Father Brown (2013–…): Season 2, Episode 6 - The Daughters of Jerusalem - full transcript
The father is laid up with a broken leg, strait-laced young Father Roland standing in for him. When unpopular village gossip Mrs Bunyon is killed after a row at a cake baking contest Mrs McCarthy and Lady Felicia gather evidence for Father Brown to unmask the murderer - who has also killed MRs Bunyon's baking rival Vera Thimble. Many years earlier both women gave evidence which led to the hanging of a man accused of murdering a young child. Father Brown draws the connection and tries to save a third witness from becoming the next victim.
♪ ..nor shall my sword
sleep in my hand
♪ Till we have built
♪ Jerusalem
♪ In England's green
and pleasant land. ♪
Good evening.
And a rousing Institute welcome
to tonight's guests,
Lady Felicia, Father Roland,
filling as Locum Curate
during Father Brown's unfortunate
indisposition.
And last but certainly not least,
Mrs Cholmondeley-Carter,
from the National
Executive Committee
who has heroically agreed to act
as head judge at tomorrow's fair.
There was nothing "fair" about
last year's judgment.
The best jam won
and everyone here knows it!
We have a packed evening,
including a cookery talk
from Mrs Hunnisett -
Going Gay Without Meat.
And to kick off, Father Roland's
film, Educating The African Orphan
made during his recent
missionary trip to Swaziland.
So, without further ado,
Andrea, lights please.
Is there a Virginia
in the story?
Oooh! Holy Mother of God!
Father Roland, what is happening?!
No, God. No! Avert your eyes!
This is not a film
about African orphans.
No, it isn't! It is not mine!
Avert your eyes, ladies!
This is not happening!
This is not happening!
Well. This is certainly educational.
And finally a cursory inspection
of the church roof account reveals
that fundraising has been, shall
we say, erratic, to say the least.
My Parishioners give what they can.
I'm sure that with
the appropriate nudge,
they can be persuaded
to dig a little deeper.
Raise the roof!
Very pithy.
One to every household in the village. Half a
crown each and we have ourselves a steeple.
And here's mine to start to you off.
Sterling, Mrs McCarthy.
I knew I could count on you
to lead by example.
Am I interrupting? Yes. No.
Her Ladyship thought this might
help with the boredom.
You could do a spot of bird
watching? Feathered variety.
And talking of bird watching,
last night's WI meeting...?
Trust you to bring that up.
I can assure you, the film I gave
to Mrs Fortescue comprised
only of rainless African skies
and smiling black children.
If you say so.
No one doubts that.
But a mystery none the less.
There'll be no more mysteries
for you until that leg is mended.
Really?
Hywel!
On your way to the Post Office?
No flies on you, Father.
Mrs Clam is a comely widow
and your posy tells its own story.
Wild rosemary for warm emotion
and freesias for lasting friendship.
And featherhead for allurement.
Talking of which, I hear the WI meeting
last night took an unexpected turn.
Turns out their VIP was only
the Chief Superintendent's sister-in-law.
Taken to her bed
with the shock of it.
Inspector Sullivan wants answers.
Father Roland gave the film
to Mrs Fortescue.
And she left it at the village hall for the
ladies coming in to set up the meeting.
If I've said it once,
I've said it a thousand times.
You can't go round leaving doors
unlocked these days.
It seems a peculiarly
unladylike crime.
Try telling that to the WI ladies
and on the day of the fair to boot.
Tensions already at boiling point.
Sparks will fly, you mind my words.
I can't stop!
Stay, Jeffrey!
It's always the quiet ones.
Maybe he left one of his films
lying around
and she got it mixed up
with the orphans.
If you've something to say, Judith,
perhaps you'd have the grace
and good manners
to say it to my face.
I'm waiting.
No? Then if you're done spreading
malicious slander
then perhaps you could fetch
more bunting!
Chop chop!
Come, Jeffery!
That woman will be the death of me.
Oi. Father, give that to Father
Brown when you see him, will ya?
This being...?
Donation to the steeple fund
from Mrs Plumpton.
Do I look like a complete greenhorn?
Yep.
I want nothing to do
with this ill-gotten money.
Keep your cassock on. It was a
dead cert and the church roof's got
a dirty great hole in it.
Father Brown should live by example,
instead of falling so publicly to vice.
I was warned he surrounded himself
with undesirables.
But even I couldn't have predicted
the full extent.
Warned were you? By who? The Bishop?
Bishop Talbot has been gracious
enough to take me under his wing.
I bet has!
Planted you here as his little spy.
Recognises qualities in me
lacking in... others.
Even priests can live a little.
All right, ladies!
Looking lovely.
She's taken a shine to you.
Don't be puerile.
Listen, Father, don't take this
the wrong way but...
you're a handsome bloke, all right?
You can have any girl
you wanted.
Why hide your knackers under
a skirt for the rest of your...
Maybe there is a man under
that dress after all.
I wouldn't put it past that one.
Not normal is it?
All that celibacy does funny
things to a man.
Jolly good of you to step
in for Mrs CholmondeleyCarter.
Eleventh hour and all that.
Oh, here's Father Roland.
Righto. Cakes!
One to six are standard fruits,
seven to eleven - Victoria sponge,
12 to 15 are marmalade loaves,
16 to 19 are lemon drizzle.
And here we have
our home-baked bread.
Afternoon, Mrs Bunyon. George!
For me?! Oh!
Hello, hello.
The prize for My Favourite Room
In A Shoebox,
goes to Mrs Sibree for her
"imaginative use of materials"
and "witty" holiday cottage bathroom.
Congratulations. Very well deserved.
Best cake goes to Judith Bunyon
for her Victoria sponge.
That sponge is mine.
I'd recognise it anywhere.
Oh, here we go again.
Hers had sunk in the middle.
She switched the numbers.
I'm sure that's not the case.
This belongs to me.
Now, ladies!
