Agatha Christie's Miss Marple in "The Moving Finger"
And so I find myself on another night,
In another bedroom, with another girl.
Yet again, on the verge of oblivion.
I'd spent several years fighting for King and Country.
Several more fighting lethargy and drink.
And I decided the time had come to do something about it.
I rode out of town and into the night.
And that was that.
Or so I thought.
THE MOVING FINGER
FOUR MOUNTHS LATER
"I know about your unspeakable lechery and so did your wife.
It destroyed her.
Owe no man anything but to love one another.
For he that loveth another hath fulfilled the law.
For this, thou shalt not commit adultery.
Thou shalt not kill.
Thou shalt not steal.
Thou shall not bear false witness.
Thou shall love they neighbour as thyself.
Love worketh no ill to his neighbour."
And, therefore, love...
It was not long after that, the day of the colonel's funeral,
that we arrived in Lymstock.
Smell that country air.
My sister Joanna had decided to take me in hand.
My doctor had prescribed a good dose of clean living
and sleepy village life,
and she was determined to see it through.
A torture, in fact, for both of us,
as we had an absolute loathing for the country.
God, a freckle. They'll think I'm Scottish.
Watch out!
Perhaps country life wasn't going to be so dull after all.
What's the point of mirrors if you can't look in them?
Isn't it sweet?
Things are so different nowadays.
Taxation, of course.
And now my stocks and shares, so safe, I'd always imagined,
but now they seem to be paying nothing at all.
Foreign, needless to say.
And really, it makes it all so difficult,
which is why I've decided to let.
Where will you be staying, Miss Barton?
I shall be most comfortable, Miss Burton.
I'm lodging with my old parlour maid, Florence.
Such a nice girl.
She lives with her husband in the High Street.
My maid Partridge has agreed to stay on and look after you.
I'm sure you'll find her highly efficient.
This is the drawing room.
Very nice, isn't it, Jerry?
Still exactly as it was when Mother was alive.
97 she was when she died.
How marvellous.
One doesn't like the idea of letting to strangers.
Having seen you, my dear,
I feel quite reassured.
You've nothing to worry about, Miss Barton.
Do you smoke, Mr Burton?
- Like a chimney. - Don't worry about my brother.
He's quite harmless. Especially on sticks.
He's been on his back for the past five months.
- Oh, dear. - Came off his motorbike.
- How did it happen? - His fault entirely.
- Wasn't it, Jerry? - It was an accident.
He rides like a demon.
Needs a bit of time to get back to full working order.
Doctor's orders. Fresh air and a quiet life.
Then you've come to the right place.
No slouching at the back there. Come on.
Heads up, big breaths.
Morning!
Dinner with the Symmingtons, whoever they are.
- More coffee, Miss? - Not for me, Peacock.
- It's Partridge, Miss. - That's the one.
And we've been invited for coffee at the vicarage.
- Oh, God. - Now, Jerry, don't be a grump.
And Mr Cardew Pye, organist of St Peters Church,
requests the pleasure of our company for afternoon tea.
There's a jolly day.
I can hardly contain myself.
It'll be very nice and rather sweet.
Whist drives and spinsters.
The whole point is to get you well and fighting fit.
After all, nothing ever happens in the country.
Poison-pen letters?
Yes. Been going on for weeks.
That's why the colonel shot himself.
Maud, we don't know that for sure.
Near as damn it, Jane. Always had an eye for the girls, you see.
and one suspects this ghastly letter
spelt it out in no uncertain terms.
- But why shoot himself? - Hit a nerve, it seems.
Probably accused him of betraying the memory of his dear wife.
Poor woman. Dropped dead during evensong last year.
- They seemed a most devoted couple. - Oh, yes.
And he would see it as only honourable cause of action
falling on his sword so to speak.
Et semel emissum volat irrevocabile verbum.
Absolutely bang on. All too much for the poor chap.
Of all people, Heracles Appleton
strikes me as the least likely to take his own life.
And what type would you consider most likely?
Did you know him well, Miss Marple?
No, Miss Burton. He was a friend of...
someone I used to know. I wanted to pay my respects,
and Maud very kindly invited me
to stay at the vicarage for a short while.
What do you think happened, then?
I can't say, Mr Burton, as yet.
So desperately sad, to be driven to the edge like that.
Perhaps Jane will be able to find the bounder who's sending them.
- I doubt that. - She's an expert, you know.
Now, Maud.
Has a nose for rotten apples.
I'd better watch my step, then.
Better had.
Have you had any letters, Mrs Dane Calthrop?
Yes. Very silly nonsense it was too.
Something about my husband and the verger's wife.
Quite absurd,
because the Reverend has absolutely no taste for fornication.
Have you, Caleb?
No, my dear.
And he never has had. Good thing he's a vicar, I suppose.
Lives entirely for his books.
The Reverend is a great classicist.
His knowledge of the early church is really quite formidable.
Always thought he'd make a jolly fine saint,
if he hadn't been just a little too intellectual.
Mrs Dane Calthrop, of course,
is not your average vicar's wife.
Everyone is ever so slightly afraid of her.
And that's not only because
she looks like one of the hideous gargoyles above the west door.
She's terrifyingly on the spot, if you get my drift,
and represents, to an uneasy conscience, deity personified.
Have you met the Reverend?
Oh, yes.
A being more remote from everyday life I have to encounter.
He always has his nose buried
in Horace or the younger Pliny.
And he will insist on spouting Latin.
I tend more towards the Greek.
And you, Mr Burton? What is your inclination?
Head first over the handlebars, eh, Jerry?
Oh, a tongue with a tang.
May I say, Miss Burton, what a pleasure it is
to welcome your distinctive style to our little community.
I hope you don't think me impertinent, but your make-up,
its Grecian Ivory No.2, isn't it?
It is, actually.
It's charming. Really charming.
Now, if you were a local,
you'd have a dab of powder to take the shine off your nose,
possibly a soupcon of lipstick, not very well applied,
and would almost certaintly be wearing all of your eyebrows
instead of only a quarter of them.
Oh, dear! I'll look frightfully out of place, won't I?
Not at all, my dear. They'll just think you're a little queer.
And what, I ask, is wrong with that?
Have you received any letters, Mr Pye?
Letters, Mr Burton?
Yes, of the poison-pen variety?
I have, since you ask.
Perfectly horrid, isn't it?
Mrs Dane Calthrop was telling us about
the poor colonel. Terrible business.
Miss Marple seems to think he wasn't the type to top himself.
What do you think?
I have no opinion on the matter.
He certainly clammed up when you mentioned the letters.
