Agatha Christie's Marple

Hesketh-Dubois...

Shaw. Harmondsworth. God forgive me!

Wickedness!

"..aught that man may question.

You seem to understand me,

By each at once her chappy finger laying upon her skinny lip.

You should be women,

and yet your beards forbid me to interpret that you are so.

Speak, if you can. What are you?

All hail, Macbeth. Hail to thee, Thane of Glamis.

All hail, Macbeth. Hail to thee."

Thank you, lad, thank you.

Good evening, Mrs Coppins.

"Thou shalt be king hereafter."

Wickedness! Wickedness!

Oh, God forgive me!

Perhaps somebody could watch out for the ambulance?

Mrs Davis... Delafontaine...

Mrs Davis, it's Father Gorman.

There isn't much time!

Wickedness! Such wickedness!

I can't die like this!

I must...confess.

Hesketh-Dubois. Shaw. Harmondsworth.

Tuckerton.

Stopped.

It must be stopped.

I'll do everything that's necessary.

Mrs Davis?

Mrs Davis?

Is she...? She's at peace.

The ambulance is here. Bleedin' late as usual.

"Now, o'er the one half world, Nature seems dead."

"And wicked dreams abuse the curtained sleep.

Witchcraft celebrates pale Hecate's offerings..."

"..and withered murder, alarmed by his sentinel, the wolf,

whose howl's his watch,

thus with his stealthy pace,

with Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design..."

"..moves like a ghost."

"Thou sure and firm-set earth,

hear not my steps which way they walk,

for fear thy very stones prate of my whereabout,

and take the present horror from the time

which now suits with it.

Whiles I threat, he lives..."

Oh, thank you, Marjory, dear.

That does look good. You've got a letter.

Oh, so I see.

London W2. Where's that?

Paddington, I believe.

Is it from a secret admirer?

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

So I hardly think it's...

How very strange.

What's Rev. 6:8, miss?

It isn't done to read other people's correspondence, you know.

No, miss.

But what's it mean?

It's the Book of Revelation.

Chapter Six, verse eight.

"And I looked and beheld a pale horse.

And his name that sat on him was Death,

and Hell followed with him."

I don't like the sound of that.

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

Morning, miss. Thank you, Billy, dear.

That can't be right.

There must be a mistake. Miss?

Whatever's the matter? Well...

It's Father Gorman,

the man who just wrote to me.

He's been murdered.

Inspector Lejeune. I've unseamed your padre for you,

from nave to chops.

Father Gorman. And?

Well and truly coshed. The first blow probably killed him.

But whoever did it made sure.

Nasty business.

Nastier than you'd expect for robbery, Dr Kerrigan.

Was it robbery? Well, his pockets were turned out

and the lining of his cassock ripped.

They couldn't have hoped for much.

A parish priest? In my experience, they're usually as poor as... Quite.

But they battered his head in to make sure. One would like to know why.

Anyone come forward? Yes, as it happens.

Just about to take a statement.

"Dear Jane, I send the following for safe keeping.

Ormerod. Sandford. Parkinson.

Hesketh-Dubois.

Shaw. Harmondsworth. Tuckerton.

Corrigan. Delafontaine.

Revelations, 6:8.

Will telephone tomorrow evening and explain.

Yours affectionately, Patrick Gorman."

What do you make of it?

Apart from the biblical reference, I'm not quite sure what to make of it...yet.

The names don't mean anything to you? I'm afraid not.

If I might ask how you knew Father Gorman?

We met during the Great War

at a convalescent home where I was nursing sister.

He served as chaplain with the Seventh Royal Irish horse.

Brave chap. Yes, he was.

When did you see him last?

Oh, not for some years.

But we kept in regular touch.

Why do you think he would send this to you?

Perhaps he thought someone may wish to take it from him?

A list of meaningless surnames?

They meant something to Father Gorman,

and presumably to someone else.

The newspaper said he'd been called out to attend a dying woman

shortly before he was attacked. Mrs Davis? That's right.

You've questioned her neighbours presumably?

Her fellow tenants, yes.

23 Benthall Street is a lodging house

run by a woman called Coppins.

It's just that, I know from my own experience,

that people don't always realise the value of what they have seen.

We have done this sort of thing before, Miss Marple.

Of course. Forgive me. It's just...

Father Gorman was such a good man.

It's hard to imagine why anyone would want to hurt him.

Things have changed, Miss Marple.

Goodness doesn't seem to count for very much any more.

It's an unforgiving world.

And the city is a long way from country life.

Of course, it is possible, isn't it, that the dying woman told him something?

Perhaps he had to get those names down on paper as soon as he could, before he forgot them?

Anything's possible, of course. It's what makes my job so interesting.

I'm sorry to have put you to any bother. No bother at all.

Very public spirited of you to come forward.

Father Gorman was a good friend.

He should have justice. He will, I promise.

We'll find him.

In the meantime, try not to trouble yourself. No. Goodbye.

Goodbye.

The officer said Paddington Station.

Yes, thank you.

Driver?

She was all right Monday week.

She was all right when the gas man come on the Tuesday.

She was all right on wash day.

Then... That's right.

She come down with the flu.

I told her to rest up, but she would go out.

It settled on her lungs.

Well, what did she do, Mrs Davis?

Till about a month ago,

I think it was customer relations.

Or research.

Some such.

Had she been with you long, Mrs Davis?

About six months. Paid her rent regular.

Seemed like a nice, quiet, respectable person.

Though what more I can tell you, I'm sure I don't know.

Not that I wouldn't be willing to help, if I could.

Well, thank you, but I do need help.

Women know. They feel instinctively so much more than a man can know.

Don't you think?

When you brought Father Gorman to her,

was there anything they said that was perhaps odd to you?

Not odd so much as...

I heard her say something about wickedness.

Wickedness? Did she?

Yes... They have to confess, don't they, Romans?

Before they die.

So I suppose that was it.

Was she an unhappy woman, do you think?

I wouldn't say so.

Business-like, she was. Methodical.

But nothing worrying her that you knew of?

No, no.

No.

But...

there was that one time.

About a month ago,

she was in the hall by the mirror putting a coat on for work.

If things aren't all they should be,

it's better not to know, don't you agree?

I'm sure that's right, dear.

Everything I've done has always been perfectly straightforward.

I have nothing to reproach myself with.

'What do you think she meant?'

'I've no idea.

It struck me at the time as being a queer thing to say.'

But people do come out with 'em.

Oh, yes.

Yes, they do.

Yes...

The Pale Horse.

Mr Osborne? Yes.

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

Mrs Coppins said you were waiting in the street

for the ambulance that attended to Mrs Davis.

That's right. Jolly cold it was, too.

Were you a friend of Mrs Davis? Thank you.

No, of Father Gorman. The priest who...?

Oh, I see. Yes, of course. My condolences.

Thank you. I wondered, perhaps had you seen anyone loitering about,