A bitter and twisted fantasist.
No one would put it past you after
the gooseberry jam of 1948.
Was that letter something
to do with you?
Now then, ladies,
that's enough of that.
Why don't you come with me
and have a little cool down?
I'll get you for this,
Judith Bunyon!
Congratulations. Very well deserved.
And the prize
for best scones goes to...
Gladys Clam.
Before you say anything,
it was a blind tasting.
14 years unblemished record...
These scones are an award-winning
secret recipe handed down from my
mother and her mother before that.
This recipe was baked
for His Majesty King George IV
on his visit to Kilkenny Castle
in 1826.
Taste one. Go on.
Taste one and then tell me
they only merit a highly commended!
Deus, Pater misericordiarum,
qui per mortem et resurrectionem...
Pugh. Sir. No Father Brown?
Nasty accident on his bicycle, sir.
That's Father Roland, his locum.
He's staying at the Presbytery.
Does he fancy himself
as an amateur detective too?
I doubt it.
Bit green around the gills.
Needed a moment... outside,
if you get my... Amen.
Oh, and there he goes again.
What do we know
about the dead woman?
Mrs Judith Bunyon. Farmer's wife.
Her husband owns Brook Farm
in Lower Kemble.
Did she have any enemies?
What, foul play?
The colouration of the face
looks like cyanide poisoning.
There was a bit of a hoo-ha
with Miss Thimble earlier,
but then show day does tend to
bring out the worst in the ladies.
Mrs Clackett narrowly escaped
a charge of ABH last year,
after a bust-up
over her cherry Bakewell.
And last night's incident
hasn't helped matters.
Any connection there?
Can't see it myself, sir.
Sergeant! Get this to the lab.
I want a toxicology report on my
desk by the end of the day. Sir.
We'll take it from here, Pugh.
Yes, sir.
By the sound of it, I think
we can rule out natural causes.
So, Mrs M, what can you tell us
about the dead woman?
Judith was a troublemaker
and no mistake,
a woman who took great delight
in spreading malicious gossip.
And he who is without sin...
And Vera Thimble wasn't the only one
she fell out with today.
Mrs Fortescue caught Judith
pointing the finger at her Jeffrey
over last night's cinematic
catastrophe.
Tore a strip off her
in front of half the WI.
Did she, now?
Mm, somebody's got their mojo back.
Yes, well, I'm no used to anyone
stuck in this chair.
Oh, fiddlesticks.
Your brain's in one piece.
And if you need any legwork doing,
consider me at your disposal.
You?! Why not me?
Well, I've always put you down
as decorative rather than useful.
Decorative?!
Tell me, Father. Am I "decorative"?
As a rosary is both beautiful
and with purpose.
I think it's up to Father Brown
to decide which of us
is the more useful.
Quite. Father?
After you.
No, after you.
So much for your offer of help.
If I recall correctly,
Father Brown asked us both to help.
Huh!
These are Chanel gloves.
Oh, really? Well, I'm sure there's
plenty more where they came from.
Stand aside, Mrs McCarthy.
Oh, really! Oh.
Oh, gosh.
A Kembleford postmark.
Why waste a stamp?
Proverbs chapter 19, verse 9.
"A false witness shall not
be unpunished,
"and he that speaketh lies
shall perish."
Judith Bunyon spread malicious
gossip aplenty.
And the numbers?
A code of some sort?
It's a puzzle. That's what it is.
It's a threat, judging by her
reaction when she read it.
So what do we do now?
First things first, someone should
take it to the police.
I will.
I see.
Well, if Father Brown says it's
significant, that's good enough for me.
I'll make sure
the inspector gets it.
Is there any news
on how Mrs Bunyon died?
You didn't hear it from me,
but...
murder it looks like.
Cyanide poisoning.
Her Victoria sponge
was laced with wasp killer.
No!
Is this anything to do with you?
Why on earth would I do
something like that?
Then we paid a visit to the Post
Office, where we managed
to identify the writing paper
by its watermark.
Mrs Clam had only got
in half a dozen
and was obliging enough to remember
who had purchased them.
Three of those were at the WI fair.
Vera Thimble, Dinah Fortescue...
and Mrs McCarthy.
For the parish office!
Well, you might as well say
Father Brown wrote that letter.
Or...
Father Roland...
Now you really are being ridiculous.
Who gave the film
to Dinah Fortescue.
I think Vera Thimble also received
an anonymous letter
which sent her hurtling
to Dinah Fortescue.
I think we need to find out
what was in Miss Thimble's letter.
How on earth do we do that?
I think... we should ask her.
'..And I'm also culling
a few of these birds.
'You can do it if you like, Grace. Any good
at wringing necks? Heavens, no!'
Oh. I didn't hear you come in.
Ah!
Hello! Hello?
Miss Thimble.
Ah, Miss Thimble!
Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Oh!
Oh, this is no time to have
a fit of the vapours.
I think she's had a visitor.
I suppose it's up to me
to go and get help, then.
Well, stay there.
And don't touch anything.
Sorry.
Oh, dear...
Indeed!
Oh!
Long John Silver in the 4:10.
Oh, yes!
Sid!
May I help you?
Yes, erm... can't reach
the Parish Magazine.
I wonder if you...
I'm enjoying your article.
"Sports Day In Swaziland."
Egg and spoon race
with an ostrich egg. Very good.
Who is the young lady who appears
to have pipped you to the winning post?
A volunteer with
the Catholic Mission.
Mr Plunkett telephoned
to book a christening.
At last. Three weeks overdue,
poor woman.
I must say,
you and your missionary friend look very
at your ease amongst the orphans.
More at ease than I am
with your record-keeping.
If you'll excuse me,
I must telephone the Bishop
to update him on my progress.
A written reminder
for your personal diary,
assuming you possess such a thing.
Yes, well, give my regards
to Bishop Talbot.
Oh, I will.
Oh, yes. Of course!
So we assume she knew her killer.
