Original subtitles

Sure.

God forgive me.

Wickedness.

Paul, how you ought 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. All hail Macbeth. Good evening, Mrs.

Coppins. Thou shalt be king hereafter.

Wicked. Wickedness.

Oh, God, forgive me.

Perhaps somebody can watch out for the ambulance. Mrs.

Davis.

Mrs.

Davis.

It's Father Gorman. Oh, there isn't much time.

Wickedness. Such wickedness. I can't die like this.

It must be stopped.

I'll do everything that's necessary.

Mrs.

Davies?

Mrs. Davies?

She's at peace.

The ambulance is here.

Now, o'er the one half-world, nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse

the curtain's sleep, which can't celebrate pale egghead's offerings, and

withered murder alarmed by his sentinel, the wolf, whose howls 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 create of my whereabout, and take the present horror from the

time, which now shoots with it, as I fled to you.

Thank you, Monty, dear.

That does look good.

You've got a letter.

Yes, I see.

London W2.

Where's that?

How do you know, I believe?

Is it from a keeper admirer? Hardly.

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

So I hardly think it.

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?

Well, it's the book of Revelation, chapter 6, verse 8.

And I looked, and behold, a pale horse, and his name that sat on him was Death,

and Hell followed with him.

Don't like the sound of that.

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

Oh, good morning.

Thank you, Billy, dear.

That can't be right.

There must be a mistake.

Miss?

What happens the matter?

Well, it's Father Gorman.

The man who just wrote to me.

He's been murdered.

Inspector Lejeune, I've unthemed your padre for you, from knave to chops.

Father Gorman.

And? Well and truly coshed.

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.

Well, they couldn't have hoped for much.

Parish priest.

In my experience, usually poor is... 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 safekeeping.

Ormerod, Sanford, Parkinson, Hetsketh, Dubois.

Shaw, Harmondsworth, Tuckerton, Corrigan, Delafontaine.

Revelation 6, 8. We'll 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 7th Royal Irish Horse.

Brave chap.

Yes, he was.

And when did you see him last?

Oh, not for some years, but kept in regular touch.

Why do you think he was the miss 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 that he'd been called out to attend a dying woman shortly

before he was attacked.

Mrs Davies, that's right. You've questioned her neighbours, presumably?

Her fellow tenants, yes.

23 Bentall 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, um... 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 anymore.

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. Well, 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 them.

Meantime, try not to trouble yourself.

No. Goodbye.

Goodbye.

The officer said Paddington Station, ma'am.

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'd 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?

Oh, till about a month ago.

I think it was customer relations.

Or research.

Or 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.

Oh, 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. There's 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've 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 them. Oh, yes.

Yes, they do.

Mr. Osborne?

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

Mrs. Coppin said that 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, Father Gorman.

The priest who... Oh, I see. Yes, of course. My condolences.

Thank you. I wondered, perhaps, had you seen anyone loitering about or 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, you see, to Elijah's cigarette. That's when I noticed. What

was he doing?

Just standing on a corner, smoking.

Then the ambulance arrived, and I'm afraid I got rather caught up in all

that. Did you tell the police?

I did mention it to the constable. Not that he paid it much mind.

They seem to think it's a straightforward case, 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 more, Mr Althorne.

I've disturbed you enough as it is.

Oh, hardly, no. I'm just typing up my sales report for the office.

Thank you, Mr Osborne. Thank you. Oh, not at all.

If there's anything else I can do.

Oh.

You know, as a matter of fact, I'd rather think there is.

Wormrod.

Sanford.

Plenty of those.

Parkinson.

Not uncommon.

Hesketh Dubois.

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

Hesketh. Hesketh.

Hesketh.

Here we are, Hesketh Dubois.

Lady, no less. Only one in the book.

Outside line, please.

Grodner, 6457.

Engaged. Oh, good afternoon. Isn't 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.

Oh, well.

Um, to whom am I speaking, please?

Um... Mr. Mark Itterbrook. 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.

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 her 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 I... No, not a pale horse, the pale horse.

Can't say that I did.

What is it?

Well, I believe that...

It's a little hotel or inn of some kind in a little village called Much Deeping

in Hampshire.

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

A few days, I think, Miss... Down four days.

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

Well, each year the village celebrates the witch trials.

1664.

It does tend to draw the crowd.

Ghouls.

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

Further grey.

Proprietrix of the pale horse.

Jane Marple, how do you do?

Room 5.

Please, Sybil.

Bella will take your luggage.

