Elsie!
Miss Holland!
Morning.
The writer of that wicked letter is morally guilty of murder.
This court finds that Angela Margaret Symmington did take her own life
whilst the balance of her mind was disturbed.
Miss Partridge...
I... I...
What, girl?
Tomorrow at noon, could I come and see you?
Just for a chat.
What you been up to now, then, eh?
Nothing, Miss Partridge.
But I do have something on my mind.
MRS. DOBSBY: ♫ A tree that may in summer wear
♫ A nest of robins in her hair
♫ Upon whose bosom snow has lain
♫ Who intimately lives with rain
♫ Poems are made by fools like me
MAUD: Ah, Superintendent! Come along in, do.
♫ But only God - Sorry to intrude.
Not at all.
♫ Can make ♫ - Uh, Mrs. Dobsby, dear.
Just a moment, would you mind?
Thank you so much.
Oh, I don't think you know my friend, Jane Marple.
Saw you at the inquest yesterday, didn't I, Miss Marple?
Oh, yes, yes. That's right.
Is this the only typewriter you ladies have?
The one and only. Eryl, that's right, isn't it?
Yes. Mr. Symmington gave it to us.
I see. When was that?
Ooh, Miss Ginch, you'd know.
Oh, dear, let's see. It must have been November last year.
Look, I'm holding you up. I wonder if you'd mind typing out
a couple of addresses on these envelopes for me.
Two fingers only, I'm afraid.
Two's enough. Here they are.
- Oh, I don't think I quite understand. - Maud, dear.
Those horrid letters all had typewritten envelopes.
They may have been typed on the same machine.
And I daresay the Superintendent is trying to track it down.
Just an area check.
Oh. Of course. Of course.
Oh, forgive me, Superintendent. I wonder, might I have a word with you?
- Certainly. - Yesterday's verdict...
Yes, Miss Marple?
Uh, at the inquest, did you not find it, perhaps, a little too simple? Too easy?
Easy?
Suicide.
As a conclusion.
No, Miss Marple. I did not.
- Here you are. - Thank you.
Thank you very much. Sorry to disturb you.
JOANNA: Gosh! What a simply perfect evening.
Is there anywhere else in the world
where summer days drop so slowly into night?
Owen! You know, you're quite an astonishing man.
- Astonishing? Me? - Yes, you.
One part, cool, efficient, objective, the doctor.
- Hmm. - Another, talking about summer days
dropping slowly into night.
Different person.
Well, I'm Welsh, you see. That must be it.
No, I don't see. So, tell me about Wales.
Wales? Oh...
I don't know if I'll be much good at that.
All I know is that someday I have to go back there.
Stand on the hill top. Look down across the valley.
It's difficult to explain.
Yes, to explain the things you love best.
- Hello. The Furze. - It's Megan.
- Yes, Megan.
Okay, hold on.
Partridge!
She may have gone to bed.
PARTRIDGE: One moment, sir.
Oh, she hasn't. She's on her way down.
Uh, Partridge, Beatrice had tea with you, what time did she leave?
She never come, Mr. Burton.
- But Miss Megan says... - She should have.
I waited tea for her 'cause she said she were worried
and wanted to talk to me. Worried?
She's a fly-by-night, that one.
All right, Partridge. I'm sorry to have disturbed you.
Hello, Megan, she never turned up.
Oh.
Probably went off with that young man of hers.
Yes.
Look, is anything wrong? You sound worried.
Has anything happened?
Look, is there anything I can do? I can be round in a minute.
Thanks.
Beatrice?
Oh, it's you, Miss Megan.
Oh, Rose!
Beatrice... I thought she might have come in.
That's funny.
She never put on her best dress.
- No. - But, afternoons off, she always do.
Hello, who is it?
Phone, Mr. Burton. It's Miss Megan.
- Coming. - Urgent, she say.
All right, Partridge.
- Hello, Megan? - Oh, Gerry. Thank God.
Beatrice, she's dead!
- Oh, my God. - She's been murdered!
- Gerry, murdered! - Now, listen, just try and keep calm.