Well enough to offer her tea.
There was a cup on the table,
stained with lipstick.
Vera Thimble never wore lipstick.
Well spotted, Mrs M.
At which point I had to leave
to fetch the police,
as Her Ladyship
was feeling vapourish.
The murder weapon was a hatpin,
ivory, inexpensive but distinctive.
Apart from the teacups,
the room was undisturbed
and there was one of those
on a table.
Father Roland's latest initiative.
Father Roland seems to be making
a habit of being present
at crime scenes.
He delivered one of those envelopes
to every house in the parish, Sidney.
As for the letter,
we are none the wiser.
Actually, we are.
I found it in her handbag.
Were you tampering
with the crime scene, Lady F?
It sounds rather thrilling
put like that.
But I suppose I did.
And it was identical.
Proverbs 19:9.
Two, eight, one, one, one,
nine, two, six, nine, zero, zero.
If only we knew what it meant.
I think I might know.
28th November 1926, nine o'clock.
Ooh! Shh!
Read that.
Shh!
Albert Evans was a local man
and thoroughly bad lot.
Drunkard, wife-beater and known
predator on underage girls.
Daisy Butler was just 14
when she was found raped
and strangled in Kemblebrook Wood.
He was convicted and hanged
at Pentonville Prison
on the 28th November 1926
at... 9am...9am.
But there's more.
The evidence against him
was overwhelming but circumstantial.
What secured his conviction
was the eyewitness testimony
of three women on their way home
from a WI meeting -
Vera Thimble, Judith Bunyon...
And Dinah Fortescue.
Young man, be aware my husband plays
golf with the Chief Constable,
so you'd better have
an extremely good reason
for this extraordinary behaviour.
Do you recognise this?
Where the blazes did you find that?
Is it yours?
Lost it weeks ago.
Dropped out in the street.
Ruddy things never stay in.
Can I ask what brand of lipstick
you wear, Mrs Fortsecue?
You most certainly may not.
Is it Elizabeth Arvon
Roseberry Crush, by any chance?
What the devil...?
Found it by Miss Thimble's body,
along with your fingerprints.
Poppycock! I haven't set foot
in that woman's house in years.
You were seen having a heated
argument with her
shortly after
Judith Bunyon's murder.
Can I ask what that was about?
It was a private matter.
And the fracas yesterday
with Mrs Bunyon at the WI fair,
was that also a private matter?
I pulled her up
on malicious tittle-tattle,
if that's what you mean.
About the unfortunate mix-up
at Friday's WI meeting?
Mrs Fortescue, are you aware
that your husband was arrested
in a raid on a pornographic
cinema in Soho?
He was never charged.
He's a county court judge.
If this came to light, I don't think
he'll be playing golf
with the Chief Constable
any time in the near future.
Meaning?
I think both dead women found
out about your husband's activities
and threatened to expose him.
So you killed them.
Dinah Fortescue,
I'm arresting you on suspicion
of the murders
of Judith Bunyon and Vera Thimble.
You are not obliged to say anything
unless you wish to do so,
but whatever you do say...
Hmm. Angel AND saint
rolled into one, Mrs M.
Father?
Not now... please?
Father, may I congratulate you
on a rousing homily this morning?
Temptation
and the sins of the flesh.
I look forward to reading it.
I hope I can tempt you
to a slice of lemon drizzle.
No, thank you.
I'm fasting, followed
by a prayer vigil in the church.
This evening, you are normally
glued to the wireless.
The Sunday Half Hour
is Father Roland's only vice,
I sometimes think.
I thought the choristers from
King's College Cambridge last week
were particularly fine.
Or was it Christ Church, Oxford?
There's been a development!
Oh! Good afternoon, Father.
Delightful homily this morning.
I'll leave you
to your diversions.
Sid.
Dinah Fortescue's been charged
with both murders.
The hatpin was hers and her
fingerprints were on a teacup.
Have they established a motive?
It all leads back to Albert Evans.
Three women testified against him -
two of them are dead,
and the third is in a police cell.
This mentions a wife.
Do we know where she is?
About 100 yards away. Where?
In the graveyard. Oh. She drowned
a month after his execution.
Almost certainly suicide,
but they gave her the benefit
of the doubt and a Christian burial.
Ah!
The everyday china's good enough
for the likes of you,
and you will find that downstairs
in the kitchen.
Dear God and all the saints.
What, Mrs M?
Vera Thimble had
a Royal Doulton tea service.
Never missed an opportunity to
mention it or get it out in public,
but the cup found at the scene
was cheap everyday china.
The sort of thing she wouldn't
give house room to.
A rogue cup, planted
at the scene of the crime?
Ahem. My homily...
for your perusal.
Thank you.
Planted by the real murderer.
We need to have a chat
with Dinah Fortescue.
I'm sorry, ladies,
but you aren't authorised.
I'll come clean with you, Constable.
Father Brown believes
there's about to be
a grave miscarriage of justice.
Does he, now? How's that, then?
He's not quite sure just yet...
But knowing Father Brown, he'll
get it all worked out in the end.
Exactly.
All right. Just... Just ten minutes.
It's all just a fearful bloody
mess of a misunderstanding
and no-one who's anyone
will believe it for a second.
Vera Thimble received
an anonymous letter.
Not from me.
Did you know that Judith Bunyon
received one also?
The 28th November 1926, 9am.
The execution of Albert Evans.
I'd like you to leave.
You're going on trial
for double murder.
The police have enough evidence
to convict you twice over and,
I have on impeccable authority,
intend to push for a death sentence.
So whatever you're concealing,
I hope it's worth hanging for.
It was all such a long time ago.
Daisy Butler was just 14
when she was lured into the woods,
strangled...
and worse.
Kembleford was rocked to the core...
like we'd woken up one day to find
the devil living amongst us.
Forgive me, Lord, and lead me
not into temptation,
but deliver me from evil.
