Uh, excuse me!
Sorry to bother you. We're trying to find The Furze.
The Furze.
Good heavens! Could you be Ms. Barton's new tenants?
- Right. - How exciting!
Gerry Burton. My sister, Joanna.
Well, I never. Maud Calthrop.
My husband's Vicar here.
He'll be expecting to see you in church on Sunday.
Everyone will. They're all dying to meet you.
Oh, Lord. Suppose we disappoint them?
Oh, I'm quite sure you won't.
Now, let me tell you.
The Furze, straight through the village,
about half a mile, turn left and there you are.
How very nice to see you both!
And welcome to The Furze.
- Oh, thank you. - Thanks.
- Beatrice! - Oh!
GERRY: Thank you very much. EMILY: Shall I?
Come along, girl! Go get them bags out of the car.
I do hope you'll both be happy here. I'm so fond of it.
Well, after all, I've lived here all my life.
You get used to things, don't you?
Oh, dear! I can't help feeling we're driving you out.
Oh, but you mustn't! It's the war, taxation.
The cost of everything nowadays. The upkeep.
I simply had to do something.
Besides, it won't be forever.
Now, Partridge is staying on to look after you.
She's a cook, housekeeper and a treasure.
And then, there's Beatrice. She's the maid and all that.
Uh, not very experienced, but willing.
A gardener, Cleat, who comes in twice a week,
has a strange wife, but you don't need to see much of her.
Do forgive me, Mr. Burton, but were you hurt during the war?
No, no. Not a scratch actually, no.
That was a test flight for a new jet.
Both engines blew at 30,000.
Then the ejector gear malfunctioned.
I managed to bring her down all right,
but I hit the deck pretty hard.
Pretty lucky, I suppose.
Oh! Yes, I... I see.
Uh, he's trying to tell you, Ms. Barton,
that he crashed his plane.
Good heavens! I'm sorry.
You'll have to let Owen Griffith, our nice doctor, take care of you.
Oh, I believe the hospital has already been in touch with him.
Good. He's Welsh, of course.
But the Welsh are so clever, aren't they?
And Partridge is an excellent cook.
She'll help you build up your strength.
Oh, no, no. Never in this house.
Oh, I'm sorry.
Oh, no. You mustn't be.
It's just that...
Well, smoking never occurred to me.
Oh, don't worry. I'll see he has lots of ashtrays.
It's so silly of me.
It all comes of never having a man about the place.
The last one was my eldest sister's beau
and he didn't last long.
- Mother took exception. - To his smoking?
To his accent.
"Wasn't quite a gentleman," she said.
I thought he was rather nice. Jolly.
Dephne fretted, but, uh, as Mother told her,
you never know with men.
Know what, Ms. Barton?
Another cup of tea, my dear?
JOANNA: Thanks so much.
Mr. Burton, do forgive me if I don't offer you something stronger.
Men prefer that, don't they?
I remember my father did,
but Mother took exception to that, too.
Didn't approve, wouldn't allow it in the house.
Poor Father.
And poor Mother.
But she was an invalid, you see.
She always managed to have her own way.
VICAR: The peace of God be with you
and remain with you always.
- Amen. - Amen.
Good morning. Mr. and Mrs. Cleat.
I'm glad you could make it this time.
Vicar, what a simply splendid sermon! Did Maud choose the text?
- She must have. - She did not.
St. Paul, wasn't it, "Let brotherly love continue"?
Had... Had you our newcomers in mind?
Indeed. Should you encourage it?
Not sure I know what you're getting at.
Paul goes on to say, doesn't he,
"Be not forgetful to entertain strangers,
"for thereby some have entertained angels unawares?"
Oh, how delicious!
Somewhat mutilated, the male angel, perhaps.
But the girl, she's quite a sensation, wouldn't you say?
I trust not. Ah!
Guy, I don't think you've met Squadron Leader Burton,
and his sister, have you?
No, delighted to see you here.
- Thank you, Padre. - Thank you.
This is a near neighbor of yours, Mr. Pye.
Never believe a word he tells you.
He spends his whole time laughing at the rest of us.
Dear lady, how unfair, unkind, untrue.
Despite the malicious Maud,
you'll come and take a sherry with me at Priory Lodge, won't you?
We'd love to.
Look at her makin' up to that old Mr. Pye!
