoner on the loose.

We should be focusing
our efforts on catching them.

- Well, your efforts
are not requested.

I've been ordered to
take you off the case.

Sir!

- Conflict of interest,
all that sort of thing.

I suggest you go home and enjoy
some extended leave.

- Do you really think
we could have got it wrong, sir?

- We're policemen, not psychics
Of course we could have.

But I stand by our evidence,

as did a jury
of 12 good men and true.

Needless to say,
if we can't crack this case

you'll be on traffic duty
for the rest of your days.

And as for you, Sister,
our experimental collaboration

will be up the swanny.

- Do you play golf?
- No.

- Maybe it's a good time
to take it up.

Now, I know what
you're all thinking...

Man down, body without a head.

But nil desperandum.

I'm willing to step up
until necessary.

Lordy, is that the time?

I'm teeing off with the deputy
lord lieutenant in an hour.

So, ha ha!
Duty calls.

Good luck everyone,
and remember...

I'm behind you every step
of the way.

Where have you been?

- Forgetting my troubles
with wine, women, and, uh...

I never did actually get around
to singing that song.

Sam, this won't help.

Really?

Because tomorrow
I will be sober,

and you...
You will still have a career.

It won't come down to that.

- The whole world thinks that
I convicted

some innocent old lady.

I suppose you're one of them?

I never said that.

And you should get to bed
before Mrs Clam hears...

Oh.

- The inspector has had
a very trying day.

May I suggest that you help him
upstairs before something

is said which will
be regretted in the morning.

- Yes, Mrs Clam.
And thank you, Mrs Clam.

- Thank you.
Thank you.

- Those with known connections
to Myrtle Hunnisweet.

Oswald Blower,
Myrtle's only visitor.

And author to the book
protesting her innocence.

- Perchance the gentleman
doth protest too much.

Exactly.

- Trevor Symonds had plenty
of motive for killing his wife

but was in Ipswich at the time
of the original murders.

- With no known connection
to Myrtle.

And Brenda Bristow,

Myrtle's confidante
and now a wealthy woman

after her grandfather's
untimely demise,

but no known connection
to Irene Symonds.

It's like a cat's cradle.

It's a spider's web.

With one constant.

Myrtle Hunnisweet is the spider
in the middle.

DS Livingstone.

Yeah, we'll be right there.

- I know
it was against the rules,

but I thought it was harmless.

What did you talk about?

Me and my fiancé

have been saving to be married
for five years,

except he keeps getting
passed over for promotion.

I asked my grandfather if
he could loan us some money.

It's not like it wasn't
gonna come to me one day.

He refused?

- Said he didn't want me married
till after he'd gone.

I didn't think anything of it.

And then this morning...

- Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry to hear
about your grandfather.

Thank you.

How did you know?

Um, I-I overheard
one of the wardens talking.

Now, I expect you're feeling
very bleak,

but you know, sometimes these
things are meant for the best.

The best?

- Yes, you know, the pagan
Nordics practised rituals,

a senicide known as attestupa.

When the elderly become
a burden to their tribe

they throw themselves off to
their deaths from a precipice.

Oh, that's horrible!

- Eh... it's an honour!

They sacrificed their lives
for the good of the tribes.

Now you and your young man
can get married

before it's too late.

- Her talking about
those poor old people.

I was that shaken that it didn't
strike me till later.

What didn't?

- She couldn't have heard
from a warder.

I'd only gone in to tell
the governor

about my grandfather,
and I hadn't spoken to anyone.

- Could she have seen it
on a newspaper?

All the papers are censored.

She only takes The Bugle
for the classifieds.

She likes to keep up with
the births, marriages, and...

I'm sorry I can't be
any more help.

- On the contrary.
You've been a great help indeed.

May I use your telephone?

- So I did what you said, Sister,
and started from the date

the bodies were discovered.

And I found this.

Two days
before Irene Symonds' death.

"The package is in transit."

- And the day after
bodies was discovered.

- "The package
has been delivered."

Await your next order."

- And the same for Saul Cropper.

- Our copycat is in cahoots
with Myrtle.

Top job, Button!

Can you, um... can you find out
who placed the ads?

- Already on it, sir.
- Ah.

"Await your next order."

These communications
are two-way.

So if it's Myrtle,

how is she communicating back
with her accomplice?