Lead me not into temptation,
but deliver me from evil.
Lead me not into temptation.
Get thee behind me, Satan!
Albert Evans was a known predator
on young girls.
The van he driving was identical
to the one we saw.
He had no alibi.
Not a person in Kembleford, including
his own wife, doubted his guilt.
But without eye witnesses,
he'd have got off scot-free.
It was unthinkable.
Good evening, Hywel.
Or should I say Stephen?
I had hoped, with you laid up,
there'd be one less detective
to worry about.
Well, I couldn't help noticing
the flowers on your mother's grave,
the birdsfoot trefoil for revenge...
on those who testified
against your father.
12 years old.
My father, a murderer and rapist.
My mother, a suicide.
What happened to you?
I was sent to my nan's in Tywyn.
She changed my name so no-one would
know I was the devil's spawn.
Not that it stopped them
finding out.
"Hangwell" they called me
at school.
Kiddies can be very cruel like that.
As for Nan...
she locked her bedroom door
every night I was under her roof.
Can't be too careful, see.
Like father, like son.
You poor little boy.
I'm so very, very sorry.
Thank you, Father.
I think you're the first person
who's ever said that.
Mind if I take a pew? It's been
a shocking day on the feet.
Be my guest.
I expect you've got some questions.
Yes.
I was wondering why you bothered
sending the letters
when it can only draw
attention to yourself.
Well, that's easy.
I wanted them to feel the fear
my father did...
Oh! I didn't hear you come in.
'..To know they had died
'for what they'd done.'
Horribly cunning.
Well, from you, I'll take that as
a complement, Father. Although truth
be told, it was surprisingly simple.
So, kindly refrain
from chasing every young girl
all around the fete,
if you wouldn't mind.
Am I making myself clear? Very.
'Who notices a policeman?
'First on every crime scene.
'Access all areas.'
I assume it was you
who switched Father Roland's film
at the Women's Institute. Here's me,
biding my time for the right moment
and then a records check turns up
Justice Jeffrey's activities.
You murdered two innocent women...
and framed a third...
for telling the truth.
Well... Well, Father...
it seems like you don't know
everything after all.
Not one of them is innocent.
They murdered my father, as surely
as if they'd pulled the lever on the drop.
It didn't feel like lying.
It felt like justice.
By the trial, I think I truly
believed that Bert Evans
was the man I saw that night.
And then some 20 years later, the
real killer was caught and confessed.
Albert Evans was declared
posthumously innocent and pardoned.
So, you took matters into your
own hands. An eye for an eye.
Vengeance is the Lord's.
He will repay.
I can't wait till
the Day of Judgment.
I wanted to watch them
atone for their crimes
and for one of them at least,
to suffer as my father did.
The opportunity for one
of them to die a long,
slow death by judicial murder.
It's not too late to repent.
I'm chapel, see. Don't set
much store by confession.
But you believe in God
and the power of his forgiveness.
End this atrocity now, Stephen.
Save your soul.
Forgive me my sins.
I want it absolutely understood
that I've never forgiven myself
for what I did,
not only to Bert Evans,
but his wife
and their poor little boy.
Albert Evans had a son?
Can you ladies tell me
what the devil you're doing?
There's no time for that, Inspector.
We know who sent those anonymous letters.
Anonymous letters? Received by
Judith Bunyon and Vera Thimble
I don't know of any such letters.
Sure you do. Vera Thimble's
was found in her handbag
and we handed in
Judith Bunyon's to...
Constable Pugh!
When this transfer came up,
it was a sign.
I was sent by God as
his angel of retribution.
There's irony.
Little Stevie Evans...
patrolling the town,
keeping them all safe.
All the while, biding my time
for the right opportunity.
This'll be painless.
An accident on the stairs
in your wheelchair.
There's no-one there to hear you.
I'm looking forward
to all this being over...
popping the question to Gladys...
maybe a kiddie or two.
Is everything all...?
It's all fine. All under control.
Go and fetch help!
We'll have you out of this
in a jiffy, Father.
Go!
I think not.
I'm sorry, Gladys.
Bonkers, in my humble opinion.
Let's hope the judge thinks so.
I owe you a debt of gratitude.
I hear you've got a handy right-hook.
County-flyweight champion,
Cambridge Half Blue...
I gave it up when I entered
the seminary.
I'd forgotten how good it felt.
I thought you were in church
all night. What happened?
And more to the point, how did
you know that he was downstairs?
All right. I'll go and see
where her ladyship's got to.
Listen...
thank you.
It seems you know my weaknesses
better than I do myself.
I couldn't help
but hear the phone ring,
every Sunday at eight,
just before Sunday half-hour.
What's her name?
Louisa.
A woman of such purity and beauty,
I was lost the first time I saw her.
She sent me away, said she couldn't
steal me from God, but...
by then, I was already taken.
And yet you still
corresponded with her?
No an impure word or thought.
I broke no vow,
committed no sin...
except in my heart.
God will understand. Too well.
Too well. He sent me here
to test me...
and the devil was waiting,
tempting,
taunting me with carnal images.
You think that film
was a coincidence?
A sign?
Saying what exactly?
That God wants sacrifice
but not suffering,
that you can still serve him
with the woman you love...
that God has chosen for you...
by your side.
A cup of tea, I think, is in order.
Oh, I'll make it.
Mrs McCarthy, I am perfectly capable
of making a cup of tea.
No doubt you are.
And... I'm...
I'm sorry I said that you
were decorative. Thank you.
And I'm sorry about the scones...
because...
I didn't actually taste them.
You didn't taste my scones?
I just sort of pretended.
You didn't taste my scones?!
Naturally, if I had,
you would have won
which is why I've decided
to come clean and have
the whole competition declared
null and void, however humiliating.
That won't be necessary.
I know the truth
and that's what matters.
You know what, Mrs M?
Underneath it all,
you're a jolly good egg.
Underneath what exactly?