Yeah, painted up to the eyeballs, too.
And in church.
And soon. Promise?
Promise.
Oh, dear.
Symmington brood cometh. I must away.
- Squadron Leader, you're on parade. - Right.
- Ms. Burton, you are an event!
Sleepy, old Lymston's going to love you!
- Bye-bye. Bye. - Bye.
Now, boys, run ahead with Elsie, will you? We shan't be long.
Here, off we go, then.
Elsie, Elsie, I'm terribly hungry.
ELSIE: You're just greedy.
Oh. Elsie, my shoelace.
GUY: Maud, you said absolutely nothing about my sermon.
Does that mean you have no complaints?
MAUD: Oh, much better, dear, and still a trifle long, perhaps.
I didn't see anyone asleep.
You're wearing the wrong specs, Guy.
- Your reading glasses. - But they're so stiff.
Come on, Robert.
Dozing, I fear, many of them.
ELSIE: Come on. GUY: Good heavens!
Let's go and have some lunch. Shall we?
See you lunchtime.
Megan!
Oh, just look at that girl's stockings.
A large potato in each heel.
What a graceless child.
Yes, Guy, the sermon was wonderful,
but still a little long winded.
- EDWARD: Good morning. - Ah, Mr. Symmington!
How nice to see you again.
- And Mrs. Symmington? - How do you do?
Oh, Gerry, Mr. Symmington is Ms. Barton's solicitor.
- How do you do? - How do you do?
And there's still something Gerry has to sign, isn't there?
Oh, there's no hurry.
Next time you're in the High Street, just drop in.
Right. I will do.
Edward, we'd better be moving.
The boys will be starving.
Righty-ho.
Well, it's nice to have you both here.
See you again, soon. Guy, Maud.
Edward.
- Gerry. - Mmm-hmm?
You know something?
I have a feeling that Lymston's doing you a power of good.
That was supposed to be the general idea, wasn't it?
It was.
So?
Well, remembering all those pretty nurses at the hospital
who fussed and fretted
and soothed your fevered brow for months on end
and to what purpose?
Well, apart from their job had they a purpose?
Whatever. You remained totally indifferent.
But 10 days in Lymston and, um...
What the hell are you talking about?
Church last Sunday.
The Symmingtons' nurse governess.
Don't think I didn't notice.
You're getting better, my darling brother.
You do talk the most awful rubbish.
Mind you, the talent isn't exactly thick on the ground.
And say, I had to choose between her and Partridge.
Oh, thank you very much.
Uh, had you thought about lunch, Miss?
Oh, gosh, I hadn't.
You think about it for me, will you, Partridge?
Well, if that's what you want, Miss.
There. They'll cheer you up, letters from abandoned lovers.
Two of them are bills, Gerry.
Oh, well, can't win 'em all.
- What the devil's this? - You tell me.
My God!
It's one of those...
What are they called... Poison pen letters!
It's filthy, absolutely disgusting!
No! Oh, do let's see!
No, no, Jo. I'm not sure you'd want to.
But I do! Please.
All right.
Are they always like this?
Well, how in hell should I know?
Well, what shall we do?
Simple.
And I thought they rather liked us down here.
Seems somebody doesn't.
But what kind of person?
It's a nutcase. It must be. Forget it.
Okay.
But surely there's someone we should talk to?
Jane! Over here, dear!
Oh, there you are!
So sorry I was late.
But it's wonderful to see you.
Oh, jump in, dear.
Very well.
PARTRIDGE: Best answer that, Beatrice!
Ah, Doctor. Come on in.
Morning, Beatrice.
Behaving yourself?
Only when I has to, Doctor.
I'll just let him know.
Dr. Griffith, sir, called to see you.
No, don't get up. On my rounds. Thought it was time we met.
Owen Griffith, your local quack.
Good to see you, Doctor.
Well, I'm supposed to keep an eye on you.
Your doctor wants weekly progress reports.
Well, you'd better ask Joanna about that.
She seems to think I'm doing pretty well.
Ah. Done some nursing, have you?
He's sending me up, Doctor.
We looked for you in church last Sunday.
Did you, now?
Well, at chapel, you see, my sister and me.
We don't pray with the big nobs.
Foreigners, if you like.
Now, I'd like to give you the once over, if that's convenient.
Right. I'm off, Doctor. Take good care of him, won't you?