That chap could pout for England.
Hello. I'm Megan. Megan Hunter.
Megan, for goodness sake.
Joanna Burton. Pleased to meet you.
- Gosh, you're a looker. - Do you think so?
She's an absolute menace on that thing.
I'm her mother, Mona Symmington.
- How do you do? - How do you do?
Jerry Burton.
You're the new chaps, aren't you? Mind if we join you?
Awfully sorry.
- See? - Came flying off yesterday.
- Tore my stocking. Look. - She ought to be in a circus.
- I told you to mend that. - Darning's such a bore, isn't it?
- How would you know? - Crashed a lot, have you?
- It wasn't a crash. - It was an accident.
I had to swerve to avoid a child.
- Oh. Lablanche. - Yes, actually.
One has to be so frightfully slim to carry a Lablanche.
- And yours? Do tell. - This old thing...
She's awfully pretty. Not a bit like you.
Thank you for your invitation to dinner.
Brothers and sisters aren't always alike.
I suppose not. I'm not very like my half brothers
and they're not like each other. Rum, isn't it?
- What is? - The whole family thing.
So, will you always be a bit of a crock?
No, I won't.
I thought that's why you looked
so miserable, being a crock all your life.
But if it's how you always look...
I'm impatient, that's all.
Don't you ever get impatient?
What about? Nothing ever happens.
- That's not what I've heard. - What's that?
Someone's been busy writing letters.
Oh, those. It's such a gossipy place.
So, have you had one?
- Most people have. - What did it say?
Something about my real father being a bit of a villain,
and me being a lazy young bitch.
- Charming. - Spot on, as it happens.
Because people don't really like me around here.
And to be honest, I don't much like them.
MESSERS. GALBRAITH & SYMMINGTON, SOLICITORS
Mr Symmington will see you now, sir.
Thank you.
- Good afternoon, Burton. - Good afternoon.
Thanks for the invitation for Saturday.
Pleasure to welcome you here.
I've got some share certificates I need transferring.
Very good. I'll take a look.
Your er... your secretary seemed a little...
Oh, yes. Poor old Ginch.
Got one of those blasted letters.
Fairly fruity, I must say.
Apparently, we're in the middle of a hot and steamy affair.
Imagine. Ginch and myself.
Quite risible if it wasn't so nauseating.
It's funny, isn't it?
People say, ''You must be bored to death
living in the country.'' Little do they know.
Are those your boys?
Yes, they are. Little terrors, but good lads, really.
And she's their governess?
Yes. Yes. Miss Holland.
Lucky boys.
They are lucky, yes. She's very good.
Not sure I'd be able to concentrate on my lessons.
They're a bit young for that, old chap.
Yes.
Anything for me?
Jerry, what is it?
Welcome to Lymstock.
That fancy tart is not your sister. She's a dirty whore.
That was quick off the mark.
What did it say, if you don't mind me asking?
Oh, well, it suggested that Joanna wasn't really my sister.
Though in slightly more colourful language.
Did she actually read the letter?
Oh, yes.
Oh, I do hope it didn't... didn't upset her too much.
She found it quite a hoot, actually.
Which I suppose is the best way to take it.
Except when it gets out of hand, of course.
Oh, the colonel, you mean?
- You've heard, then? - Almost as soon as we arrived.
Dreadful business.
I must say, you know, you're tending to
use these as a bit of a crutch, you know
I thought that was the general idea.
Yes, I'm fairly sure you could do without them, take it easy.
Oh, right. I see.
Well, I'll give it a go sometime.
So, the colonel, bit of a lad, I gather.
Yes, yes.
But it just goes to show how dangerous things really can be.
You don't have any idea who's behind them, do you?
No. No, unfortunately not.
There was something of this kind in my practice up north.
Got pretty nasty, actually.
Yes, of course, I've received one,
as has Symmington the solicitor. He's had one.
And I bet a few other people have had them
but won't admit to it.
So, what did yours say?
Oh, well, the erm...
you know, the kind of...
- If you'd rather not... - Oh, not at all.
No, it...it er...
actually, it accused me of interfering with one of my patients,
in the most...most graphic detail.
Ridiculous, of course, I have to say. Ridiculous.
But I fear that it won't be too long
before another one of these letters finds the old...
bull's-eye.
Well, erm...next week, then.
Will he live?
Well, he's doing frightfully well, Miss Burton.
Oh, that is good news.
Yes. Maybe he should try going a bit slower next time.
Do you know I've never seen the point.
I gather we'll see you at the Symmingtons, Doctor Griffith.
- Oh, I-I-I-I-I... - I can't wait. Ciao.
Ciao.
And this must not go beyond these four walls.
But one has heard,
and on fairly good authority, it should be said,
that Jamie Blackwell, a rather cocky young farmhand,
has left his wife Mary.
What, that half-witted girl who's expecting?
- The very same. - But why, my dear Maud.
Far be it from me to interfere in these things...
At home with the Borgias.
He received a letter suggesting
he was not, in fact, the baby's father.
No!
And in a fury, he confronted the wretched girl,
who was unable to adequately refute it.
- I say! - This is only quarter what one has heard.
You're very quiet, Doctor.
Do you find this gossip tiresome?
Are you all right, Griffith?
What? My darling bro? I should say not.
He's hopelessly addicted.
Something went down the wrong way. I'm sorry.
One can only imagine what he picks up in the surgery.
I expect Dickie gets a few choice nuggets too.
I don't, you know. Really, I don't.
And your saintly husband, my dear Maud,
must be privy to, well, heaven knows.
Heaven may, but I don't.
Such a pity he couldn't join us.
He's battling with tomorrow's text.
Evil communications corrupt good manners.
Oh, wait, there's more.
- Shall I clear, madam? - No, Agnes.
We'll let you know when we're ready.
Yes, madam.
The letter, one hears, as I say, on fairly good authority,
apparently goes further,
and implies who the father actually was.
Gracious.
Yes.
Colonel Appleton.
- The colonel! - As I live and breathe.
Blimey, crikey.
- No wonder he shot himself. - If indeed he did.
You suspect that is right, Miss Marple?
Whatever the truth may be, Mrs Symmington,
the poor man is dead,
a young man has left his wife
and a baby will come into the world with very little advantage.
Were you close to the colonel, Miss Marple?
No, but er...
I knew his qualities.
And his wife?
No closer than to the colonel.
By all accounts, Mrs Symmington,
Colonel Appleton was the most devoted and loving husband.
A formidable bridge player.
Though I always found his bidding a little aggressive.
Agnes!
Sorry, Miss.
A farm girl's baby.