I come to make my goodbyes.
Is something wrong, Father?
On the contrary.
I was lost and now am found,
thanks to Father Brown.
A man of hidden wisdom,
it transpires.
I shall be sure to tell the Bishop
as much, when I inform him.
Inform him of what?
I'm leaving the priesthood.
God be with you.
sleep in my hand
♪ Till we have built
♪ Jerusalem
♪ In England's green
and pleasant land. ♪
Good evening.
And a rousing Institute welcome
to tonight's guests,
Lady Felicia, Father Roland,
filling as Locum Curate
during Father Brown's unfortunate
indisposition.
And last but certainly not least,
Mrs Cholmondeley-Carter,
from the National
Executive Committee
who has heroically agreed to act
as head judge at tomorrow's fair.
There was nothing "fair" about
last year's judgment.
The best jam won
and everyone here knows it!
We have a packed evening,
including a cookery talk
from Mrs Hunnisett -
Going Gay Without Meat.
And to kick off, Father Roland's
film, Educating The African Orphan
made during his recent
missionary trip to Swaziland.
So, without further ado,
Andrea, lights please.
Is there a Virginia
in the story?
Oooh! Holy Mother of God!
Father Roland, what is happening?!
No, God. No! Avert your eyes!
This is not a film
about African orphans.
No, it isn't! It is not mine!
Avert your eyes, ladies!
This is not happening!
This is not happening!
Well. This is certainly educational.
And finally a cursory inspection
of the church roof account reveals
that fundraising has been, shall
we say, erratic, to say the least.
My Parishioners give what they can.
I'm sure that with
the appropriate nudge,
they can be persuaded
to dig a little deeper.
Raise the roof!
Very pithy.
One to every household in the village. Half a
crown each and we have ourselves a steeple.
And here's mine to start to you off.
Sterling, Mrs McCarthy.
I knew I could count on you
to lead by example.
Am I interrupting? Yes. No.
Her Ladyship thought this might
help with the boredom.
You could do a spot of bird
watching? Feathered variety.
And talking of bird watching,
last night's WI meeting...?
Trust you to bring that up.
I can assure you, the film I gave
to Mrs Fortescue comprised
only of rainless African skies
and smiling black children.
If you say so.
No one doubts that.
But a mystery none the less.
There'll be no more mysteries
for you until that leg is mended.
Really?
Hywel!
On your way to the Post Office?
No flies on you, Father.
Mrs Clam is a comely widow
and your posy tells its own story.
Wild rosemary for warm emotion
and freesias for lasting friendship.
And featherhead for allurement.
Talking of which, I hear the WI meeting
last night took an unexpected turn.
Turns out their VIP was only
the Chief Superintendent's sister-in-law.
Taken to her bed
with the shock of it.
Inspector Sullivan wants answers.
Father Roland gave the film
to Mrs Fortescue.
And she left it at the village hall for the
ladies coming in to set up the meeting.
If I've said it once,
I've said it a thousand times.
You can't go round leaving doors
unlocked these days.
It seems a peculiarly
unladylike crime.
Try telling that to the WI ladies
and on the day of the fair to boot.
Tensions already at boiling point.
Sparks will fly, you mind my words.
I can't stop!
Stay, Jeffrey!
It's always the quiet ones.
Maybe he left one of his films
lying around
and she got it mixed up
with the orphans.
If you've something to say, Judith,
perhaps you'd have the grace
and good manners
to say it to my face.
I'm waiting.
No? Then if you're done spreading
malicious slander
then perhaps you could fetch
more bunting!
Chop chop!
Come, Jeffery!
That woman will be the death of me.
Oi. Father, give that to Father
Brown when you see him, will ya?
This being...?
Donation to the steeple fund
from Mrs Plumpton.
Do I look like a complete greenhorn?
Yep.
I want nothing to do
with this ill-gotten money.
Keep your cassock on. It was a
dead cert and the church roof's got
a dirty great hole in it.
Father Brown should live by example,
instead of falling so publicly to vice.
I was warned he surrounded himself
with undesirables.
But even I couldn't have predicted
the full extent.
Warned were you? By who? The Bishop?
Bishop Talbot has been gracious
enough to take me under his wing.
I bet has!
Planted you here as his little spy.
Recognises qualities in me
lacking in... others.
Even priests can live a little.
All right, ladies!
Looking lovely.
She's taken a shine to you.
Don't be puerile.
Listen, Father, don't take this
the wrong way but...
you're a handsome bloke, all right?
You can have any girl
you wanted.
Why hide your knackers under
a skirt for the rest of your...
Maybe there is a man under
that dress after all.
I wouldn't put it past that one.
Not normal is it?
All that celibacy does funny
things to a man.
Jolly good of you to step
in for Mrs CholmondeleyCarter.
Eleventh hour and all that.
Oh, here's Father Roland.
Righto. Cakes!
One to six are standard fruits,
seven to eleven - Victoria sponge,
12 to 15 are marmalade loaves,
16 to 19 are lemon drizzle.
And here we have
our home-baked bread.
Afternoon, Mrs Bunyon. George!
For me?! Oh!
Hello, hello.
The prize for My Favourite Room
In A Shoebox,
goes to Mrs Sibree for her
"imaginative use of materials"
and "witty" holiday cottage bathroom.
Congratulations. Very well deserved.
Best cake goes to Judith Bunyon
for her Victoria sponge.
That sponge is mine.
I'd recognise it anywhere.
Oh, here we go again.
Hers had sunk in the middle.
She switched the numbers.
I'm sure that's not the case.
This belongs to me.
Now, ladies!
A bitter and twisted fantasist.
No one would put it past you after
the gooseberry jam of 1948.
Was that letter something
to do with you?
Now then, ladies,
that's enough of that.
Why don't you come with me
and have a little cool down?
I'll get you for this,
Judith Bunyon!
Congratulations. Very well deserved.
And the prize
for best scones goes to...