Good afternoon, Captain Cottom.

Afternoon. Mrs Cottom.

Settling in comfortably, I hope? Oh, yes, yes. Quite comfortably, thank you.

You're 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, and my husband likes to take a

nap between two and four, so if you could... I'll speak to her about it, of

course.

Thank you.

See? Then we have to ask.

Captain and Mrs. Gotham 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.

Hartnett, until their place is repaired.

We're giving them a rate, of course.

Flight? Mr. Easterbrook?

Yes. Lejeune, sir.

Frank Lejeune.

617 Squadron.

Lejeune? Well, I never.

Hello, old man. How are you? Very well, thank you.

Well, well, well. Good old friend.

What are you up to these days?

I'm a police inspector.

Heavens, there's a thing. For my sense.

Other people's. Sure. There's often there's not.

I read your articles now and again. Oh, do you? I enjoy them very much.

It's good of you to say so.

Probably too late to say now, but I was very sorry.

And 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? Yes, she died quite recently.

Is something wrong?

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

What brings you to March Steeping, 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. 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, no, nothing mysterious at all.

It's just friend of a friend.

I'm afraid when you get to my age, names are quite hard to place, Miss Gray.

Of course.

And the myth is 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 reigning buffet from 7 in the lounge. I

see.

It's tonight, isn't it? The burning?

It is.

If there's anything else you require.

Anything at all?

The telephone will connect you with reception.

Meantime, I hope you have a very pleasant stay.

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 Gordon?

Possibly.

Supposing that's the connection?

What? You mean they're all dead?

Hmm.

Shaw, Harmondsworth, Tuckerton.

Let us take a few moments to remember Tomathina Tuckerton.

Mrs. Tuckerton!

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

Well, I thought it would be useful to your inquiry 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 them? Yes, I know. Rather more to the point, how do you?

How do I? Oh,

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

Mark Easterbrook, her godson.

Oh, you've seen him then?

Yes, I've seen him.

I know him, actually. Well, knew him.

He was one of the best.

Flew lengths during the war, which is how we met. I was ground crew, you see.

He's a historian now, 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.

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?

Well, it is such a lovely spot, even at this time of year. Oh, we like it.

Have you been here long, Miss Stamford?

Yes, we've been here seven... No, eight years.

Fertha and I bought the freehold in April, 47.

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

Really, did you? But at the time it wasn't a 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 March Deething? I hope so, Miss... Corrigan.

Ginger Corrigan.

Mark Eastwood.

I need to get to the pale hole.

Me too.

Would you care for a lift?

Yes.

I'm afraid Mr Venables can be something of a tartar if he doesn't get what he

wants exactly when he wants. I expect it's on account of his polio.

Something I can get you.

A black carrot cordial would be nice. Thank you.

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

All right, steady on. Good dog. I tell you, it's sniffing around my place

again. I won't be responsible. Like you wouldn't be responsible for the fire at

my house. What the bloody hell are you talking about? I'm not going to sell,

I've told you, 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're

going to have any damn thing you want. All I'm saying is I wish you'd keep your

bloody dog under control. Stupid bitch is a menace. Look, I know you've had a

few, but would you mind watching your language in front of my wife?

My apology.

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...

He'd been quarter-market basing, you see, the landlord.

Had he? Yes, yes, I see.

Found her at the bottom of the stairs.

A fall, they said.

Though 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.

But come the thaw, he put the place on the market.

And here you are.

Yes.

Hello? Mr. Osborne?

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

really is the most extraordinary place.

Can't you find what you're looking for? No, no, nothing yet.

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

Quite something, isn't it?

Yes, it is.

Quite something.

Mr... Mark Eastwood. Jane Marshall.

How do you do? May I introduce Miss Corrie?

Ginger, hello.

My first time on Much Deep Pink. Thrilling, isn't it?

Rupert Codham, how do you do?

Hello, how do you do? My wife, Tanger.

How do you do?

Housekeeper, Lydia Hasnett. Hello, how do you do? Do you live in the village,

or are you just down for burning?

Locals, albeit displaced ones. We had a fire last week, so we're billeted at the

inn. Oh, poor you. How bloody.

quite catch what it is you do, Mr. Easterbrook.

Oh, um, I'm a historian.

I'm down here researching the witchcraft. Have you anything to say?

I'm innocent.

And we say to you...

There's a

brass in the church you might care to see, Mr. Easterbrook, paid for by the

villagers in remembrance of Goody Carl.

Mrs. Hartman's late husband was vicar of our little parish, made something of a

study of it all, I believe.