It would test the forbearance of a saint.
Time to let the poor man rest, I'd say.
Oh, well, he'll keep.
Oh, Megan.
Say hello, dear.
Hello.
- I hope Mother's not boring you. - Megan.
She talks all the time, but in fact, says very little.
- Good night, Megan! - Why don't you get your milk, dear,
and go to bed?
Good night, then.
Good night.
I must say, Mrs Symmington,
you have the most delightful daughter.
- Do I? - Feisty. I like that.
She's at that awkward age.
But she's 20!
She's been at that awkward age
ever since she was mewling in nappies.
If only she had some talent or looks.
I think she has a lovely face.
All she does is pottering around l ooking plain.
Perhaps you could give her some tips.
Is the wine all right, Dickie?
The girl's born idle.
Her father was definitely a wrong 'un.
Prison, I believe.
For blackmail.
It's hardly surprising her mother's like she is.
I do hope, Miss Marple, you've not found
our discussion too discomfiting.
Not at all, Mrs Symmington.
I merely repeats what one hears.
Yes, indeed. I sometimes wonder
if the tale-bearer is not as guilty as the tale-maker.
Oops! My dear Miss Marple,
you are being moral and forget that you are among friends.
I would like to think I am, Mr Pye.
Give me my plane back, Colin!
Miss Holland! Get those boys out of here!
Yes, Mrs Symmington.
I've a killing head!
Come on, boys.
Mrs Symmington.
I hardly knew the woman,
but had decided already that I heartily disliked her.
Miss Holland, on the other hand,
was growing more delectable by the day.
Chop, chop! Your father's here. Hang up your jackets quickly.
That's a good boy.
Daddy!
Hello, boys. Been behaving yourselves?
- Yes! - Good evening, Miss Holland.
Hello, Mr Symmington.
Thank you.
Mona? Mona?
You can't see Mummy until she's had her nap.
But I want to see Mummy!
Mr Symmington?
I've just heard something. Terrible, it is. Shocking!
Don't tell me the bring-and-buy's been cancelled.
It's Mrs Symmington. She's dead.
So who sired your little Brat Collin not Dickie.
You vicious Tongued bitch.
Tongued, tongued.
Tongued.
Mr Burton! Isn't it awful?
- Yes. - You've just missed the inspector.
You've also come to offer your condolences, I expect.
- Well... - Those poor boys, and Megan too.
It'll be very hard for all of them.
Miss Holland is being most solicitous.
Another suicide, Miss Marple.
Or have they all got it wrong?
I would have thought you were clever enough
to work that out by yourself, Mr Burton.
Ooh, no sticks!
Better watch your step.
Good morning.
Morning.
I just want to be left alone.
Of course. Well, just call if you want me.
I'm sorry. The door was open. I...
Sorry.
Burton. Jerry Burton.
Holland. Elsie.
We keep seeing each other, but we've never...
No.
I'm afraid Mr Symmington's not in the mood
for visitors at the moment.
It's all been such a shock.
Yes, of course.
I don't wish to intrude, but erm...
it did cross my mind, well, my sister Joanna's, actually,
that maybe Megan would like to
come to stay with us for a few days.
Megan? Stay with you?
Well, why?
Well, we thought it might be a help.
She must be terribly shaken by all this.
She's such a queer. You never know what she's feeling.
If you think it's presumptuous...
No. No, it's erm...
it's probably a very good idea.
A very kind idea.
I see that you've...
What?
Got rid of your sticks.
Oh. Yes, I have.
And you're still upright.
Yes, I am.
Well, I do hope you manage to stay like that.
Megan?
Joanna and I were wondering if maybe...
you'd like to stay with us for a little?
Stay with you?
- Yes. - At your house?
That's right.
Oh, yes.
Take me away!
Please take me away!
I'm such a coward.
I didn't know what a coward I was.
Yes, these things can be a little shattering, can't they?
It's so awful being here and feeling so wicked.
Why should you feel wicked?
I don't know.
I'm sorry, I'm being silly.
But, you see, it's rather dreadful when your mother dies.
Yes.
If you don't like it...
No. It's...heaven!
Megan! Are you all right?
I do hope that poor Megan...
that she hasn't been too much upset by all this.
You know, losing one's mother is a dreadful thing.
Yes, of course.
But what I really meant was the unpleasantness behind it.
Ah, the unpleasantness.
Tell me, Miss Barton, do you think there might be truth in it?
Oh, no, surely not.
I'm quite certain that Mrs Symmington never...
That the boy wasn't...
I mean, it's quite untrue.
Have you received any unwanted mail, Miss Barton?
Oh, no! No, indeed!
Oh, that would be dreadful!
Mm...
You see? Away with the fairies!
She looks at you sometimes
as if she doesn't understand the world.
Perhaps she's just not interested.
Or one banana short of a bunch.
Look, if she becomes too much of a nuisance...
No, she's no trouble.
It's not healthy, lounging about at her age.
It's hardly surprising.
Her mother treated her like a 12-year-old.
Strictly "entre nous", I couldn't stand the woman.
Of course, we don't want to speak ill of the dead,
but, what an acid tongue! Gossip was all that interested her.
No, I'm afraid I didn't think very much of her.
But I never suspected the truth.
Mrs Symmington was alone in the house.
Her husband was at his office, her daughter was out cycling,
and the governess, Miss Holland, with the two boys.
- The maids, Inspector? - It was their day off, sir.
When did the letter arrive?
By the afternoon post, sir.
Apparently, Mrs Symmington was so disturbed by its contents,
that, in a state of great agitation, she wrote the final words,
"I can't go on, '' before taking cyanide dissolved in water.
I had been treating Mrs Symmington
for a neuralgic condition for quite some time.
Would you say she was generally of a nervous disposition, Doctor?
Obviously, yes, I would.
What is your estimate of the time of death?
Oh, between three and four o'clock.
The allegation contained in that letter was a calumny.
A foul calumny.
Mona was the most devoted wife, the most loving mother.
Her health was fragile,
her soul sensitive.
Such a vile lie would have shocked her greatly.
Whoever wrote this foul letter murdered my wife
as surely as if they'd stabbed her through the heart.
I condemn utterly writing of these wicked and despicable letters.
One death has already resulted, that of Colonel Appleton,
and now Mrs Symmington.
In my opinion, the writer is morally guilty of murder.
I find that the deceased, Mona Patricia Symmington,
committed suicide whilst being temporarily insane.
So, gin's your tipple, is it?
Absolutely. I always have one about now. What's yours?
Lemon barley water.
You are nice, you know.
You treat me like a real person. Look.
Well done!