Gladys Clam.
Before you say anything,
it was a blind tasting.
14 years unblemished record...
These scones are an award-winning
secret recipe handed down from my
mother and her mother before that.
This recipe was baked
for His Majesty King George IV
on his visit to Kilkenny Castle
in 1826.
Taste one. Go on.
Taste one and then tell me
they only merit a highly commended!
Deus, Pater misericordiarum,
qui per mortem et resurrectionem...
Pugh. Sir. No Father Brown?
Nasty accident on his bicycle, sir.
That's Father Roland, his locum.
He's staying at the Presbytery.
Does he fancy himself
as an amateur detective too?
I doubt it.
Bit green around the gills.
Needed a moment... outside,
if you get my... Amen.
Oh, and there he goes again.
What do we know
about the dead woman?
Mrs Judith Bunyon. Farmer's wife.
Her husband owns Brook Farm
in Lower Kemble.
Did she have any enemies?
What, foul play?
The colouration of the face
looks like cyanide poisoning.
There was a bit of a hoo-ha
with Miss Thimble earlier,
but then show day does tend to
bring out the worst in the ladies.
Mrs Clackett narrowly escaped
a charge of ABH last year,
after a bust-up
over her cherry Bakewell.
And last night's incident
hasn't helped matters.
Any connection there?
Can't see it myself, sir.
Sergeant! Get this to the lab.
I want a toxicology report on my
desk by the end of the day. Sir.
We'll take it from here, Pugh.
Yes, sir.
By the sound of it, I think
we can rule out natural causes.
So, Mrs M, what can you tell us
about the dead woman?
Judith was a troublemaker
and no mistake,
a woman who took great delight
in spreading malicious gossip.
And he who is without sin...
And Vera Thimble wasn't the only one
she fell out with today.
Mrs Fortescue caught Judith
pointing the finger at her Jeffrey
over last night's cinematic
catastrophe.
Tore a strip off her
in front of half the WI.
Did she, now?
Mm, somebody's got their mojo back.
Yes, well, I'm no used to anyone
stuck in this chair.
Oh, fiddlesticks.
Your brain's in one piece.
And if you need any legwork doing,
consider me at your disposal.
You?! Why not me?
Well, I've always put you down
as decorative rather than useful.
Decorative?!
Tell me, Father. Am I "decorative"?
As a rosary is both beautiful
and with purpose.
I think it's up to Father Brown
to decide which of us
is the more useful.
Quite. Father?
After you.
No, after you.
So much for your offer of help.
If I recall correctly,
Father Brown asked us both to help.
Huh!
These are Chanel gloves.
Oh, really? Well, I'm sure there's
plenty more where they came from.
Stand aside, Mrs McCarthy.
Oh, really! Oh.
Oh, gosh.
A Kembleford postmark.
Why waste a stamp?
Proverbs chapter 19, verse 9.
"A false witness shall not
be unpunished,
"and he that speaketh lies
shall perish."
Judith Bunyon spread malicious
gossip aplenty.
And the numbers?
A code of some sort?
It's a puzzle. That's what it is.
It's a threat, judging by her
reaction when she read it.
So what do we do now?
First things first, someone should
take it to the police.
I will.
I see.
Well, if Father Brown says it's
significant, that's good enough for me.
I'll make sure
the inspector gets it.
Is there any news
on how Mrs Bunyon died?
You didn't hear it from me,
but...
murder it looks like.
Cyanide poisoning.
Her Victoria sponge
was laced with wasp killer.
No!
Is this anything to do with you?
Why on earth would I do
something like that?
Then we paid a visit to the Post
Office, where we managed
to identify the writing paper
by its watermark.
Mrs Clam had only got
in half a dozen
and was obliging enough to remember
who had purchased them.
Three of those were at the WI fair.
Vera Thimble, Dinah Fortescue...
and Mrs McCarthy.
For the parish office!
Well, you might as well say
Father Brown wrote that letter.
Or...
Father Roland...
Now you really are being ridiculous.
Who gave the film
to Dinah Fortescue.
I think Vera Thimble also received
an anonymous letter
which sent her hurtling
to Dinah Fortescue.
I think we need to find out
what was in Miss Thimble's letter.
How on earth do we do that?
I think... we should ask her.
'..And I'm also culling
a few of these birds.
'You can do it if you like, Grace. Any good
at wringing necks? Heavens, no!'
Oh. I didn't hear you come in.
Ah!
Hello! Hello?
Miss Thimble.
Ah, Miss Thimble!
Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Oh!
Oh, this is no time to have
a fit of the vapours.
I think she's had a visitor.
I suppose it's up to me
to go and get help, then.
Well, stay there.
And don't touch anything.
Sorry.
Oh, dear...
Indeed!
Oh!
Long John Silver in the 4:10.
Oh, yes!
Sid!
May I help you?
Yes, erm... can't reach
the Parish Magazine.
I wonder if you...
I'm enjoying your article.
"Sports Day In Swaziland."
Egg and spoon race
with an ostrich egg. Very good.
Who is the young lady who appears
to have pipped you to the winning post?
A volunteer with
the Catholic Mission.
Mr Plunkett telephoned
to book a christening.
At last. Three weeks overdue,
poor woman.
I must say,
you and your missionary friend look very
at your ease amongst the orphans.
More at ease than I am
with your record-keeping.
If you'll excuse me,
I must telephone the Bishop
to update him on my progress.
A written reminder
for your personal diary,
assuming you possess such a thing.
Yes, well, give my regards
to Bishop Talbot.
Oh, I will.
Oh, yes. Of course!
So we assume she knew her killer.
Well enough to offer her tea.
There was a cup on the table,
stained with lipstick.
Vera Thimble never wore lipstick.
Well spotted, Mrs M.
At which point I had to leave
to fetch the police,
as Her Ladyship
was feeling vapourish.
The murder weapon was a hatpin,
ivory, inexpensive but distinctive.