Hmm, that's my job.
- And, um, come and see us again soon. - Once a week.
And don't forget, we're foreigners, too. Bye.
- Breathe in.
Been here long, Doc?
Breathe in again. Seven years.
- And still a stranger?
Well, I wasn't born here, you see.
But they're good. Kindly people, mostly.
Who wouldn't write
unpleasant, untruthful, ugly letters about people, would you say?
- You've had one, have you? - Mmm-hmm.
- In circulation, are they? - Forgive me, uh...
May I ask what it said, or shouldn't I?
Why not? No one apparently is deceived.
Uh, the young lady you've just met
is a tart, a trollop and certainly not my sister.
Oh, I give you, of course, the expurgated version.
Well, indeed, I'm sorry.
I hope she's not too upset?
Jo spent two years on a fighter station. She's case-hardened.
Upset? No.
But just a nasty taste in her mouth.
Hmm. I can imagine.
- Ribs still painful? - Only when I laugh.
Well, you haven't got much to laugh about, have you?
...Right. Let's have a look at the legs.
Sit down.
These letters, Doctor, have there been others?
- Yes. - Who to?
- Me for one. - To you?
And why not?
The writer is pathological and indiscriminate.
Push hard, please.
Scattering the shot far and wide. And that is worrying.
Why?
Well, someone who just can't take it might get hit.
Push again. Someone vulnerable.
And that could be dangerous.
Stand up, please.
Yeah. Your right leg is a bit wasted.
Oh, okay.
Exercise it. Throw away one of those sticks, will you?
- Yeah. - "Arise, and walk,"
as the good book says.
So here endeth the first lesson.
See you next week.
Doctor...
These letters,
are they much the same thing?
Well, I can tell you about mine.
Accused me of violating my professional relationship,
of loose conduct with certain lady patients.
The sexual detail was extremely lurid.
That is usual, of course.
What was the handwriting like?
There was no handwriting.
The envelope was typewritten.
And the letter was just printed words cut out of an old book
and pasted onto a sheet of paper.
That's it. Mine, too.
The work of some complete illiterate, I would imagine.
Would you?
See you next week.
Maud's told you all about it, Jane?
Oh, yes, indeed.
Yes, it must be very worrying for you.
- Very. - Here you are.
Oh, thank you so much.
Now, Jane, excuse me if I leave you to Maud.
I have to prepare the weekly sleeping pill.
Oh, yes. Of course, Guy.
Oh, I've taken St. Paul's warning on the flesh and the devil.
"For to be carnally minded is death."
Appropriate I thought in the circumstances.
And I would have thought, suitably discouraging.
Keep it short, dear.
Well, now, Maud, when did all this start?
Oh, hard to say. The villagers scandalize,
but hate scandals when they find themselves involved.
Don't like others knowing they've received, well, dirty letters.
For fear the neighbors might say,
there's no smoke without fire, is that it?
Exactly.
Not that anything remains a secret for long in Lymston.
No, but poor Guy. What is he accused of?
Oh, something quite disgraceful,
with one of the women who does the altar flowers.
Well, he was flabbergasted.
Shocked, devastated! Poor dear.
How shameful!
Well, you know Guy almost as well as I do.
Absolutely no taste for fornication, none whatsoever.
- I almost wish he had. - Really, Maud.
A little worldly spice added to his sermons
might make them more interesting.
Well, you married a cleric, my dear, a classical scholar.
And I've yet to find such a combination with a robust appetite for sin.
Oh, I find that most reassuring.
Well, now, Maud, what do you want of me?
Well, it's not in your league, dear. I know.
No dead bodies, no gunshots.
- No blunt instruments. - Really, Maud.
Not even a shadow of Scotland Yard.
Just a lot of unhappy people.
I know you can help.
You mean, find the lady?
If it is one, yes.
Yes. Yes, of course.
Are you all right?
Yes, thanks. Hello.
- Hello. - You're Mr. Burton, aren't you?
- Yes. - Saw you after church.
- Was that your wife with you? - Hmm? No, no, no, my sister.
Oh. I'm Megan. Saw you were alone.
Thought I'd stop and walk with you.
Had to fall off my bike, of course.
Never mind. Nice of you.
Look, I see you've torn your stocking.
Gosh. So I have. Doesn't matter.