I know. I've made a fearful hash of it, haven't I?
You know, it's much better if you suck rather than blow.
Yes, of course. I wasn't thinking.
People think I'm stupid.
I don't.
But you're not like the others.
They don't realise that, the inside,
I know exactly what they're like,
and all the time I'm hating them.
Hating them?
You'd hate people too if you knew you weren't wanted.
Mummy never liked me.
Of course she did.
She didn't, because I reminded her of my father,
and he was very cruel to her,
and what she wanted was
to be left alone with my stepfather and the boys.
And now she's left us alone.
It's difficult, I know, to see things clearly...
..but in time, I promise, things do get easier.
It's all out there, all to play for.
We should all remember that.
Do you mean leave here?
Why not?
You mean, earn a living?
If you wanted.
What would I do?
Well, we'd have to think of something.
We?
You'd have to think of something.
Any chance of a top-up?
I didn't know you were here.
Yes, yes, yes.
I've just popped round to take Joanna out for a bit of a...
A bit of a what?
What? For a walk.
For a walk, actually.
Well, make sure you don't overexcite her.
N-N-No...
Miss Marple.
Good afternoon, Mr Pye.
I'm afraid my fingers have forgotten how to dance.
They have of late become accustomed to a more funereal pace.
Yes. A most distressing time for you all.
Quite so.
I understand you knew the colonel.
A little, and many years ago.
He fought with a friend of mine who was killed in Great War,
and was kind enough to inform me
of the circumstances of his passing.
- And you, Mr Pye? - Oh, I hardly knew the man.
We occasionally locked horns over a rubber,
but that was the extent of our acquaintance.
I must confess, I would never have imagined
him taking his own life. Would you, Mr Pye?
The man is dead, Miss Marple.
Can that not be an end to the matter?
This village used to be such a peaceful little pocket.
That is how I see this country, full of little pockets.
But tragically, this particular pocket has become rather grubby.
One rotten apple and we are all contaminated.
So you too, Mr Pye, have been contaminated?
Yes, I have.
Let them do their worst.
I'll not go under.
No more hole-and-corner for me, Miss Marple.
Goodbye.
Poor thing.
Suicide's such a ghastly business.
Oh, you mean Mrs Symmington?
Ah, a heron.
So when you said ''poor thing'', who did you mean?
The person who wrote the letters, of course.
Don't you understand
how desperately unhappy somebody must be
to sit down and write these things?
How lonely,
how cut off from people,
poisoned through and through.
Poor soul!
Have you any idea, Mrs Dane Calthrop, who it might be?
Oh, yes, but then I might be wrong, mightn't I?
Poor Dickie Symmington.
How awful for it all to come out at the inquest.
He was adamant there was no word of truth...
He'd say that, wouldn't he?
He's a real gentleman, isn't he? I've known him a long time.
Really? I thought your brother
only bought this practice a few years ago.
He did, but he used to come and stay our apartment up north.
I know him very well. He's quite reserved,
but proud, and he can get very jealous.
Perhaps that's why Mrs Symmington
was afraid to show him the letter.
Good heavens, Mr Burton,
do you seriously think any woman would swallow cyanide
if the accusations weren't true?
An innocent woman would laugh it off,
throw it away. That's what I...I would do.
We should all have a career, Mr Burton.
I wanted to be a doctor, but my parents wouldn't hear of it.
- I'm sorry. - Oh, don't be.
I'm one of the happiest people I know. Toodle-oo!
Good morning, Miss Burton. Not finding it too dull, I hope.
Hardly.
Look.
You painted trollop, go back to your bastard child.
Nice.
Very nice indeed.
Yes. The words have been cut from an old book.
Early 19th century, I'd guess.
Probably no fingerprints distinctive
in the letters as the culprit is very careful to wear gloves.
Now, the envelope was typed on this.
A Windsor Seven typewriter
with the letters A and D out of alignment.
So, who does it belong to?
The Women's Institute.
It's an old model donated by the office of Galbraith,
Galbraith and Symmington.
- So, it could be... - Yes. Any one of them.
The ladies are always in there, sir.
You can probably tell by the touch, sir,
that was typed with one finger.
So, it's someone not used to typing?
Or somebody who is, but doesn't want us to know.
Well, that's interesting.
What is?
The U in Burton seems to have been changed from an A,
Perhaps she's not such a good typist after all.
Or maybe cleverer than we think.
- I wonder how she feels? - Who knows?
But this little beauty is going back.
And mark my words,
the pitcher will go to the well once too often.
- Can I have a word, sir? - What is it, Partridge?
- That was Agnes, sir. - Oh, yes?
She was in service here.
And coming from the orphanage,
she's gotten happy to talking to me
so I could tell her what's what, you see.
Get to the point, Partridge.
Well, she works for the Symmingtons now
and I wonder if you might give your permission for her
to come to tea with me this afternoon.
It's her day off
and she's got something on her mind. She seems a bit of upset.
Yes, of course.
Thank you, sir.
I must go home.
- What? - Today.
Today? Why?
It's been awfully good of you having me.
I expect I've been a fearful nuisance.
I have enjoyed it awfully, really I have,
only, now I must go back because after all, it is my home.
I can't stay away forever.
Bye.
We had a lovely tea with Miss Barton, Partridge.
Pleased to hear it, Miss.
How was yours with Agatha?
Agnes, Miss.
- That's the one. - She didn't turn up, Miss.
- Oh, I am sorry. - Doesn't matter to me.
Good.
She wanted to meet and then she didn't show,
and not a word of apology either.
Perhaps she's not well.
And perhaps she's just ill-mannered.
What is the matter?
I've never been able to bear it when you sulk.
- I'm not sulking. - You are sulking.
You've been sulking since Megan left.
In fact, you've been sulking ever since you were a child.
- I haven't. - You have.
You were sulky then and you're sulky now.
You're the sulky type.
I could do with a drink.
Might cheer me up.
Then, why don't you have one?
I might just do that.
Fine. Have as many as you want,
and when you're so drunk you can't remember who you are,
Then why not go for a spin and this time make damn sure!
It was an accident.
You're a hopeless liar. It's really quite pathetic!
So, I'm sulky, I'm a drunk
and I can't even lie properly. Is it any wonder that...
What, Jerry? Is what any wonder?
What does it matter?
How could you do it?
If that's what you want to believe...
How could you think it wouldn't break my heart?
It breaks my heart now to think you could feel so wretched.
You know, it strikes me as the most extraordinary irony
that you managed to survive the war with such flying colours,
yet seem to find the peace so utterly defeating.
Ghastly dump, isn't it?