Who's Goody Khan?

Well, it's Goody Khan, 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 out of her land.

She was tried, found guilty and hanged.

From the old willow tree over there.

Burnt at the stake, surely.

Actually, Miss Corrigan, the vast majority of witches were hanged. And it

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

Don't know if you've ever seen anyone being throttled.

Might be about to.

Not a pretty sight, all I was going to say. Christ.

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.

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

lifetime.

Same with you. I'd like to go inside.

Or do something I regret.

Good night.

Mrs. Gray.

Yes? I've remembered now who it was recommended, the pale horse.

A Miss Tuckerton, would 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.

Oh, in that case, yes, of course, I'll be delighted.

Hurrah!

I'd be grateful if you didn't mention it to Captain and Mrs. Cotton. They don't

really get on with Mr. Venables.

Oh, so I gathered. They wouldn't really like it if they thought I'd been

fraternising. Of course, of course.

Good morning, Mrs. Gray.

I think perhaps you have some gift for clairvoyance. Oh, no, no. Nothing so

exotic, I'm afraid.

Just a clean sense of smell.

Well, unless I'm much mistaken, that's eau de nouille, your wearer.

I hope you'll forgive me, but I had the idea, Bella had it too, that you might

need us.

Need you, Mrs. Gray?

Sybil thinks.

You came here to find her.

She's an ultimate fault.

And why would I want to find you?

That I do not know yet.

But I shall rely on it.

Last night at the burning, you're sure it was him, Mr Venables?

Yeah. I think that's what he's done to himself since.

Oh, the wheelchair.

You know, for all I can gather, he's been unable to walk for some years.

Really?

You 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 had a twin brother.

In fiction, perhaps.

But in real life, it doesn't happen. You know, it really doesn't.

No.

I expect not.

I'm sorry.

I can't help but feel like a waste of 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 possible that Mrs. Davis may have visited the Pale Horse.

And what makes you think that? I found a list of names which matched 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 have 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 on to something.

What do you think, sir? I do. But please, do nothing further.

I'm sorry, but 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.

Good morning.

That's just gone.

Ringworm. Oh.

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

Or yourself.

Wretched stuff. Make the fur fall out. Leave the bear patch for a bit. But

it'll soon grow back.

Won't it, old dog? Ready for the op?

Oh, yes.

Yes. I'm going to throw Miss Marple round the church.

Ah, very nice, too.

Yes.

Have you worked long for Captain Cotton?

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.

Yes, Philip had been a missionary, you see, 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've asked Miss Corrigan to join us.

No, not at all. Good morning, Miss Corrigan. Oh, 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 misty man.

I want 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 Pennebos...

Why did you come to live in Mutt 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 Lennon?

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

It seems a little harsh.

I know the Summers 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.

And, you know, 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?

Oh, yes, yes, indeed I do. And 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 mean?

You told Mrs Grey you knew a Miss Tuckerton.

Wouldn't be an Amelia Tuckerton, would it?

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.

Oh, well, it might be. Very well 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.

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

But then, in the end, only me.

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

Where was her father?

Oh, he died himself less than a year ago, not long after Tommy's 19th. I

finally ran a 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.

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 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 the do?

Well, Mrs Grey's showing Mr Easterbrook some of her books. And as a consequence,

we've been invited to tea in her sanctum sanctorum.

Apparently, it's in the old courthouse where Goody Khan was tried.

Goodness,

what a lot of poetry you keep.

Can't say I kept hands.

Mostly cockerels, maybe.

Table birds?

Them's useful to us.

Whatever they are, I don't like them.

Don't things look at you as if they know what you're thinking?

Perhaps they do, Mrs Cotton.

I mean, this is interesting.

Oh, yes, this is powerful.

Honestly, Thursday, I do wish sometimes you'd knock.

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

Mrs Gray, you really do have some wonders here. An original Malleus

Maleficorum and this.

Grimoire Thaddeus Kismis Triumfata.

Very rare indeed.

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

Those are 3G seances, then, is it?

Ah, that plain and forthright voice which the Antipodes is so rightly

renowned.

You're well informed, Mrs Cotton.

Someone must have been talking. In a village, I find everyone...

Knows one's business far better than one does one's health. I'm sure the three of

us enjoy a splendid, sinister reputation.

It's on 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 had certain powers, though not a great of those that Sybil enjoyed.

Well, 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.

Not a clue what was happening.

Automatic writing. Now, 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 do 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 draft 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 draft.