It will once you've left school.
I've left school!
Oh, you have? Forgive me.
How old do you think I am?
Ah, the truth game.
I'm 20.
Sorry, again.
You think I ought to be more like your sister, all dolled up.
No, I don't.
She's awfully pretty.
Isn't a bit like you, is she?
Well, she's clean and presentable.
And not a bit like me, you mean?
You're a pilot, aren't you?
Hmm. I was.
Will you always be a bit of a crock?
According to my doctor, no.
I was afraid you looked bad-tempered
because you were crocked up for life.
Bad-tempered?
Well, irritable then.
It's only because I'm in a hurry to get fit again.
Aren't you ever in a hurry for things to happen?
Not much point.
Nothing ever happens. Not to me.
Oh, but, surely your mother and your father...
My father's not my father. He's my stepfather.
Ah, is he?
We never mention my real father.
Disgraced himself, it seems. Disappeared.
Then Mummy married Mr. Symmington.
You've met him, haven't you?
Yes. Anyway, all's well that ends well.
You think?
Not sure he likes me very much.
Not sure Mummy does either for that matter.
Now, you're being morbid, girl.
Am I?
Fact is, I'm a bit of a bore I suppose.
And before I start boring you, I'd better be off. Bye!
I just don't know what we do with the girl, Edward.
- She's young. - She's 20.
And, if I may say so, your problem.
Thank you.
Oh, no. I'm sorry, my dear. I didn't mean it like that.
It's just that being a stepfather, it's...
Makes it difficult for you to say what you really feel?
Yes, sometimes.
Well, not for me.
I've our boys to consider.
She wanders off by herself.
She's always late for meals.
Makes no attempt to help Elsie in the nursery
and dresses like a tramp!
What sort of example is that for them?
She's just as her father was, disruptive.
Oh, good morning.
I wonder could you help me.
Which Mr. Symmington do I ask for?
There is only one.
Oh, but I thought I read "Symmington, Galbraith and Symmington."
Oh, the first Mr. Symmington was the present Mr. Symmington's father.
He's dead.
Oh. Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.
Well, perhaps, I might see the present Mr. Symmington?
He's engaged at the moment. Can I help you?
Oh, no, thank you. Thank you so much.
No, it's a church matter.
But, uh, well, perhaps, I might wait?
- Yes, of course. Do sit down. - Thank you so much.
I'll just let him know.
Oh, how very kind.
Would you say Ms. Marple, Jane Marple?
- Yes, of course. - Thank you.
Excuse me, sir. A Ms. Jane Marple.
Won't keep you long, Ms. Marple. He has Mrs. Symmington with him.
Oh. Well, then we mustn't disturb them, must we?
You know, I always think that working in a solicitor's office
must prove most rewarding.
Oh, it is.
All those different people, different problems
and finding solutions for them.
Well, Mr. Symmington's the one who does all that.
- And does he? - Yes. He's really marvelous.
Very patient, very kind.
Simply wonderful with people.
Really?
Ms. Marple?
- Do come in. - Thank you so much.
I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. Please sit down.
Oh, no. It's I who should be asking forgiveness for interrupting a busy man.
Not at all. My wife tells me you've already met.
Oh, yes, yes. Of course. Last year at the Vicarage.
Yes, how are you?
And how is that most interesting daughter of yours, Megan?
Oh, my poor Megan?
At the awkward age I'm afraid.
Oh, but she must be in her early 20s by now?
But very young. Quite a child still.
Most mothers think they grow up too quickly.
Not me, Ms. Marple.
I only wish she'd do something, learn something.
Typing, dressmaking,
even take a correspondence course. Anything.
If only she'd get out of...
Out of your home?
Oh, most certainly not. That's the last thing we'd want.
Angela would want, isn't it, my dear?
Naturally.
Now, I know you ladies like to natter,
but Ms. Marple had a purpose in coming to see me, so...
Yes, of course. Yes. Let... Let me see. Now, where was I?
Yes. Now, Maud Calthrop wants to remind you
that the Church Restoration Fund accounts...
Have to be completed and submitted by next Tuesday?
They are. They will be.
Oh, absolutely splendid!
Well, in that case, I don't think I...
Oh! There was one other little matter.
- Then I'd better be on my way. - No, no, no! Please.
No, no. Don't go on my account. No.