Well, get your skates on.

Because according to this,

that package could
already be in transit.

- The only communication she's
allowed is with her solicitor,

and that's under supervision.

"Autumn perennials."

Oh, That's just her column
for The Chronicle.

It's harmless.

She just witters on about how to
plant perennials in the shade.

So I see.

You're welcome to take one.

It's just they are a shilling
for noninmates.

All the profits do go
to the excursion fund.

- This is on sale
to nonresidents?

Every week.

The visitors buy it,
and then we sell copies

to the local newsagents.

- Well, thank you, Brenda.
- Thank you.

- So, you're saying any Tom,
Dick, or Harry

could have read these?

Affirmative.

The articles seemed innocuous
until this article,

published a week
before Irene Symonds' murder.

Then a change.

Strange sentence construction.
Grammatical errors.

Myrtle Hunnisweet isn't
the sort of woman

to muddle her prepositions
with her pronouns.

It's a code.

- Yes, a Vigenère square,
to be precise.

A 16th-century cipher
using a keyword to generate

a series of different Caesar
shifts within the same message.

It resisted all efforts
to break it for over 300 years,

thus earning the nickname
"le chiffre indéchiffrable."

The undecipherable cipher.

- You're hardly filling us
with much optimism, Sister.

- Well I do have
some acquaintance

with this particular cipher.

I just need to identify
the keyword,

which, experience suggests,
will have some pertinence

to the oper... to the, um, case.

- But that could take months,
years,

and you might never find it.

- Well. Then the sooner
I get started, the better.

Evening, Sam.

We were just talking about
Saul Cropper.

Did you receive
a calling card, Inspector?

- No comment.
- I'll take that as a yes.

My guess is a yellow rose.

- Me and Mr Blower
have been swapping notes.

It's been most illuminating.

Now, if you'll excuse me,

I have a veritable herd
of publishers

champing at the bit
for an updated manuscript.

Double whisky for the inspector,
please, Nancy.

Heard you were off the case?

If Myrtle Hunnisweet is innocent
are you going to resign?

- I'll buy my own drinks,
thank you, Nancy.

- No, he won't!
Give him a drink.

Go on. Out.

Thanks, Tom.

- You're back, Bonham-Crane.

Almost didn't recognise you
in the wimple.

- It suits you.
- Mm. Thank you, sir.

Problem?

A keyword more elusive
than the Scarlet Pimpernel.

I've tried
all obvious associations

with the code setter...
Dates, names, and places.

Religious and mythological
bringers of vengeance.

An entire dictionary of plants,
poisonous and otherwise.

- Floriography.
- Visual clues?

Nothing that stands out.

- If only we had a machine
that could do this.

That would be a miracle.

Oh.

- Well, that's odd.
- What is?

It isn't the Archangel Gabriel.

That's an hourglass, and
there's a classical temple.

This is the winged god Nemesis.

Obviously one of the first
I tried.

The question is,
why did she lie?

Stick with it.

And remember the human brain
is essentially

a digital computing machine.

Roger wilco, Mr Turing.

"Goddess who enacts retribution.

Symbols include sword,

lash, measuring rod,
hourglass, bridle.

Sometimes known as
Goddess of Rhamnous,

after a temple attributed
to her in Attica."

Hm.

Oh, dear.

There you are.

- Thank you.
- Thank you, Mrs Clam.

No, Dottie.

I'm on the tombola.
You're on splat the rat.

- Mrs Clam!
Mrs Clam!

- I'm sorry Dottie,
I'm afraid I have to go.

- Really!
- It's an emergency!

For a religious woman

she displays
a singular lack of propriety.

What on earth's the matter?!

Has the milkman been?

- I should jolly well hope so
by this time in the morning.

I have porridge to make.

The porridge is poisoned!

I beg your pardon?

- Correction...
The milk is poisoned.

Don't eat the porridge!
Oh, dear, oh, dear.

Wolfsbane.
Um, call an ambulance.

If we can get their stomachs
pumped within 30 minutes,

there is still an approximate
4% chance of survival.

- Mrs Clam, there's no need.
We didn't eat the porridge.

You didn't eat my porridge?

Whyever not?
What was wrong with it?

Nobody's ever complained before.

Nothing, Mrs Clam.

One couldn't ask for
a finer start to the day.

It's... It's just, um...

it's just...