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 it?

Kanga!

Oh, my God.

Lydia, what is it?

Good heavens, Lejeune.

What are you doing here?

With you in a moment.

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

Captain Cottom had already retired.

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

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

Yes? Yes, around then.

And, um... That's when I found him.

Rupert was in the garden with the dog.

That was the last I found.

He was so full of life.

We were so happy.

And I wasn't over there.

I wasn't there.

Hello.

Oh, hello.

Thought you might like this.

Oh, thank you.

You've been seen? Yes.

They're what the police think I can tell them.

There's no suggestion there are any suspicious circumstances.

Not for 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 idle 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.

It's good.

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

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

impressions are Captain Cotton 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, yes, well, I see.

I must say, I thought there was rather more to their arrangements than simple

housekeeping. And Mrs.

Cotton party to it, would you think?

I would think so, wouldn't you?

Goes on, Miss Marple, you only have to read the Sunday papers.

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

I'm sorry, I know you've 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, you could have knocked me down with a feather running into Mark

Easterbrook again.

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

Not that I'm suggesting he was involved with what happened to 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, a mouthy 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... Given the right circumstances,

who knows what a chap might do.

Tell me, Inspector, have you ever heard of a physician called Sir William

Dugdale of Harley Street? He's a nerve doctor, isn't he?

Do I believe? Yes, we use them 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, the name of Venables.

Prize court.

Much dooping.

Goodbye, Miss Marple.

Goodbye.

Miss Marple.

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

Otherwise we'd 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.

The 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 Cottom's murder... Murder? I thought a heart seizure.

Oh, no, my dear.

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

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.

Oh, dear lady, how may one be of service?

Oh, 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.

Dear me, I see.

That's not how we go about things, dear me.

Now, 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. Yes, admirable quality. But I

think we may allow ourselves a moment's candour.

Who has 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.

You interested in horses, ma'am?

Betty?

Any particular horse you had in mind?

A pale horse.

Oh, very good, very good.

Oh,

you yourself, if I may say so, seem to be rather a dark horse.

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

I'm a lawyer myself.

Despard, 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 a question of a bet, you see. A bet?

That's right.

A man, or in your case, 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 Missy Beck will die before Christmas.

You follow?

Look, correct me if I'm wrong, but I keep thinking I saw you at Kensal Green

Cemetery the other day.

Uh, you did. I would have mentioned it myself.

But running into you again, I didn't want you to get the idea. I just had

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. She died earlier this year.

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. Of

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

useful would it be to know?

You follow?

Oh, yes.

And that's when yours truly comes in.

You bet me a certain sum that Aunt Eliza will be hale and

hearty until Christmas.

I bet that she won't.

There's nothing against that, is there?

She was a decent old lady.

Good in ink, mind.

71.

But she went through a poor thing.

I mean, it was quick, quick as you like, but all over in a week.

You wouldn't let a dog suffer like that.

She wasted her weight, skin and bones.

Her hair. Her hair?

It just came out.

Come on.

It's indignity.

You know, for a woman especially, crowning glory when all's said and done.

No matter how old you are.

You were fond of her.

Yeah. Yes, I suppose I was, rather.

She was always there when things got bad.

Did they get bad often?

Once.

Very.

We'd 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 her.

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

Of course, my own means, yes.

Never rush into anything.

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 ratio than I dreamt of in you.

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

Rest assured.

Whatever it is they do do, it worked.

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, 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 the financial transaction.

He's a go-between.

Nothing more.

Oh, and I did hear back from Sir William Dugdale, the nerf 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, 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, now.

According to the tale I put on Bradley, he left yesterday in his lunch hour.

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

And 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 listed the

director as an Ian Morris Noon, with an E.

Oh, well, it would be, wouldn't it? I mean, it's a front, obviously.

Ian Morris Noon.

I am Noon.

I... I'm no one.

Or I'm number one, both, probably.

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

And it would seem to confirm your instinct that Bradley's just the

middleman. 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 nor by the office in

months.

You really think that 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. And 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?

You ask me the same questions. And time after time, I give you the same answer.

Do you read somebody a little, Paul? Oh, for God's sake.

For God's sake, woman.

You take it.

I cannot handle anymore. You will pay for that.

Oh.

Oh, Miss Corrigan.

I thought you were here till the end of the week. Fred had 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 Currigan.

Thank you.

Um, Mrs. Gray, I wonder, could you do me a favour? While packing, I noticed I

seem to have misplaced a glove.

Around the suede, the left.