Apart from the teacups,
the room was undisturbed
and there was one of those
on a table.
Father Roland's latest initiative.
Father Roland seems to be making
a habit of being present
at crime scenes.
He delivered one of those envelopes
to every house in the parish, Sidney.
As for the letter,
we are none the wiser.
Actually, we are.
I found it in her handbag.
Were you tampering
with the crime scene, Lady F?
It sounds rather thrilling
put like that.
But I suppose I did.
And it was identical.
Proverbs 19:9.
Two, eight, one, one, one,
nine, two, six, nine, zero, zero.
If only we knew what it meant.
I think I might know.
28th November 1926, nine o'clock.
Ooh! Shh!
Read that.
Shh!
Albert Evans was a local man
and thoroughly bad lot.
Drunkard, wife-beater and known
predator on underage girls.
Daisy Butler was just 14
when she was found raped
and strangled in Kemblebrook Wood.
He was convicted and hanged
at Pentonville Prison
on the 28th November 1926
at... 9am...9am.
But there's more.
The evidence against him
was overwhelming but circumstantial.
What secured his conviction
was the eyewitness testimony
of three women on their way home
from a WI meeting -
Vera Thimble, Judith Bunyon...
And Dinah Fortescue.
Young man, be aware my husband plays
golf with the Chief Constable,
so you'd better have
an extremely good reason
for this extraordinary behaviour.
Do you recognise this?
Where the blazes did you find that?
Is it yours?
Lost it weeks ago.
Dropped out in the street.
Ruddy things never stay in.
Can I ask what brand of lipstick
you wear, Mrs Fortsecue?
You most certainly may not.
Is it Elizabeth Arvon
Roseberry Crush, by any chance?
What the devil...?
Found it by Miss Thimble's body,
along with your fingerprints.
Poppycock! I haven't set foot
in that woman's house in years.
You were seen having a heated
argument with her
shortly after
Judith Bunyon's murder.
Can I ask what that was about?
It was a private matter.
And the fracas yesterday
with Mrs Bunyon at the WI fair,
was that also a private matter?
I pulled her up
on malicious tittle-tattle,
if that's what you mean.
About the unfortunate mix-up
at Friday's WI meeting?
Mrs Fortescue, are you aware
that your husband was arrested
in a raid on a pornographic
cinema in Soho?
He was never charged.
He's a county court judge.
If this came to light, I don't think
he'll be playing golf
with the Chief Constable
any time in the near future.
Meaning?
I think both dead women found
out about your husband's activities
and threatened to expose him.
So you killed them.
Dinah Fortescue,
I'm arresting you on suspicion
of the murders
of Judith Bunyon and Vera Thimble.
You are not obliged to say anything
unless you wish to do so,
but whatever you do say...
Hmm. Angel AND saint
rolled into one, Mrs M.
Father?
Not now... please?
Father, may I congratulate you
on a rousing homily this morning?
Temptation
and the sins of the flesh.
I look forward to reading it.
I hope I can tempt you
to a slice of lemon drizzle.
No, thank you.
I'm fasting, followed
by a prayer vigil in the church.
This evening, you are normally
glued to the wireless.
The Sunday Half Hour
is Father Roland's only vice,
I sometimes think.
I thought the choristers from
King's College Cambridge last week
were particularly fine.
Or was it Christ Church, Oxford?
There's been a development!
Oh! Good afternoon, Father.
Delightful homily this morning.
I'll leave you
to your diversions.
Sid.
Dinah Fortescue's been charged
with both murders.
The hatpin was hers and her
fingerprints were on a teacup.
Have they established a motive?
It all leads back to Albert Evans.
Three women testified against him -
two of them are dead,
and the third is in a police cell.
This mentions a wife.
Do we know where she is?
About 100 yards away. Where?
In the graveyard. Oh. She drowned
a month after his execution.
Almost certainly suicide,
but they gave her the benefit
of the doubt and a Christian burial.
Ah!
The everyday china's good enough
for the likes of you,
and you will find that downstairs
in the kitchen.
Dear God and all the saints.
What, Mrs M?
Vera Thimble had
a Royal Doulton tea service.
Never missed an opportunity to
mention it or get it out in public,
but the cup found at the scene
was cheap everyday china.
The sort of thing she wouldn't
give house room to.
A rogue cup, planted
at the scene of the crime?
Ahem. My homily...
for your perusal.
Thank you.
Planted by the real murderer.
We need to have a chat
with Dinah Fortescue.
I'm sorry, ladies,
but you aren't authorised.
I'll come clean with you, Constable.
Father Brown believes
there's about to be
a grave miscarriage of justice.
Does he, now? How's that, then?
He's not quite sure just yet...
But knowing Father Brown, he'll
get it all worked out in the end.
Exactly.
All right. Just... Just ten minutes.
It's all just a fearful bloody
mess of a misunderstanding
and no-one who's anyone
will believe it for a second.
Vera Thimble received
an anonymous letter.
Not from me.
Did you know that Judith Bunyon
received one also?
The 28th November 1926, 9am.
The execution of Albert Evans.
I'd like you to leave.
You're going on trial
for double murder.
The police have enough evidence
to convict you twice over and,
I have on impeccable authority,
intend to push for a death sentence.
So whatever you're concealing,
I hope it's worth hanging for.
It was all such a long time ago.
Daisy Butler was just 14
when she was lured into the woods,
strangled...
and worse.
Kembleford was rocked to the core...
like we'd woken up one day to find
the devil living amongst us.
Forgive me, Lord, and lead me
not into temptation,
but deliver me from evil.
Lead me not into temptation,
but deliver me from evil.
Lead me not into temptation.
Get thee behind me, Satan!
Albert Evans was a known predator
on young girls.
The van he driving was identical
to the one we saw.
He had no alibi.
Not a person in Kembleford, including
his own wife, doubted his guilt.