The milk smelt off.

That would be the poison.
Am I right, Sister?

Oh, uh, very possibly, yes.

- And you didn't think
to mention it?

You work so hard, Mrs Clam.

We just didn't want
to trouble you.

Tibbles?

Oh, tell me you haven't!

Of course not, Mrs Clam.

We wouldn't subject poor
Tibbles to...

It's in my briefcase.

- Oh, excellent.
Saves me a job.

Oh, um, the keyword
was Rhamnous, by the way.

And the package in transit
was destined for Sam.

- You'd better get your suit on.

Looks like you're back
on the case.

- So each article contains a set
of coded instructions.

Ergo, in Irene Symonds' case,
10 mil ricin to 250 scent.

And a flower
for the calling card.

- What was
my calling card flower?

- Buttercup.
- Meaning?

- Meaning ingratitude, childish
behaviour, and unfaithfulness.

But I wouldn't take it
personally.

And you can rest easy.

Myrtle Hunnisweet
was the Good Samaritan.

Except now we have
two Good Samaritans.

We have an unknown
accomplice out there.

- Not for long.
Peggy.

- I traced the postal orders
used to pay for the ads.

All of them were bought
at a sub-post office

near Cheltenham station.

- See, the informant will need
to let Myrtle know

that the attempt
on your life has failed.

- That's genius.
- You see?

I told you we'd do just fine
without you.

- That'll be five shillings,
please.

- On five occasions in the last
six months

you've bought postal orders
from the Archibald Road

sub-post office.

They were used to buy
classified advertisements

informing Myrtle Hunnisweet
of your progress.

- I have never met
Myrtle Hunnisweet.

Earlier this year

your company was engaged
to quote for roof repairs

for the Sanctum
Psychiatric Hospital.

You were the quantity surveyor

assigned to the job
and spent two consecutive days

carrying out a survey
with an access-all-area pass.

What did she offer you?

The means to kill your wife

and blame it
on the Good Samaritan?

And then, in turn, throw doubt
on her conviction?

- I reiterate...

I have never met
Myrtle Hunnisweet.

It's over.

We know everything.

Including how she communicated
with you.

Using the cipher.

What I can't understand, though,

is how she forced you
into killing for her?

How dare you?!

I wasn't forced into anything.

I was an admirer of her
for years.

Obviously,
when our paths crossed

I couldn't resist
the opportunity.

Of course, at first
she didn't trust me.

May I say how much
I admire your work?

Oh, that's very kind of you,

but I could never have done
those wicked things.

- No, no, you mustn't
misunderstand me.

I'm not a sycophant.

It took a while to convince her
I wasn't some starstruck fan.

Wife lacks a moral compass.

- Oh!
- She's sleeping with other men.

- Oh, that's... that's dreadful.

But after I explained
about Irene...

And I rather feel that she needs
to be taught a lesson.

You certainly do.

- she recognised in me
a true kindred spirit.

- Now, I'm going to have
to think of a plan,

but just leave it with me
and I will get back to you.

- Agreed the world
would be a better place

without Irene.

You're very kind.

Bye.

- But you would have been
prime suspect.

So Myrtle shared details of her
crimes that only she knew,

making you accomplice.

I'm no accomplice.

We are equals.

Partners.

Collaborators in the same cause.

Once she was free, together
we would be twice as powerful,

ridding society of its flotsam
and jetsam

to make it clean again.

Together we would be
unstoppable.

We are the Good Samaritan.

- Trevor Symonds,
I'm arresting you

for the murders of Irene Symonds
and Saul Cropper.

You are not obliged
to say anything

unless you wish to do so

but anything you say
may be put in writing

and given in evidence.

I see.

- You'll be transferred to
HMP Sonning,

awaiting trial.

Your gardening and croquet days
are over.

You'll spend the rest
of your life

in a high-category wing
where you belong.

- No, I very much doubt
that will happen.

Because it wasn't me
that did it.

He told me.

Who?

The angel.

- She's done it again.
Pulled the wool over their eyes.

They're testing her
for paranoid schizophrenia.

- Tests she'll no doubt pass
with flying colours.

So that's that, then.

- Not quite.
She wants to talk with you.

Oh, do come in.

Now, I've made you
a nice cup of tea.

- I'll take that for you.
- Thank you.

Uh, one sugar, is it?