Private matters in a solicitor's office
are, I know, as inviolate as a confessional.
No, it was just that I...
I wondered if by any chance
you'd heard about these anonymous letters
that have been going around?
Uh, come in.
Sorry to interrupt, sir.
But would it be convenient if I popped along to the stationers?
We're almost out of copying paper.
Why not, Ms. Ginch? Off you go. Don't be long, though.
Oh, you'd better leave that door ajar.
Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.
I'm sorry. Please go on.
Mr. Symmington, as a legal man,
what would your advice be to someone who received such a letter?
Take it to the police, immediately.
And if they don't?
- But they do. - Do?
Well, at least I did.
Oh, good heavens! Don't tell me that you yourself...
I'm afraid so.
Oh. Well, forgive an inquisitive old lady, Mr. Symmington,
but, uh, what was the police response?
Amiable.
Came from our own solid Sergeant Fowler.
Not to get excited. It's probably some spinster lady
getting a little overheated.
I didn't enquire exactly what he meant by that.
Oh. So, he assumes that the writer is a woman?
Well, nine times out of 10 they are, apparently.
Oh, yes. Yes, I see.
Yes. That would account for all those letters
that I seem to know about being addressed to men. Yes.
Well, I won't keep you any longer.
Thank you for giving me so much of your valuable time.
- Well, goodbye. - Not at all.
ANGELA: Goodbye, Ms. Marple.
Oh. May I just say this? I do congratulate you
on your choice of secretary.
Nowadays it's so rare
to hear an employee speak so warmly of an employer.
Edward seems to inspire hero worship, Ms. Marple.
I rather had that impression. Goodbye.
Goodbye, Ms. Marple.
- So, you made it? - Mmm-hmm.
There and back?
Apart from a sit-down in Symmington's office, that's all.
- Meet anyone? - Mmm.
All of Lymston.
And nearly knocked down into the bargain.
How?
GERRY: Oh, the Symmington girl on a bicycle.
That the Megan we've heard about?
Mmm. Funny girl.
I hope, Mr. Burton,
if you'll excuse the liberty, but I'd like a word.
- Mmm. Of course. - It's Beatrice, sir.
Beatrice?
Yes, Mr. Burton. She'll have to go.
Go where?
Leave.
Oh, but why?
'Cause of these letters, sir.
Wicked, they are. Indecent, too, using such words!
Worse than what I've ever read in the Bible even.
Mind you, I know there were no truths in them.
And you with them bad legs and all.
Me? What are you talking about? Has Beatrice received...
No, sir. George have.
George down the garage. Two of them's walking out.
And there are no smoke without fire. That's what he told her.
So I says, "Better you go, girl."
What will the poor kid do?
Oh, she's all right. She's fixed up nice.
The Symmington maid were married off last month.
So now, they've took Beatrice on.
But how about you?
Oh, I'll manage somehow.
Well, I'm damned.
She was always such a bright, little thing.
Yes. Well, she'll be better off with them.
There ain't no young men around.
I'll take it.
Partridge?
Yes, Mr. Burton?
These letters, people must have some idea.
- Oh, they have. - Have they?
They have indeed.
And do you mark my words,
there's going to be a mischief, sooner or later.
You'll see. Folk get violent...
Oh, come on, Partridge.
In their feelings, sir.
But you can't take it that seriously.
There's plenty who's do, sir.
Young George down the garage, for instance.
So, who's the frontrunner, the prime suspect?
Well, I'm not one for gossip, sir, as well you know.
But there's those that do say it's Mrs. Cleat.
Cleat, the gardener's wife?
Oh, she's more than that, Mr. Burton.
Exercise, long walks, no rich food, no pastry.
You are prescribing, of course, prison fare, Owen.
I am prescribing better health and a lower blood pressure.
But boring.
Ms. Griffith, your brother's being very cruel.
To be kind, Mr. Pye.
Owen, you're like that awful Bernard Shaw.
What did Oscar say?
"He has no enemies and all his friends hate him."
Good day to the pair of you.
Oh, very witty, Mr. Pye.
He's the boring one.
Right, that's the lot?
Yes, appointments.
Thanks.
Hmm.
Oh, what's this, "Burton, Tuesday"?
Phoned. Said he'd come in, save you a journey.
Good. Must be feeling better.
- Nice, is he? - Hmm. Pleasant sort of chap.