But without eye witnesses,
he'd have got off scot-free.
It was unthinkable.
Good evening, Hywel.
Or should I say Stephen?
I had hoped, with you laid up,
there'd be one less detective
to worry about.
Well, I couldn't help noticing
the flowers on your mother's grave,
the birdsfoot trefoil for revenge...
on those who testified
against your father.
12 years old.
My father, a murderer and rapist.
My mother, a suicide.
What happened to you?
I was sent to my nan's in Tywyn.
She changed my name so no-one would
know I was the devil's spawn.
Not that it stopped them
finding out.
"Hangwell" they called me
at school.
Kiddies can be very cruel like that.
As for Nan...
she locked her bedroom door
every night I was under her roof.
Can't be too careful, see.
Like father, like son.
You poor little boy.
I'm so very, very sorry.
Thank you, Father.
I think you're the first person
who's ever said that.
Mind if I take a pew? It's been
a shocking day on the feet.
Be my guest.
I expect you've got some questions.
Yes.
I was wondering why you bothered
sending the letters
when it can only draw
attention to yourself.
Well, that's easy.
I wanted them to feel the fear
my father did...
Oh! I didn't hear you come in.
'..To know they had died
'for what they'd done.'
Horribly cunning.
Well, from you, I'll take that as
a complement, Father. Although truth
be told, it was surprisingly simple.
So, kindly refrain
from chasing every young girl
all around the fete,
if you wouldn't mind.
Am I making myself clear? Very.
'Who notices a policeman?
'First on every crime scene.
'Access all areas.'
I assume it was you
who switched Father Roland's film
at the Women's Institute. Here's me,
biding my time for the right moment
and then a records check turns up
Justice Jeffrey's activities.
You murdered two innocent women...
and framed a third...
for telling the truth.
Well... Well, Father...
it seems like you don't know
everything after all.
Not one of them is innocent.
They murdered my father, as surely
as if they'd pulled the lever on the drop.
It didn't feel like lying.
It felt like justice.
By the trial, I think I truly
believed that Bert Evans
was the man I saw that night.
And then some 20 years later, the
real killer was caught and confessed.
Albert Evans was declared
posthumously innocent and pardoned.
So, you took matters into your
own hands. An eye for an eye.
Vengeance is the Lord's.
He will repay.
I can't wait till
the Day of Judgment.
I wanted to watch them
atone for their crimes
and for one of them at least,
to suffer as my father did.
The opportunity for one
of them to die a long,
slow death by judicial murder.
It's not too late to repent.
I'm chapel, see. Don't set
much store by confession.
But you believe in God
and the power of his forgiveness.
End this atrocity now, Stephen.
Save your soul.
Forgive me my sins.
I want it absolutely understood
that I've never forgiven myself
for what I did,
not only to Bert Evans,
but his wife
and their poor little boy.
Albert Evans had a son?
Can you ladies tell me
what the devil you're doing?
There's no time for that, Inspector.
We know who sent those anonymous letters.
Anonymous letters? Received by
Judith Bunyon and Vera Thimble
I don't know of any such letters.
Sure you do. Vera Thimble's
was found in her handbag
and we handed in
Judith Bunyon's to...
Constable Pugh!
When this transfer came up,
it was a sign.
I was sent by God as
his angel of retribution.
There's irony.
Little Stevie Evans...
patrolling the town,
keeping them all safe.
All the while, biding my time
for the right opportunity.
This'll be painless.
An accident on the stairs
in your wheelchair.
There's no-one there to hear you.
I'm looking forward
to all this being over...
popping the question to Gladys...
maybe a kiddie or two.
Is everything all...?
It's all fine. All under control.
Go and fetch help!
We'll have you out of this
in a jiffy, Father.
Go!
I think not.
I'm sorry, Gladys.
Bonkers, in my humble opinion.
Let's hope the judge thinks so.
I owe you a debt of gratitude.
I hear you've got a handy right-hook.
County-flyweight champion,
Cambridge Half Blue...
I gave it up when I entered
the seminary.
I'd forgotten how good it felt.
I thought you were in church
all night. What happened?
And more to the point, how did
you know that he was downstairs?
All right. I'll go and see
where her ladyship's got to.
Listen...
thank you.
It seems you know my weaknesses
better than I do myself.
I couldn't help
but hear the phone ring,
every Sunday at eight,
just before Sunday half-hour.
What's her name?
Louisa.
A woman of such purity and beauty,
I was lost the first time I saw her.
She sent me away, said she couldn't
steal me from God, but...
by then, I was already taken.
And yet you still
corresponded with her?
No an impure word or thought.
I broke no vow,
committed no sin...
except in my heart.
God will understand. Too well.
Too well. He sent me here
to test me...
and the devil was waiting,
tempting,
taunting me with carnal images.
You think that film
was a coincidence?
A sign?
Saying what exactly?
That God wants sacrifice
but not suffering,
that you can still serve him
with the woman you love...
that God has chosen for you...
by your side.
A cup of tea, I think, is in order.
Oh, I'll make it.
Mrs McCarthy, I am perfectly capable
of making a cup of tea.
No doubt you are.
And... I'm...
I'm sorry I said that you
were decorative. Thank you.
And I'm sorry about the scones...
because...
I didn't actually taste them.
You didn't taste my scones?
I just sort of pretended.
You didn't taste my scones?!
Naturally, if I had,
you would have won
which is why I've decided
to come clean and have
the whole competition declared
null and void, however humiliating.
That won't be necessary.
I know the truth
and that's what matters.
You know what, Mrs M?
Underneath it all,
you're a jolly good egg.
Underneath what exactly?
I come to make my goodbyes.
Is something wrong, Father?
On the contrary.
I was lost and now am found,
thanks to Father Brown.
A man of hidden wisdom,
it transpires.
I shall be sure to tell the Bishop
as much, when I inform him.
Inform him of what?
I'm leaving the priesthood.
God be with you.