Yes, please.

- I'll be outside
if you need me.

Just what the doctor ordered.

Oh, poor Brenda.

The death of her grandfather
has knocked her for six.

But the decayed plants must
make way for the young roots

to flourish, don't you think?

- Yes.
The attestupa.

Although, by those standards,

would it not be you
standing on a precipice?

- Ah. Some elders were seers
and lawgivers, for example.

- Do you see yourself
as a lawgiver?

- Isn't that why you play
policeman, my dear?

- I like to think it's curiosity
for the truth.

And to comfort the bereaved
from the torture of uncertainty.

Though I'm sure you didn't bring
me here to talk philosophy.

- No. I wanted to talk
about Mr Symonds.

I'm very worried about him, and
nobody will tell me anything.

- He's been declared unfit
for trial

and referred for
psychiatric evaluation.

Oh.

Yeah, well, it's probably
for the best.

Mm.
Um, he did appear very troubled.

And hospital is infinitely
preferable to prison.

Although there's no place
like home.

Which is a great shame
for both of us.

You, you're rather too clever
for your own good.

And it can't go unpunished.

Oh, dear.

- See, it wasn't me,
you understand?

The angel instructed me.

I mean,
laurel is the most biblical

as well as prolific plant.

- And contains the active
ingredient of cyanide.

- So it's too late
for calling for help. Mm.

It'll be quick at least.

And perhaps you should
prepare to meet your maker.

- Actually, I made confession
this morning,

so the slate...
Fortunately, as turns out...

Is squeaky clean.

Oh.

In which case,

may I lobby for a final request.

- Oh, of course.
I mean, if I can oblige.

- You see, um, I believe you are
as sane as me,

quite probably saner.

Ah.

- Your crimes weren't those
of a lunatic.

They were the work
of such precise planning...

Dare I say brilliance?

That only luck
found you out in the end.

Satisfy my curiosity.

I want to know
your inner workings,

so that at least, before I die,
I may understand.

- Ah.
The fundamental axiom.

The greatest happiness
of the greatest number

is the measure
of right and wrong.

- A rather extreme take
on utilitarianism.

I prefer
the eudaemonist approach.

The right action is action
in accordance with the virtues.

Not forgetting
"thou shalt not kill."

- How many other wives
would Eddie Stevens have killed?

Or young girls been ruined
by Dean Orum?

They die so others can live.

I'm not a destroyer of lives.

I'm a saviour.

Oh.

Oh, I think that's probably
all you have time for.

Actually, um, I think it's just
a frog in my throat.

Oh.

Are you all right, Sister?

- Oh!
- Oh, yes.

Fit as a fiddle.

- We had you under surveillance
ever since you wanted to meet

with Sister Boniface,

and we saw you harvesting
laurel from your garden.

- I took the precaution of
a prophylactic dose

of sodium nitrite.

Oh.

- Oh, um, I think you'll
be wanting this.

Oh!

A full confession of sanity.

Just what the doctor ordered,
Sister.

And as for you, Miss Hunnisweet,
your carriage awaits.

Oh!

I know!

Oh, here we go.

Oh.

- Okay.
Back to the office.

Heard you made an arrest.
Care to make a comment?

- We'll release a statement
in due course.

- I don't think there's any need
for profanity, Tom.

Even if it is the truth.

What are you doing here?

We've got a splash to... print.

- Good riddance to bad rubbish.

Well said, WPC Button.

And now if I can
just say a few words.

Once again Sister Boniface
has saved the town

from the clutches
of a crazed killer,

and, in the process,
put her own life at risk.

Actually I was perfectly safe.

The sodium nitrite displaces
cyanide from the haemoglobin

and allows oxygen conversion
to re...

Anyway, in recognition

of your frankly
marvellous contribution,

we'd like to present you
with a small gift.

- Oh, no,
that won't be necessary.

Tell me, Sister,
what's your heart's desire?

Hm.

Well, I suppose that would be
eternal life in heaven.

That's not what she told me.

- And always the latest
Agatha Christie, of course.

Da-da!

- But how?
It isn't even published yet.

- My wife's cousin plays golf
with her,

and good old Agatha
was good enough to oblige.

Actually she's written you
something inside.

Oh.

"To Sister Boniface.

Keep up the good..."

- You've achieved a miracle, sir.
She's lost for words.