I'll be right over with you. All right?
- Crawford. - Sir?
Put a man on every door.
No one in, no one out till further notice, clear?
Right, sir.
- Johnson, on the door. - Yes, sir.
All right, stand back, let's take a look.
I'd say between 15 and 20 hours.
She's all yours.
Bill.
Sir?
Proceed.
Told you about this here house, didn't I? That's ill luck.
Wouldn't let me in, do my work, would they?
I don't suppose they would. Leastways, not yet.
Just one moment, sir. You can't go in there, sir.
But Miss Megan phoned me.
That's as may be, sir. But I got my orders.
Oh, Gerry!
Now then, miss. You can't come out here.
I'll take her in, Constable.
Oh. Oh, if you would, sir.
Hold on.
She can't come out, and you can't go in. I told you!
Can't you see the state this girl is in?
Now, either I take her in or you take the consequences.
Consequences?
But she was off for the whole afternoon.
No.
That's what we all reckoned, you see.
But George learned me. She come back.
She came back?
Oh! Oh, my dear!
Oh, come and sit down.
A cup of tea, I think, Rose.
- And plenty of sugar. - And some brandy, if there is any.
We'll find some.
Oh, and after that, a couple of hot water bottles.
- We must get her to bed. - Yes.
Ooh, that's a relief! Sent the boys off to stay with their cousin.
Thank goodness. What a day!
Sorry. Megan, what on earth's the matter with you?
Miss Holland, just give me a moment, will you?
There, my dear, you'll be all right soon.
I'll give you a nice cup of tea and then put you to a nice warm bed.
She's in a state of shock.
Well, we all are, aren't we?
- But you didn't find the body, did you?
How is Mr. Symmington?
Shaken. Very shaken.
- Do something for me, will you? - I'll try.
Good girl.
Go in there, will you? Stay with him. Try to get his mind off it.
- I'll do my best. - That's the stuff.
What the devil are you doing here?
Megan phoned me.
I gave Johnson strict orders.
How the hell did you get past him?
It happens to be a bloody good thing that I did.
The girl's deeply shocked and there's no one here
- gives a tinker's cuss. - All right, all right.
Ooh, Squadron Leader!
Good God!
Now, don't worry.
Rose is going to bring her up in a moment. She'll look after her.
Tell me, has all of Lymston got past Constable Johnson?
Oh, I'm so very sorry. You see, I was talking to Rose, the cook.
Good. Good.
And I've learned something which I think is rather important, don't you?
Possibly, if you'd be good enough to tell me what it is.
It's Beatrice, you see.
She came back to the house.
She never left the house, Miss Marple.
No, no, no, no. I'm so sorry.
I'm talking about the day poor Mrs. Symmington died.
Now, Beatrice quarreled with her boyfriend. George, isn't it?
Down at the garage. And she came back.
She was here all that afternoon.
Now, that does rather change things, doesn't it?
Rose didn't tell me this.
Oh, really, did she not? No. Well, uh...
Perhaps you never asked her.
Anything else, Miss Marple?
No. I don't think so. No. Not at the moment.
Then, perhaps the two of you would be good enough to leave the premises.
Oh, yes, yes, of course. Come along, Squadron Leader.
Oh...
Forgive me, Superintendent, but I hope that you don't find, well...
How shall I put it?
Find me irritating.
Dismiss the thought, Miss Marple.
Oh, good. I'm so glad. Thank you. Yes.
CONSTABLE JOHNSON: Just a moment, madam. I've got my orders.
No one in, no one out.
Goodness, what excitement!
And the Sunday newspapers! Can't you just imagine?
I don't wish to. Those journalists at the Swan, drunk every night, I hear.
Deplorable. But confess, now,
don't you feeljust the teeniest, weeniest little bit of a thrill?
- You may, Mr. Pye.
♫ I think that I shall never see
♫ A poem lovely as a tree ♫
Wouldn't be touching that, if I were you.
- What? - That there machine.
This typewriter? Why not?
Well, that's the one, weren't it?
The one what?
Was used. For all them envelopes.
Who told you that?