- Lot of talk about his sister, I hear. - Is that so?
Tarts herself up like one of these fashion models, doesn't she?
Mmm, I wouldn't say that.
Rather attractive, as a matter of fact.
No. On reflection, very attractive.
Men!
Oh, Lord. No more gossip.
Last visit.
ERYL: And I know who to.
Oh, uh, did you make up that prescription?
Here it is.
"Mrs. Symmington, the sedative.
"One to be taken, midday and before retiring."
- Bless you, Eryl. - There's nothing wrong
with the woman a good dose of common sense wouldn't cure.
She's very nervy and neurotic.
And a nuisance to everyone.
To you, her family.
She needs support, Eryl.
Indeed, she does.
Oh, that poor man, her husband!
He's the one I feel sorry for.
Look, woman.
When we first came here, Symmington was very helpful.
Very kind to both of us, I know that.
And I know you've also had a very soft spot for him.
Whatever do you mean?
Owen, what do you take me for?
He's a married man!
That's right, Eryl.
Oh, come now.
Get on the phone to The Cricketers, woman.
I'm taking you out tonight.
Shan't be long.
Oh. A delicious sherry, Mr. Pye.
And, if I may say so, an exquisite house.
Indeed you may, dear lady.
But then, you appreciate the importance of beauty.
As do our young friends here.
Alas, very rare in these parts.
Here, where every prospect pleases.
And only man is vile?
Much worse. Dull!
Unbearably, impossibly dull.
Oh, I don't know. I think the villagers are rather fun.
The generosity of youth, my dear.
But I... I didn't mean the rustics.
You can excuse them.
They... They live, work and play amid pigsties
with a permanent smell of manure in their nostrils.
No. I... I meant those who should know better.
Those with money and no taste,
arrogance and no sensibility,
minds devoid of imagination.
Ugly, ugly, ugly people.
But you!
You I claim as kindred spirits.
You are as eloquent, Mr. Pye, as you are gracious as a host.
Dear Ms. Marple, what a charming compliment.
If perhaps a little severe on your fellow men.
What I don't understand, sir, is
why are you settled here in the first place?
What were you looking for?
Sanctuary.
Not quite sure I follow.
From the war.
Those terrifying doodlebugs, the dust and dirt.
The smell of all those bodies sheltering in the underground.
I... I'm not a brave man, Squadron Leader.
And it would be folly to pretend otherwise.
Bombs frighten me. I abominate all violence.
So, you left London, was it?
I did indeed.
What with the Yanks, and all their GI brides-to-be,
running an antique shop in the King's Road, Chelsea,
became quite intolerable.
And when my...
My partner chose to disappear into the blue,
that was it.
London could take it, I couldn't.
I sold up, fled!
And here I am.
Oh, dear.
I think that's rather a sad, little tale.
Ah! Beauty and sympathy in combination, irresistible.
Another glass of sherry wine?
Oh, you haven't told us, Mr. Pye. Did you find sanctuary?
I did, dear lady. Here. In this house.
Nowhere else.
Certainly not with my neighbors.
Oh.
Oh, forgive my ignorance,
but isn't that just a little limiting?
Not if you have a passion for beauty.
And... And don't you find that houses can be passionate?
Oh, yes. How interesting! It hadn't occurred to me.
For example, uh, take Emily Barton.
- Ms. Barton? - That house you're in.
I mean, what... What is it?
Nothing but a monument to her mother's perversions.
A cold fortress against the masculine ego.
I wouldn't know about that.
Warping.
She doesn't seem very warped.
Well, scarred. Underneath, scarred.
Had it not occurred to you, those P.P. letters?
P.P.?
Poison pen.
Surely you're not suggesting Ms. Barton?
Appearances can be deceptive, of course.
Can't they just?
And how about that girl down at the surgery?
The receptionist, the Doctor's sister?
All that Welsh passion expended in polishing her ugly lino.
Oh. But surely, somebody else does that?
Possibly. But it's a thought, Ms. Marple.
Would... Would you not say another candidate for our P.P. lady?
So... So secretive!
And those flashing eyes!
Wow! She sounds quite a dish.
Ms. Marple?
Oh. Oh, no, thank you.
No, really, how should I face the Vicar at lunch?
Uh, but tell me, Mr. Pye,
um, talking of the P.P. letters,
do tell me,
have you ever received one yourself?