We could always go back.
And miss all the fun?
Do you know, it's exactly a week ago
since Mrs Symmington's death?
You'd think the police would have something by now.
A fingerprint or something.
- Exactly a week ago? - Mm-hm.
Maids have one day off a week, don't they?
Yes.
The same day every week?
That's the usual sort of thing. Apparently.
So, exactly a week ago,
Mrs Symmington was alone in the house
because it was the maids' day off.
I'm afraid the penny's refusing to drop.
Megan?
She was supposed to come to tea with Partridge,
but didn't turn up.
Why would that be of particular concern to you?
I'm not sure. I felt uneasy for some reason or other.
With every cause, it now transpires.
You have sensitive antennae, Mr Burton.
So do you, Miss Marple. Just passing, were you?
Oh, Mr Burton.
Miss Holland, I was wondering, is Megan all right?
She's having a lie-down.
- Mr Burton? - Sorry.
Did Agnes say anything to Partridge, do you know?
She'd have been far too anxious
to divulge anything over the telephone, Inspector.
Thank you, Miss Marple.
Agnes normally went out after lunch.
It appears she never left,
because she was wearing her apron and cap when you found her
Any idea of the time of death?
Yes, between 8.00 and 10.30.
And how was she killed?
Sharp blow to the back of the head,
followed by a skewer in the base of the skull.
Good God!
Quite appalling, isn't it?
- But why? - Well, we may never know exactly,
but we can make a guess.
Well, she knew something, didn't she?
That would be a fair assumption, yes.
On the afternoon that Mrs Symmington died,
when the two maids were supposed to be out,
Agnes, she came back rather early.
You see, she has a boyfriend.
Freddy Firbank from the fish shop.
Yes, and on that particular afternoon
they had a row when they first met.
I gather that young Firbank received a letter
suggesting that Agnes had other fish to fry.
But there is something else.
The letter Mrs Symmington received
was never actually posted.
It was faked to make it look as though it was posted,
but it was pushed through this letterbox here
before the afternoon delivery.
My guess is Agnes was looking through the window here
waiting for her boyfriend to come and apologise...
And saw the culprit deliver the letter.
Exactly.
But how would the letter writer know that she was home?
Well, it's a kind of miracle, Mr Burton,
how things get around this place.
I may be wrong, of course, but erm...
Temptingly simple, isn't it?
But tell me, Inspector,
if Agnes knew who the letter writer was,
then why, I wonder, didn't she say something?
Miss Holland.
Mr Burton.
I'm sorry. I didn't mean...
I don't know what's come over me.
I think it's the shock.
- Pretty grim, isn't it? - That poor girl.
Just think, it could have been any of us,
even those two little angels,
murdered in their beds like princes in the tower.
The awful thing, Mr Burton,
is that yesterday afternoon
we were having tea with Mr Symmington up in the schoolroom
and all the time, Mr Burton, that poor girl was
squashed into that cupboard, dead as a dodo.
Thank you.
And what about the other week, Miss Holland?
You can call me Elsie, you know.
Right.
I'm sorry, what did you ask?
- What happened last week? - The day Mrs Symmington...
Yes.
Well, she always rested after lunch, you see.
She suffered from neuralgia and it would come on after meals
so she'd take one of the cachets Dr Griffith had given her
and try to sleep.
Did anyone bring up the post to her?
Turned detective, have you, Mr Burton?
Why not call me Jerry?
Jerry.
Yes.
Well, Jerry, she'd often come down and get it herself.
She didn't necessarily sleep the whole afternoon.
Sometimes she'd stay down, other times she'd go back up.
- The letter she received... - Disgusting!
The very idea that little Colin...
It doesn't even bear thinking about.
Mrs Symmington loved her husband.
She was a sensitive woman and very particular.
Anything of that sort would have appalled her.
I mean, it's evil.
Elsie, have you had any letters?
No. I haven't.
They're not very nice to get, I know,
and sometimes people don't like to admit...
But I haven't. Really, I haven't.
Agnes's inquest brought no new facts to light.
The only possible verdict was returned -
murder by person or persons unknown.
So, poor little Agnes was duly dispatched,
her killer, no doubt, witness to her passing.
You look all in.
Do I? Do I? I'm sorry.
I've rather a lot on.
I hear you were there quite early.
Where?
The Symmingtons', the morning after the murder.
Yes. Agnes was supposed to come for tea but she didn't show.
So, you feared the worst. Jolly smart.
It's our first murder. Terrific excitement.
Whacked in the head, then stabbed through the neck.
Such an insignificant little thing.
Looks like the boyfriend to me. What do you think?
I haven't a clue.
Very inbred round here, you know.
It must have given the Hunter girl quite a shock,
finding her in the cupboard.
It did.
Not too strong in the head department, that girl.
She's one of the brightest people I know.
Well, blah-blah fishcakes, but a thing like this
could send her completely off her onion.
By the way, Miss Griffith,
was it you persuaded Megan to return home?
She can't shirk her responsibilities, Mr Burton.
Tongues wag, and I felt it my duty to drop the hint.
I don't think for a minute there's anything in it,
but she's young and good-looking, and boys will be boys.
What do you mean?
A thoroughly nice girl, but people will talk.
They're saying she has her eye on
becoming the next Mrs Symmington.
I feel sorry for her.
People are saying such nasty things.
Which is why I'm willing to tell Megan
that she ought to go home.
It looks better than having Dickie and that girl in the same house
You look shocked, Mr Burton,
but I'm afraid our little village likes to think the worst.
All rise.
And the Lord said unto the sinful,
''I will cast my net over you
and haul you on high in my net
and cast you into the mud and mire.''
The village parliament! What would we do without it?
We're all agog, aren't we, Miss Barton?
Shocking, quite shocking.
What must you think of us, Miss Marple?
It strikes me as rather a quiet little place.
I feel we're going to the dogs. First the letters, then murder.
You think the two are connected, Mr Pye?
- One can't help but wonder. - Such a nice girl!
She used to be in service with me, you know.
I really can't...
If you'll excuse me.
Something of a period piece, I've always thought.
Mm.
Do you have a favourite suspect, Mr Pye?
Oh, I'd rather tear out my tongue,
Mr Burton, than commit a slander,
but suffice to say that, as a student of abnormalities,
I often find the most unlikely people
doing the most surprising things.
Don't you agree, Miss Marple?
On the contrary, Mr Pye,
I usually find the most likely people behaving
exactly as I would have expected.
Morotorium te salutante.
Don't stand there looking pathetic, because it won't wash!
But Mr Symmington, you know that can't be true!
Do I? Do I, Miss Holland?