Constable Johnson told my Arthur.
All written down at the Women's, he say, on that there machine.
They can tell, you see. That's science.
Mr. Symmington gave us this typewriter, Mrs. Cleat.
Never said otherwise.
But that were a long time ago, weren't it?
And you were setting out the chairs, weren't you?
That was a long time ago, too.
- Do you think it's true? - It's true, all right.
That old bitch has an unfailing nose for the nasty.
In that case, surely all of us here are under...
Yes, we're all under suspicion.
Oh, no.
Partridge.
Partridge?
- Oh, Partridge. - I've done the shopping.
The butcher's delivering.
- Fine. When's the next bus? - Lymston?
Matter of minutes, I'd say.
Right. Then I must dash.
Hey!
- Hey!
Lucky cariad! In my language, "Hello."
- I'm not going to Wales, just Lymston. - Jump in.
Bit of luck. I was going to call you.
That's nice.
Wondered if you might care to have dinner on Saturday.
Dinner? Just the two of us?
Well, your brother, and Eryl as well, of course.
Why of course?
- Well, because I, uh... - You think I might be bored?
In need of a chaperone?
No, not that exactly.
Owen! I'm quite a big girl now, or hadn't you noticed?
I noticed.
So?
Well, you're also a very sophisticated young lady.
Used to the bright lights, too. Big city.
- Haven't met many, you see. - And that scares you?
No, I wouldn't say that.
Just leaves me wondering what's behind the glitter, the polish.
That's what I want to know.
Owen, that's marvelous!
Well, at least you're interested.
In knowing where I'm supposed to be taking you.
Lord, didn't I tell you? Police station.
You do see my little worry, don't you, Superintendent?
I think so.
However, the suicide note was written by Mrs. Symmington.
No doubt about that.
On just a scrap of paper?
Yes, perhaps.
Unusual, I would have thought.
Would you? But then, suicide isn't exactly usual, is it?
Oh, indeed not.
But surely these letters are usually more formal.
Perhaps, in a way, a justification of the act.
Certainly not one sentence, "I can't go on"
written on a scrap of paper torn at the edges.
I begin to feel a bit torn at the edges myself, Miss Marple.
Oh, that's you, Mr. Burton, you're back.
Hmm. Is Miss Joanna around?
She went rushing off to Lymston.
Is there nothing you'd like, sir?
Oh, just a whisky and soda, please, Partridge.
Yes, of course, Miss Marple,
- I do take your point but...
Excuse me, sir. Very urgent, she says, sir.
Who says, Johnson?
Well, er, this young lady here, sir.
Superintendent, another of those awful letters just arrived, second post.
Miss Marple. Oh, forgive me, please.
Oh, my dear child, but of course.
You found this amongst Miss Barton's books, did you?
- Right. - How very perceptive of you,
Squadron Leader.
Not really. It was an old book, and the print, it...
Reminded you of the first letter that you received.
Miss Barton, eh? Well, well, well.
Very odd.
And this envelope, addressed to Miss Burton.
Well, do forgive me, Superintendent, but have you noticed,
the "u" in "Burton" has been altered from an "a."
Yes.
But who on earth would want to describe Miss Barton as a painted trollop?
Very odd. Very odd, indeed.
- If you need picking up, call me. - All right, shall do.
- And come back without that stick. - Okay, thanks, Joanna.
Good luck.
- Return to London, please. - Yes, sir.
- Thank you. - Thank you, sir.
Hello.
Hello. What brings you here?
Nothing. Just met Partridge. Thought I'd come and see you off.
Want to make sure I'm going, eh?
Not true. You know that.
Well, in that case, you'd better come and see me off.
Doing anything special in London?
Monthly medical.
Air Ministry want to make sure that Owen the doc isn't killing me off.
There she comes.
Will you be away a very long time?
No. Only as long as it takes.
You will come back soon, won't you?
Here. Come on.
Here, watch that door!
But I haven't got a ticket.
We'll soon fix that.
But why? What for?
Because I suddenly felt like Professor Higgins.
And you're gonna be my Eliza Doolittle.