Me?
Whatever have I to hide that might interest the writer?
Oh, I'm sure I don't know, Mr. Pye.
George!
George, you were supposed to meet me at the bus stop!
Well, I changed my mind, didn't I?
Why? Just tell me, why?
Reckon you know.
Oh, don't be so daft.
You're muckin' up my one day off!
Yours, too!
Don't care.
Look, it weren't my fault you getting that letter, were it?
- Weren't it? - I told you.
He's a cripple, walks on sticks.
What can he do?
He can look at you.
But I've left the place.
Know what you are, don't you? Barmy!
Yeah? I knows what you are...
Well, thank you very much, George Ellis!
If that's what you think of me,
I'd best go straight back to the Symmingtons'!
If you change that mind of yours again, that's where you'll find me.
- Hello! - Megan!
Hello to you! Where are you off to?
Nowhere special. Just cycling around.
Then come in.
Come on!
You sure?
Joanna's around somewhere.
I have darned my stockings.
Have you? Good show.
Well, are you or aren't you? Will you or won't you?
Perhaps, your sister's busy.
She's not and she wants to meet you.
Can't see why.
- Here we are. - Well done.
Any girl who throws herself at my brother's feet.
She fell off her bicycle, Jo.
You told me. Here.
Not another.
What is it?
- Dry martini. - What's that?
A cocktail.
I've never had cocktails before.
They lift you up.
- Makes me dizzy.
Suspect you think I'm awful.
Unspeakable. What're you doing about it?
Tell me what do you think?
Darling, I think you're a breath of fresh air.
And you and I are gonna be great pals.
Hmm.
Everyone else thinks I'm stupid.
Oh, for goodness sake, stop imagining things.
I know what goes on in their minds.
In your mind.
I'm not wanted, you know.
Mummy doesn't like me one bit.
Now, you're being morbid again, child.
And I'm not a child. She doesn't.
I remind her of Daddy.
She'd like it to be just herself and the boys and their father.
Megan, darling, why don't you...
Well, couldn't you just leave?
To do what? I'm quite useless.
No money, no training.
It's true, no one would miss me.
I would. I'd miss those holier-than-thou stockings of yours.
There you are, you see. I'm just a slob!
That isn't true.
That's what everyone believes.
That's why I hate Lymston.
Hate the house I live in, hate my mother,
hate everyone, everything!
Well, that's pretty comprehensive, so...
I'd better be going.
Thanks, Joanna, thanks very much.
- My dear girl... - For heaven's sake,
stop being so superior, so patronizing!
Patronizing?
I'm sorry.
Anyway, thanks, to both of you.
So what did I say?
Do you think she'll be all right?
My God, that girl's a problem child!
Not a child, a woman.
And now, she has another problem.
Hmm? What's that?
Oh, dear. Can't you guess?
- I'm away, Ms. Ginch. - Goodnight, sir.
Oh. That conveyance on the Alderton property.
I'll have it ready in the morning, Mr. Symmington.
Fine. I'll see you tomorrow.
Back to the table, Robert. At once.
No one's said you could get down.
And, James, don't wave your knife around like that.
What would Mummy say if she saw you?
Daddy's home.
Now, sit up properly, both of you, and behave yourselves.
Oh, Robert, you've got jam all over your face. Here.
Fishy face.
Oh.
Daddy, Daddy, we want to show you something!
- Now, then, boys! - Daddy, I want to show you something.
Hey! Back up, there, back up there!
You're pulling me apart!
What have you two monsters been up to?
We went down to the river.
And look what we caught, Daddy.
Yes, look, Daddy!
Look, here they are, Daddy.
Oh, they're tiddlers.
Where's the shark?
You can't catch sharks in the river.
Don't be stupid, Daddy.
Sharks like warm water. Sharks would freeze in cold water.
- Wouldn't they, Robert? - Have you seen my wife?
Oh, still resting I think, Mr. Symmington.
Still?
Well, she wasn't downstairs when we arrived home.
- Look, I caught that. - Well, I'll have...
Try and squeeze another cup out of that pot, Elsie.
- Now, that's not fair! - Help her wake up.
You'll have three. I'll have none.
ROBERT: That's more like it.
- No, they're not! - You know, you really are noisy.