To be honest, I'm not sure I know anything any more!
Dearly beloved,
we are gathered here today
to pay homage to a sister of our parish,
Agnes Brown, known to one
and all for her goodness
- and innocence. - What was that all about?
He's in a fearful state.
Hardly surprising. He's been knocked sideways
since Mummy's death, and now Agnes.
What did she mean when she said it can't be true?
He was sort of implying that she's been writing the letters.
What?
And maybe even did for Agnes.
That's ridiculous.
Is it?
Maybe you're right.
This murder's really perked things up.
Must be the most exciting thing that's happened here
since Henry VIII smashed up the priory.
Except for Marple, of course. Behaves as if she knew something
the rest of us are too stupid to grasp.
What did he want?
if you mean Owen, he very kindly walked me home.
What's that?
Ugh!
It's a photograph of a diseased spleen. Owen gave it me.
Hasn't he ever heard of chocolate?
He thought I might be interested.
I'm not entirely frivolous, you know.
He looked pretty ropey, I thought.
There's something on his mind.
Yes, a rotting spleen, perhaps.
Or you.
For heaven's sake, Jerry!
Miss Barton.
About as guilty as I am.
Stupid of me.
Of course Miss Barton's not the type to go round
slugging young women on the head.
Don't be deceived, Mr Burton. These little old ladies
pack quite a punch, believe me.
What was exactly Agnes hit with?
Well, we don't know as yet,
but these ladies do carry rather large bags.
She'll probably evict us now.
Well, I'll have a test for fingerprints,
but I don't hold out much hope.
Not having much luck?
Slowly, slowly, catchy monkey.
Have you been able to eliminate anyone?
There are others who are more likely than less likely,
but we shouldn't leap to conclusions.
No, I see leaping isn't the order of the day.
Take Aimee Griffith, for example.
She was due at a Brownie meeting the day of the murder,
but she arrived rather late.
And then, of course, there's Mr Pye.
Didn't have an alibi for either day.
Said he was in the garden on both occasions.
Very strange man, Mr Pye.
I found he'd come to the attention of my colleagues in West Country.
In relation to what?
Matters of a...hardly savoury nature, shall we say.
And then, of course, there's Mrs Dane Calthrop.
Said she was bird-watching apparently
the day Agnes was murdered,
But we can hardly ask the bird, can we, sir?
It's incredible. Makes you imagine things.
Yes. Awful, really,
wondering whether the person you share a pot of tea with
or buy your sausages from is, in fact, a criminal lunatic.
Actually, Inspector,
I was wondering, on the subject of Mrs Symmington's suicide.
The powders Dr Griffith prescribed for her neuralgia,
well, would an overdose have been fatal?
Not unless she'd taken about two dozen.
It was cyanide that did for her. There's no question.
But if you had a choice,
wouldn't a soporific be preferable to prussic acid?
That would be my preference, sir.
Actually, on the subject of Dr Griffith,
a few days ago, on a visit to my sister, I saw him at bookcase
browsing through a book, and, well, I was just wondering if...
He was our man?
Well...
Getting a taste for it, are we, sir,
the old sleuthing?
- No. I just... - I can't help feeling, sir,
that in this case, our man is a woman,
if you get my drift.
Joanna?
If Owen calls, I can't go on Tuesday,
but could manage Wednesday or Thursday.
There was something about Joanna's note that bothered me.
In fact, whole ridiculous charade was starting to bother me.
I'm so sorry, Mr Burton. I didn't mean to startle you.
The back door was open, so I took liberty of letting myself in.
I must have dropped off.
I thought we should have a little talk.
This horrid business - the letters and now murder.
It really can't go on, can it, Mr Burton?
No, it can't.
But I'm sure the police are doing their best.
I'm sure they are, but as relative strangers in the village,
perhaps we're at an advantage.
I don't really see how.
Were you dreaming just now?
Yes, I suppose I was.
Dreams are funny things, aren't they?
Mine are usually just nonsense.
May I ask what it was?
Just a blur, really. Half-remembered memories.
The odd scrap of paper,
a telephone message, a girl's face.
Yes, I heard you mention someone's name.
Made no sense at all. Nonsense.
But then it's all nonsense, isn't it, Miss Marple?
I look around at what's going on, how stupid and petty,
and think to myself,
is this really what we fought to save?
We should all try and see the good in each other, Mr Burton,
however much we disappoint.
Yes.
Probably the whisky.
Little bit of the old Dutch courage.
I'm sure you're courageous enough.
Some of us aren't as brave as people think.
Like your Colonel Appleton for instance.
Wouldn't surprise me at all if he'd done away with himself.
After all, who knows what he was fighting?
Fear can come in strange disguises.
Couldn't tempt you, could I?
Cheers.
Tell me, Mr Burton,
you made mention of a telephone message, was it?
Oh, yes. Well, Joanna, you see...
she left a message on the phone pad
and there was something about it that bothered me.
Would you think me very inquisitive if I asked what message was?
Pretty trivial, really, along the lines of,
"If Dr Griffith calls, I can't
go on Tuesday, but I could go on Wednesday or Thursday."
I see. Thought it might be something like that.
Like what?
Something quite ordinary.
Another thing that's been nagging away -
the envelope that Joanna's letter came in,
the U in Burton had been changed from an A.
Inspector Graves didn't think
there was anything particularly significant in that,
but I can't help thinking , Miss Marple, that it's important.
I think you might be right.
You know, Mr Burton,
you should have more confidence in yourself.
You've received one of these letters, haven't you, Mr Burton?
Yes. Well, so have most people - apart from Miss Barton
Mm, so she says,
but she's rather reticent when it comes to unpleasantness.
And Elsie Holland.
- Miss Holland? - Yes. She hasn't had one either.
Well, that is interesting.
The most interesting thing I've heard yet.
It wasn't Elsie, was it?
Whose name I mentioned when I was asleep?
Well, I can't be absolutely sure.
It sounded more like...
Megan.
♪ Where have you been, Billy boy, Billy boy? ♪
♪ Oh, where have you been, charming Billy? ♪
♪ I have been to seek a wife, she's the idol of my life ♪
♪ She's a young thing and cannot leave her mother ♪
♪ Oh, where does she live, Billy boy, Billy boy ♪
♪ Oh, where does she live, charming Billy? ♪
♪ She lives on the hill, 40 miles from the mill ♪
♪ She's a young thing and cannot leave her mother ♪
Bravo!
- Bow nicely, that's right. - Well done.
Next time you might try the right key.
Thank you. Thank you, Brian and Colin.