- Who is she? - You'll soon find out.
- When I'm old... - And still beautiful.
- Now, don't laugh at me. - With you.
Now, tell me, is that where I'm going to finish up?
Organizing jumble sales, coffee mornings, bottling jam?
You're fishing, girl.
And you're impossible.
- Who, me? - Yes, you.
- Good night. - Good night.
- Who was that? - Didn't see.
Come along.
- Well, here you are. - Thanks.
This lot?
Ashes to ashes.
Guess so.
Well, good night, and thanks again. And...
And?
It's just that you and Joanna are so kind to put up with me.
- I'd just like to... - I have to tell you...
I want to kiss you.
Good night.
And what are you doing, Squadron Leader?
It's you, Superintendent.
On your way home, sir?
Yes. The whole place was dark just now. I was just wondering...
Yes, of course. It's getting late, sir.
And you want me on my way?
Good night, sir.
Good night.
Miss Holland received it this morning.
Muck, isn't it? Not quite so explicit as last time.
I mean, the sex details.
Yes, well, I thought you should have it as soon as possible.
Sooner the better.
- How did Miss Holland take it? - Oh! Cool as a cucumber.
She's got guts, that girl.
Hasn't received one before, has she?
No, no, I don't... I don't think so. Look, Nash,
aren't you on to anyone yet?
Maybe. This letter could be just the break we need.
Well, let's hope so.
Well, thanks for your help. I'll get the experts onto it.
Oh, hold the fort, Miss Ginch. I won't be long. Got a call to make.
Very well, Mr. Symmington.
- Where's the Inspector? - Uh, inside, sir.
- Crawford. - Right here, sir.
Take this for prints right away.
No cut-out printed words this time. Typewritten, the whole lot.
And if it tallies up with what we've already got,
by God, we're in business!
Edward, hello!
- You very busy? - Knitting, as a matter of fact.
Owen's on his rounds.
Oh, how stupid of me, of course he is.
Anything I can do?
- Well, I don't know. - Come in, please.
It's those knock-out powders that Owen gave me. I couldn't find them.
I hid them somewhere in case the children might...
Anyway, I didn't sleep a wink last night.
Oh, it's all right. I have the prescription.
Owen can always write another for my records. So, sit down a moment.
Thanks.
Don't go mislaying these, now, Edward.
Don't worry, I've learned my lesson.
You know, what you need now is someone to take you in hand.
Take care of you.
- Have you read all these? - What?
Textbooks.
History of British Medicine?
Once upon a time. I wanted to be a doctor, too, you see.
Only, there wasn't enough money.
And Owen was the boy.
Girls have to learn to tag along.
Here we are.
Don't forget. Only one.
Take two and you'll sleep for 24 hours.
And how would the law in Lymston get on then?
- Eryl... - Yes, Edward?
Bless you.
You've just about saved my life.
Miss Griffith, I'd like a word, please.
- Of course. - Thank you.
Nash, again? What brings you here?
Or you, sir?
Oh. Only the need to sleep nights.
I see.
I'd, uh, prefer to talk in private, Miss Griffith.
It's quite all right, Mr. Symmington's an old friend.
Very well.
Mean anything to you, Miss Griffith?
Nothing.
No. Nothing at all.
And if I tell you that you were observed typing that letter
at the Women's Institute the night before last?
It's ridiculous. It's not what you think.
Not "think," Miss Griffith. "Know."
Superintendent, if I may interrupt...
Whatever Miss Griffith may or may not have done,
she is entitled to legal representation.
Now, as a lawyer and a friend...
No, Edward, don't!
Go away.
Please, go away.
- But, my dear girl... - No!
I don't want you to hear... I don't want to see you...
Don't want you to know.
Just go away.
I'll be in touch.
Miss Griffith, I have a warrant for your arrest
for the murder of Beatrice Dunn.
Down at the station, you may wish to make a statement.
Meantime, you have the right to remain silent. Come on.
- With a toothcomb, Crawford. - Sir.
Infatuated with Symmington, she certainly was,
I've known that for ages. But to kill?