You stand six inches apart. You have to shout at each other.
Calm down.
I'll be back in a minute.
Come on, boys, and help me clear up. It's bath time soon.
...Come on.
Elsie!
Ms. Holland!
Mr. Symmington! What is it?
What's the matter?
Whatever made you choose this color, Jane?
Do you disapprove?
I don't comment. I enquire.
Well, it's not for me, Guy.
It's for my baby goddaughter.
Hello, the Vicarage.
Yes, Maud Calthrop speaking.
Good evening, Ms. Holland.
Oh, dear Lord!
No!
Yes, of course.
My husband will come over immediately.
It's Angela Symmington.
Oh, dear!
She's not dead, is she?
- Morning. - Morning.
- Morning, sir. - Morning.
CORONER: Uh, just one moment, Superintendent,
I'd like to make a note of that.
I am most obliged, Superintendent. Carry on, please.
The police have established the following, sir.
"Mr. Symmington had returned to his office shortly after lunch.
"Ms. Holland had taken the two boys off for a walk and a picnic.
"Mrs. Symmington's daughter, Megan, went cycling.
"And the two servants had left because it was their half day off.
"Mrs. Symmington was alone in the house
"when the letter was delivered."
By post?
By hand. There was no stamp.
Hmm.
This, uh, potassium cyanide,
do we know where it came from?
It seems the potting shed.
There had been a plague of wasps.
The gardener was using it to destroy the nests.
Thank you, Superintendent.
And, Doctor, how would you describe
the dead woman's general state of health?
She had a nervous condition which I was treating.
With these sedatives she took daily?
Would you consider her a neurotic?
OWEN: Well, she suffered from nervous disorder, yes.
And on receiving a letter of this kind
what, in your estimation, would be its effect on her?
It would, in my judgment, prove a great shock.
Even destabilizing, would you say?
Quite possibly.
On reading that letter, can there be any doubt
that this poor woman was thrown into a state of extreme agitation?
She went out into the garden,
she found the cyanide,
took some back into the house,
threw it into a glass containing her usual sedative
and then drank it
after writing those last tragic words,
"I can't go on."
The writer of that wicked letter is morally guilty of murder.
And the police, I know, will not relax their efforts
until this culprit is apprehended.
This court finds that
Angela Margaret Symmington did take her own life
whilst the balance of her mind was disturbed.
Hey, Megan, wait!
Come along.
Mr. Symmington.
Edward.
I'm so sorry.
How terrible for you, all that coming out of the letter!
I just hope whoever it is can sleep nights.
If there is anything I can do.
I know. Thank you.
Mr. Symmington, I'd better get back to the boys.
Oh, yes, yes, of course. I... I must stay.
I have to thank the Coroner.
Bad it is. Very bad.
Well, you shouldn't have left that there cyanide lying round, Arthur Cleat.
- Should you? - Here, never you go blaming me!
You blame them wasps!
Ms. Partridge. I... I...
What, girl?
Tomorrow afternoon, could I come and see you?
Just for a chat?
What you been up to now then, eh?
Nothing, Ms. Partridge.
But I do have something on my mind.
Oh! You do, do you?
- Something bothering at me. - Mmm-hmm.
Remember when I had that row with George?
The day all this happened, you know?
My stars! I wish now I'd never went to that there house.
I just feel so alone now, Guy.
I'm not sure I can face it.
You will.
You must, for the boys' sake.
Without Angela?
I know, Edward.
Look.
Owen believed it was cyanide.
There had to be a reason, Edward.
That letter. That damn, filthy letter!
Saying what?
That our youngest, Jamie, wasn't my child.
And whoever wrote it was going to tell the world
who the real father was.
I mean, it was all nonsense. It's sheer nonsense.
Guy, you know, he was our child! You christened him!
Of course, of course.
If only I'd been with her.
If only someone...
If only she hadn't been alone.
Guy will look after him. That's his job.
There's nothing more we can do.
Selfish and silly she may have been,
but I can hardly think she was the kind of woman to...
To take her own life?
But the note, "I can't go on," and cyanide.
Yes.
Perhaps, I should have seen and understood sooner.
What, Jane?
Maud, my dear, I'm afraid.
Of what?
That it was not suicide.
You can't mean...
You can't, Jane!
But who would want to...
Kill her?
Well, that we've yet to find out, my dear.