I'll send it on to you.

Goodbye, then. Bye-bye. Goodbye.

Safe journey.

Oh.

Marble.

Well, well, well.

Now, try not to cry.

These things happen.

If she won't play fair, well, you're not really left with much of an alternative,

are you?

Obviously, with the time factor, that will have to be reflected in the size of

the bet, but you just leave that with me, hmm?

Thank you.

No, thank you.

The Pale Horse?

Morning.

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?

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.

I am here.

Is that you, Mackendale?

I am Mackendale.

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

I am.

The dead must be sent to cause death.

It shall be so.

Paul?

Paul?

Paul,

did you get a look at his legs?

No, no, I didn't, but I think I know how he's been doing it.

You do? Yes.

Which word can happen?

Hallowed be thy name.

Hallowed be thy name.

Which word can happen?

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.

Towards death.

Death the conqueror. Death the conqueror.

Very, very soon.

Death.

Daddy! 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

wheelchair?

But, honest, Dad, how did he manage to fool the doctors?

I 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 prophecy.

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.

It's just my word.

Well, we'll 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.

Give me a moment.

I think I must be molting.

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

Well, you know, I think I might be coming down with a cold, but I'm not

going to 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.

May not.

Somewhat apprehensive, myself.

I knew you'd grab him. I wish I could be there to see the look on his face.

Yes, but we must follow Inspector Jones' 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 deathbed 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.

Thursday Gray'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.

Um, 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 salt is a... I don't think I've heard of that one. No, it's extensively

used as rat poison and, more specifically, for animals with ringworm.

It's 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 named 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 Mott. 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 in all this. Oh, no, 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 you really do have power over life

and death, like Bradley, your involvement was merely so much

pantomime. Not 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 fail-safe.

Like Bradley, another way of keeping the real killer at one removed 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 farmer,

Scotland Yard.

You mean people really have died?

Oh, my God.

We didn't know. Tell them further.

We didn't even know... Who it was we were meant to be cursing. Not their

names.

And there was never any money involved.

Tell them further.

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?

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

canvass 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 even 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. That 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.

And 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 Osborne, late of

Benthall Street, Paddington. You'll feel a personal interest in him when I tell

you that Mr. Osborne, who, like yourself, has been under observation by

Inspector Lejeune for quite some time, was unwise enough to plant a jar of

thallium salt in your house. Only this morning.

No, I didn't. Be quiet.

You see, not knowing of your condition, Mr Osborne amused himself by casting you

as the villain of the piece.

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 Cotton.

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

the late captain had such a long-standing and bitter feud?

How do you suppose I managed to achieve that?

You said yourself that's not how thallium works. Yes, but it wasn't

thallium you used on poor Captain Cotton.

Oh, no.

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

abyssecatoria of the Melodi 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 Hartnett buy from Bella Ellis, as I believe was

their long-standing 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

Cottom drank it, voluntarily,

His insides were burnt beyond saving.

Is that not the case, Mrs. Harsnet?

Lydia?

Kanga, I'm so sorry.

Rue insisted, but used it before. Well, you know he had.

You wicked, wicked boy!

How could you?

Even then, one couldn't be sure that Paul Osborne was the brains behind it

all. The mysterious head of the Enterprise.

Not without saying how he was going about it. So, we asked Miss 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 wish of proof.

Oh, 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 salts at Mr Venable's 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.

Oh, perhaps you're right.

Perhaps it was another Paul Osborne 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.

And now I know why.

Really? You killed him because 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?

Oh, 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 all, don't you?

Oh, well, 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 think I may well be coming down with a cold.

Your hair.

Window dressing, Mr. Osborne.

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.

You won't be killing anybody, not with your gun. Get him out!

No! No!

No, you don't! I'm very sorry!

Not as sorry as he'll be, I fancy. My apologies, Miss Marple.

No, no, Inspector.

Not at all.

You know, I'd rather think I'd like a brandy.

I was astounded, Miss Marple. I had my mind firmly set on Mr Venable.

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 Venable's cooperation, of course.

Most fun I've had in years.

We had two leaders born 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 it?

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 Osborne saw Mr. Venable sitting in his car one day here in Much Deeping

and... So he's struck by his appearance.

But, of course, if he'd seen him that way, he wouldn't have known he was

confined to a wheelchair.

And what about Thea's and Grey's part in all this?

Sybil Stamford is in 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.

Oh, Miss Corrigan.

Good to see you looking so well.

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

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.

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

Well, I'd better be...