Never. Couldn't. Not even a fly.
There must be something we can do.
There's nothing anyone can do at the moment.
Anyway, if there were, you'd be doing it, I know that.
The whole place is crawling with coppers.
Tearing the place apart. Every drawer, every cupboard in Eryl's bedroom.
They've even had the carpet up.
Now they're turning over the dispensary and the waiting room.
God knows what they hope to find.
Oh, the Inspector say to let you know, sir, we're taking these away.
What? Where from?
Uh, them books in the bookshelf, sir.
And the dispensary pestle? Have you no idea what it's used for?
I can't rightly say meself, sir, but the Inspector, he do say
that could be the murder weapon, more than likely.
Thank you very much, sir.
Maud, dear, I'm certain they've arrested the wrong person.
But the letter to the governess, they saw her typing it. They saw her.
Poor thing. What if they did? It proves nothing.
And the printed pages with the letters and the words torn out
just behind the desk? Nothing as well?
Well, nothing much.
I mean, after all, Maud, dear, if she had all those pages,
why did she type the letter?
None of the others were. Only the envelope.
Oh, I feel so frustrated! So helpless! So slow!
Perhaps... I wonder...
Maud, I have an idea. May I use your telephone?
- Of course, dear. - Yes.
No, not yet.
Now, first, you know everyone round about here.
I want you to tell me more
about the Symmington stepdaughter, little Miss Megan.
You happy, Elsie?
Of course, why shouldn't I be?
So am I.
I'd like a word.
Oh, yes. Yes, of course.
Leave us, Elsie, please.
- Just a minute... - Now, Elsie!
Very well.
What did you mean by that?
I want some money.
You have your allowance. Isn't it enough?
Not enough.
Well, in a few months' time,
you'll come into your grandmother's money.
I want it from you.
Do you?
Would you mind coming to the point, young lady?
Very well.
I saw what you did to my mother's sedative powders
in the bedroom that afternoon.
I don't know what you mean by that.
And I didn't hear it.
But you are of an age now, I suppose you need certain things.
Clothes and all that.
So...
500?
5,000.
All right?
For the time being.
Oh, yes, yes, of course, I do realize, Squadron Leader,
that it is a calculated risk.
You see, my one fear is of being dismissed as a stupid, old woman.
In that case, I shall have to rely upon a man with your sort of courage.
Well, I just hope you're right, Miss Marple.
I'll be right over with you.
Ah! Not finished yet, Rose?
When I've laid the breakfast, sir. Then, upstairs with Miss Megan's milk
and off to bed, quick as a wink.
Nothing you was looking for, sir?
No, no, no, no. Just a match.
Oh, there's a box over there on the stove, sir. Good night.
Good night, Rose.
Madam, have you any idea of the position you've put me into?
Should this go wrong, I don't know what they'll do to you.
I know what they'll do to me. They'll have my guts for garters!
Oh, do try to forgive me, Superintendent.
My one wish throughout has been to help.
- Help? - Yes, to help you.
Grab him!
- Don't just stand there, Johnson. - Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.
Heart and pulse, perfectly normal. She'll soon be back with us.
Thank God he didn't give her an overdose. Though, why he didn't...
Too risky. Too obvious. Have to answer too many questions.
It was his sedative, wasn't it?
But a gas stove and a poor girl brooding over the loss of mum...
Just the job.
Well, must be on my skates.
Superintendent, may I congratulate you on having had the courage...
Of your convictions, Miss Marple.
Thanks. Oh, by the way, Doctor, we shan't be holding your sister.
We know that Symmington planted those cut-up pages in your waiting room.
And that last letter?
Ah, yes, well...
Silly that. Silly girl.
People, not infrequently, do silly things
when they're very much in love, don't they?
And some very evil things, like Mr. Symmington.
Still, makes the world go round, so they tell us. Sometimes.
But why did she?
Ask Miss Marple. Usually has the right answers.
Well, good day.
Uh, one moment, Superintendent.
Well?
Well, perhaps it was all the chatter.
The thought that Miss Holland did intend to become the second Mrs. Symmington,
and, uh,
perhaps a letter might scare her away.