And now my Harvest Soiree takes us further back in time,
to the ancients, in fact.
A recitation from our most revered Reverend,
who is going to regale us with...
An ode, by Horace.
Rectus vivas.
You spoil us.
Rectius vives,
Licini...
I didn't know Victorian sermons were up your street.
I beg your pardon?
That book you were reading the other day,
when I found you in the drawing room.
I hope you're not suggesting that...
"Sperat infestis,
"metuit secundis
"alteram sortem bene
perpetuum pectus."
"Informis hiemes
"reducit Iuppiter,
"Idem Summovet.
Non, si male nunc..."
Do you plan on staying?
- At the party? - No, in Lymstock.
Oh, good heavens, no. Only until the boys go away to school.
And then?
Who knows?
Another post in another town...
..or something else entirely.
- Well, you never can tell. - No. I...I'm sorry.
Don't be.
This might hurt.
Sorry.
Stay still.
Isn't that a bit much?
Arabian Rose? My dear, it's the shade du jour.
You can never wear too much.
- I want to go home. - Don't be silly. It's a giggle.
"Fulgura montis."
Thank you, Reverend, thank you.
No-one does Horace... quite like you.
A breath of air, Mr Burton?
I had some unfinished business.
Is it finished now?
Yes, I think it is.
And so, ladies and gentlemen...
Ah, Miss Barton. What an unexpected pleasure.
I didn't know you were going to favour us with a turn.
I'm sorry to disappoint you, Mr Pye, but this is not a turn.
I will be very brief.
I have lived in this village all my life.
It greatly saddens me, therefore,
to know that people are talking behind my back,
making insinuations.
Yes, the book from which the pages
were torn was found in my bookcase,
but it was not I who tore them.
I have nothing to do with the recent unpleasantness.
That is all I have to say.
Thank you.
Oh, Miss Barton.
Oh, dear. Well...
Thank you, Miss Barton.
And somewhat in the same vein, I would like to read you a letter.
''My dearest Cardew,
it is with a heavy heart that I write these lines,
but to continue as I have been would be unsustainable.
Be true to yourself as I was never able,
or indeed brave enough, to be.
Your loving friend, Heracles Appleton.''
I can think of no more appropriate moment
to follow the colonel's advice.
I hope this puts an end to the rumour
and doubt surrounding his death.
There was no murder, only malice,
no issue of paternity, only love he dared not express.
And I for one will always remember him.
Miss Holland, please take the boys home.
- More sherry, vicar? - Go away. Go away.
Ready?
I say!
Scrubs up well, doesn't she?
Sh! Don't be mean.
Oh, the dear girl.
Megan, no!
She's so highly strung.
Megan?
Megan!
You wouldn't have to butt in!
I'm sorry.
I thought I saw someone.
You did, but she scarpered.
Probably heard you.
- Why are you here? - Why do you think?
The typewriter's here. She daren't risk using another one.
So you know who did it?
Somebody very cunning, Mr Burton.
Somebody who knows all the tricks.
- Right. - Right.
Well, good night, then, sir.
Good night.
Megan?
What are you doing?
I just needed to clear my head.
It's been a rather muddling night.
You haven't just been in there, have you?
- The Women's Institute? - Yes.
Why on earth would I do that?
I don't know.
What a very odd question.
You look jolly nice, you know.
Jolly nice? I look like Coco the Clown.
-Megan, please -I'll never be accepted around here. Never.
Listen.
What I want to say is,
well, I rather think you like me.
Do I?
Yes.
And I rather like you.
And we get along together awfully well, don't we? I think.
Sometimes.
So, it might be a good idea if we thought about perhaps, one day,
being together for quite a while.
You mean, you're in love with me?
Yes, I suppose I am.
Oh.
But I'm not in love with you.
Then I'll make you love me.
That wouldn't do. I don't want to be made.
You're one of the nicest people I know,
but I'm not the right person for you.
I don't believe that.
- It's true. - I don't believe it.
I can see myself back.
Poor Elsie.
I'm surprised it's taken so long.
What did it say?
The usual muck. Some about stepping into a dead woman's shoes,
and if she didn't get out of town, she end up like Agnes.
It's like something out of a Western.
Yes, only, this is the real thing.
- Hello, inspector. - Good afternoon, Doctor.
Terribly sorry to interrupt,
so I just wondered if I could have a word with your sister?
With my sister?
- What on earth for? - Car lights again.
In private, sir.
It's ridiculous! As if I'd write this tosh!
Do you deny writing this, Miss Griffith?
Yes, of course I do.
Then I must tell you
that you were observed in the Women's Institute
typing this envelope between 1:00 and 1:30 this morning.
This is absolutely outrageous.
What's going on? Aimee, what's the matter?
- Would you like me to... - Please, Dickie. Go away.
- You need a solicitor. - Not you. I couldn't bear it.
Aimee, what's happened here?
- Aimee? - Please, Owen.
I'll get Mildmay. He's first class, really first class.
Aimee...
It isn't true.
I'm sure it isn't true.
The police were lying in wait. They saw her.
Perhaps they did.
And the pages torn from the book were found
in her under-stairs cupboard.
It seems she likes hiding things under the stairs.
Something else.
I remember Griffith telling me about
a similar story that took place up north,
which makes me wonder if Aimee had been involved
and was at it again.
The torn pages, you say, were hidden in the house?
- Yes. - That is horrible.
Really wicked.
What do you mean, dear?
What can one do? There must be something.
You know who did it.
Tell us, Jane, tell us who it is.
Not now, dear.
Not now.
I want a word. You haven't been telling the truth, have you?
I don't know what you're talking about.
What were you up to last night?
- I told you. - What, Megan?
I was clearing my head.
I don't believe you.
Is this your idea of being in love?
I don't think Miss Marple does either. What did she say to you?
It's got nothing to do with you.
Tell me. I've got to know.
That day in your bedroom, when you say you felt so wicked?
- Why did you say that? - Leave me alone.
And hating people? What does that mean? Tell me!
Get off! Get off me! Of all people,
I thought you understood, but you're just like the rest!
Quite unforgivable. And in front of the whole congregation.
You've had a dreadful time and everyone knows it.
Megan...I thought you were in bed.
I want to speak to you.
Alone.
Oh, I'll erm...
So, what is it? What do you want?
Well?
I want some money.
- Couldn't this have waited till morning? - No, I couldn't.
You think your allowance is inadequate, do you?
I want much more than that.
After a few months, you will come of age
and the money entrusted by your grandmother
would be turned over to you.
You don't understand. I want money from you.
Nobody's ever told me much about my father,
but I do know that he went to prison and I know why.