Megan.
Megan, darling.
Gerry...
Thank you for all you did, my dear, you were very brave.
Now, take great care of her.
Is everything all right?
It is now.
Ah, Miss Holland.
You're off.
Oh, I couldn't stay in this house a moment longer.
It gives me the creeps. And besides, they'll all be saying it was my fault.
And I had no idea. No idea at all.
When gentlemen of a certain age fall in love,
they get the disease very badly.
Well, goodbye and good luck.
Thank you.
She'll be all right.
Oh, well, Doctor, as you predicted, the patient is once again with us.
- Good. - Oh, dear, yes.
Dinner tonight, please? And just with me.
If that's what the doctor orders.
- He does.
You took a terrible risk, Jane, dear.
Oh, I know, my dear, but I just had to.
And the Superintendent was rather splendid, don't you think?
Ah, how is she?
All right, I think. Owen's just making sure.
What I still don't understand is when all this started?
Oh, ages ago, I imagine, soon after Miss Holland arrived.
All those anonymous letters typed on that machine of his
before giving it away to the Women's Institute
was all a smoke screen, you see.
He wanted everybody to suspect a woman, and they did.
Everyone watching the smoke, no one seeing the fire.
And of course, his main purpose was murder.
How absolutely cold-blooded!
It was. He is.
My envelope? The one with the "a" turned into a "u"?
Ah, well, that was originally intended for Miss Barton.
But the "u" wasn't typed on the same machine.
Now, that was a very silly mistake of his and quite unworthy of him.
Jane, dear. Tragic little Beatrice. How ever did she get involved?
Because he chose to dispose of his wife on an afternoon when he knew
that she'd be quite alone in the house. A Wednesday.
Directly after lunch, he put cyanide in Mrs. Symmington's sedative
and then went back to the office.
When he returned, he went to the nursery where he was given a cup of tea,
which he took up to their room.
He crumpled a poison-pen letter, dropped it on the floor,
together with the suicide note and then raised the alarm.
Oh, he is, of course, a consummate actor.
But the suicide note, "I can't go on." It was in her handwriting.
Yes, but suicide notes aren't written on scraps of paper
torn from telephone pads, are they?
I can't go on what?
I can't go on Friday and Saturday, perhaps.
He must have found it, thought it might be useful, and kept it.
I know I'm somewhat slow at this kind of thing, Jane,
but I still don't understand why Beatrice...
Ah, Beatrice. Now, that was a quarrel, you see.
What the murderer couldn't know
was that Beatrice would quarrel with her boyfriend
and then return to the house.
Where she saw what happened?
She saw absolutely nothing.
Not only no penitent boyfriend. Nothing.
Nothing dropped through the letterbox.
No postman with the anonymous letter said to have been delivered. Nothing.
Later, and slowly, of course, the poor child put things together
and, uh, became troubled, and was going to see Partridge.
And that's why she bought it.
How did he manage it?
Well, again, it was a Wednesday, you see.
He pretended to depart for the office but he didn't.
He slammed the front door, came back into the hall and hid.
All the others went off leaving poor little Beatrice,
always the last, quite alone.
Well, perhaps he rang the front doorbell
and she came into the hall to answer it and was struck down from behind,
and thrust into a cupboard.
No one noticed his late arrival back at the office.
And, of course, Partridge never learned
what was troubling the poor unfortunate girl.
Jane, you're quite marvelous!
- Isn't she, everyone? - Quite.
But supposing things had gone wrong. What would have happened to Megan then?
Now, Squadron Leader, you know better than most
that we are not put into this world to avoid danger.
Not when an innocent person's life is at stake.
All right, Miss Marple, you've sold Megan the idea.
- I'll have to go along with that. - Yes.
See you later.
Oh, my dear, that brother of yours, lots of courage.
They'll make a fine pair, those two.
And so will you with that nice doctor upstairs?
Now, Maud, do you know what I would really like?
Jane, I can't imagine, but you only have to say.
Well, I wonder, dare I ask,
would it be possible for all of us to have a nice cup of tea?