Well, I am my father's daughter and I want you to give me money,
because if you don't, I shall say
what I saw you doing that day in my mother's bedroom.
I don't know what you're talking about.
Yes, you do.
I saw you tampering with her medication,
one of the powder cachets by the bed.
You did, didn't you?
You really are a very foolish girl.
Perhaps you should buy some clothes.
At least try and look like a young lady.
Silly child.
Jerry?
Jerry.
Megan? She's the most honest person I've ever met!
Even Marple thinks she's guilty.
You've asked her, have you?
I saw her the other night outside the Women's Institute.
You're not thinking clearly, Jerry.
- Other things she said... - And it's not surprising!
Just suppose you've got the wrong end of the stick, which slaps your face
which wouldn't be the first time.
- What does that mean? - Accusing Owen, of all people.
He was lurking by the bookcase.
And poor little Miss Barton?
It's her book, for God's sake.
Megan.
Just suppose that Marple's actually trying to help Megan.
Rather than drinking yourself stupid
and feeling sorry for yourself,
why the hell don't you go round and find out?
Most crimes, you see, are so absurdly simple.
Quite sane and straightforward,
in an unpleasant sort of way.
The truth was really very obvious.
You saw it, Mr Burton.
Did I?
But hadn't the confidence to put two and two together.
Misdirection, the conjuror's trick,
making everyone look at the wrong thing.
In this case, those horrid letters.
The whole point was, there were no letters.
Of course there were.
I got one and Jerry got one.
Yes, but they weren't real. They simply didn't ring true.
Some hit the mark, others were wide of it,
like the letters you received, for instance.
So, if we put aside the letters,
just one thing actually happened.
Mrs Symmington died.
And the colonel, and Agnes, and Megan...
well, nearly.
Midnight snack, old chap?
Megan!
Richard Symmington, I am arresting you for murder your wife,
Mona Symmington and Agnes Brown.
And the attempted murder of your stepdaughter, Megan Hunter.
Megan, are you all right?
Went rather well, didn't it?
I'm sorry.
What a brave girl.
She could have died.
Something had to be done.
There was no evidence against this clever
and unscrupulous man.
I needed someone to help me. Megan fitted the bill perfectly.
It was too risky.
Of all people, Mr Burton,
you should know that we are not put into this world
to avoid danger when lives are at stake.
As I was saying,
the only actual fact was Mrs Symmington died,
and I'm afraid the very first person one
thinks of in such a case is the husband.
Of course, there has to be a motive, usually another woman.
And there we have Miss Holland.
A radiant young creature,
suddenly entering the life of this repressed, dry man.
He wanted her,
but he also wanted his reputation, his children,
his home, his respectability.
And the price he was prepared to pay for that was murder.
He typed all the envelopes
before donating the machine to the Women's Institute.
You unwittingly hit upon this, Mr Burton,
when you noticed
that U had been changed from an A on your sister's envelope,
originally addressed to Miss Barton.
And taking pages from Miss Barton's book would have been easy.
He visited her on more than one occasion
to give advice on financial matters.
But it was what you told me
about Miss Holland that was the most important thing of all.
That she had never received a letter.
it exposed Mr Symmington's one weakness.
How could he write a foul letter to the girl he loved?
I've never believed there's such a thing as perfect murder.
There's always been something doesn't quite fit.
That suicide note, for example.
It was all wrong.
People don't leave suicide notes on scraps of paper.
And I think that's what bothered you,
Mr Burton, about your sister's message.
If Owen rings up...
I can't go on...
Tuesday, but could manage Wednesday or Thursday.
I see.
Mr Symmington must have come across
such a message from his wife,
saw its possibilities and kept it for when the time came.
Finally, he decided to stage the real thing.
On the servants' day off.
Before going to work,
he put cyanide in the cachet his wife
would have taken for her neuralgia,
then he'd have got back to the empty house
at the same time as Miss Holland and the boys.
He put a little cyanide in his wife's glass
to make it look like suicide,
planted the note, and threw the poison-pen letter in grate.
But what he didn't know was...
was that little Agnes had, in fact, come home early,
after a quarrel with her young man.
She stood at the window,
waiting for her young man to come and make it up.
- And she saw something? - On the contrary, she saw nothing.
That's the point.
No-one came to the house. Not the postman, not anybody.
And in time she realised how odd this was
if Mrs Symmington was supposed to
receive the letter that afternoon
Miss Partridge?
It's Agnes.
The thing is, last week, the day the mistress died...
There's something I don't understand,
that don't quite add up.
The wretched girl had seen something, knew something,
and he couldn't afford to take any chances.
He pretended to leave the house...
..and waited till Agnes was alone.
What about Aimee? The police actually saw her write letter.
Aimee Griffith has been in love with Mr Symmington all her life.
- Well, I never! - Poor thing!
Then the gossip began about Elsie Holland.
Aimee would have seen her as a designing minx,
quite unworthy of her beloved Dickie.
Why not one more anonymous letter, frighten the girl away?
When Mr Symmington heard the police had actually seen her,
he couldn't believe his luck.
After her arrest, he'd have found an excuse
to return to the Griffith house and plant the pages,
thus clinching the case.
And that would seem to be that.
An end, at last, to this frightful business.
Quite an eventful convalescence, Mr Burton.
Yes.
Everything mended now?
No bones still broken?
No bones broken, no.
COL.H.APPLETON 1892 - 1952
The Symmington boys start school next term.
Probably for the best.
Mm.
Children are very resilient.
More than their elders, I often think.
Your sister intends staying, I gather.
For a while, yes.
To see if she might take to being a doctor's wife.
Somehow I doubt it.
Love makes us do the strangest things.
And you, Mr Burton, what about you?
I'm going away.
To do what?
Do you know, I haven't a clue.
I expect I'll find something.
Perhaps what you're looking for is right here under your nose.
She doesn't want me, Miss Marple.
Faint heart, Mr Burton.
I once let someone go.
He had commitments, you see...
..a war to fight.
But I have often wondered if, under other circumstances,
I would have done the same.
It seems to me, Mr Burton,
that we should count ourselves blessed
if we are allowed just one shot at happiness.
Thanks for pulling me out of the oven.
It's all right.
I don't suppose you've changed your mind?
No.
Because I'm absolutely sure, you see,
quite, quite certain, that...
to look after you, to make you happy and keep you from harm,
is now the purpose of my life.
So, there's nothing I could say or do to make you reconsider?
Not even this?
And so I found myself on another morning,
with another girl,
and for the first time in my life,
on the verge of something bright and good.
small corrections by:lfellix[freelance]