Original subtitles

Subtitling made possible by RLJ Entertainment

PORTER: Oh, thank you, M. Poirot.

Well, it was the damnedest thing.

I pop out for a stroll in Mayfair

and come back minus a leg, and a face fit for a sideshow.

I shall tell you the story. [ Clears throat]

One Sunday afternoon two years ago,

I stopped for a breather outside the London pied-à-terre

of the millionaire Gordon Cloade.

I'd heard that Gordon had returned to England

with a child bride, one Rosaleen.

Irish girl, actress whom he'd met and married in New York.

Never having seen her, I was hoping to catch a glimpse.

[Vehicle approaching ]

Gordon had summoned his brother, Jeremy, his wife, Frances,

and the rest of the family Cloade up from the country

to meet this Rosaleen for the first time.

You mark my words-- She's a bloody little tart.

Lionel, darling.

- She is. - You've never even met her.

I don't need to, Adela. I know the type.

Slack, greedy, and cunning as hell.

PORTER: Well, the introduction of Rosaleen

proved a rather more inflammatory affair

than any of us had anticipated.

Gas.

Someone called to say they'd smelled it.

Blew the front off Gordon's house--

from the inside.

Gordon and a dozen others were killed instantly.

The Cloades were sufficiently far from the blast

to escape unscathed.

But miraculously, Rosaleen also survived.

She just walked out of the inferno.

She'd been in the cellar with her brother,

one David Hunter, choosing wine.

[ Bell clangingl

Poor Rosaleen, hm?

Widowed for the second time at the age of what, 23?

So she was married before?

Oh, yes.

Bloke called Robert Underhay.

A chum of mine.

Served with him in Mombasa.

Hence my interest.

You see, some time before all this occurred, Underhay died.

Well, he disappeared into the jungle.

Didn't come back.

[ Chuckles ]

JEREMY: Ah. Poirot, there you are.

Sorry to keep you waiting.

- Porter. - Cloade.

Shall we go in to dinner?

Oui.

Major.

Ciao.

JEREMY: Porter is an oceangoing bore

with his story about my brother Gordon.

He can't have known you were acquainted with us Cloades.

The death of Gordon must have ramifications most substantial

for the entire family, no?

It's been an interesting couple of years financially.

A“YWaY. Lynn.

Do you have news?

She's coming back to England.

To stay?

Do you know, your niece is a child of whom I am most fond.

Child no longer. She's engaged to be married.

No.

Cousin of hers, in fact.

Rowley. Farmer.

Pleasant enough.

He's a Cloade.

Lynn told me to invite you to the annual do at Furrowbank.

You can meet Gordon's widow for yourself.

Now, beef. Well done.

That's how they do it here.

And then, uh, spotted dick and custard.

- MAN: Yes, sir. - JEREMY: Now, wine.

Two glasses of the house red.

[ Horn honks]

Lynn.

Well, naturally, we were flabbergasted.

I mean, could you imagine Gordon,

at his age, suddenly getting married?

It was ridiculous.

She's good-looking, I suppose.

She has the most enormous eyes, terrifically blue

and what they call "put in with a smutty finger."

Personally, I think she looks rather half-witted.

Well, Mummy, you're not a man.

I don't suppose Uncle G was after her

for intellectual companionship.

I don't suppose he was after her at all.

Quite the other way about.

I think any woman veering too close to Gordon

would be vilified by this family as a gold digger.

He was incredibly good to us, darling-- all of us.

[ Faucet squeaks ]

Not much has changed in Warmsley Vale while I've been away.

[Thud, water runs]

Four years.

You might have got my taps fixed.

[ Sobs]

These are all unpaid.

When your father died, Gordy took me to one side.

He said, "Now, I don't want you to worry about money.

Anything to do with the household,

just put it in an envelope and send it to me."

Well, you've put it in an envelope.

Dear God.

Can you recall one single instance

of extravagance in this house?

Can't what's her name continue the arrangement?

The widow.

All she'd have to do is write a check now and then.

She couldn't possibly...

I doubt that Rosaleen would object, but her brother would.

Very, very nasty piece of work, that one.

What's the brother got to do with anything?

He controls her.

Controls what precisely?

Everything.

Her money, her diary, her conversation such as it is.

He runs Furrowbank as if he owns the place.

Your aunts and I doubt very much

that David Hunter really is Rosaleen's brother at all.

[Sighs]

[ Horn honks]

Oh. I think it's Rowley.

You've-- You've grown.

No. Really. You're--

Well, you're taller than when I last saw you.

When you last saw me, I was a child.

You've seen more of the world than I have, Lynn.

I've seen a lot of sleepy sickness in Africa.

God.

That's not what you mean, is it, Rowley?

You're kissing me and you're thinking,

"I don't even know if she's still a virgin."

[Telephone ringing ]

[ Ringing continues]

Rosaleen Cloade.

WOMAN: You're not a Cloade.

You're a slut.

A filthy, stinking Irish slut.

What about me?

[ Click, dial tone]

[ Receiver rattles ]

They'll stop soon, sister child.

I'll make sure of it.

POIROT: My good George,

all things in my new apartment, they are delightful.

Yet this morning I am troubled with a draft.

And also, in the matter of the ordering of my books...

Quite so, monsieur.

Unacceptable.

I'll have a word.

Further abominations, monsieur, or may I serve breakfast?

- Ah. - [ Buzzer sounds]

[ Gasps] My dear monsieur!

[ Smooches ]

- Madame. - Shall I sit here?

Oui.

What marvelously square furniture you have.

Not a curve in the place, madame.

Not strictly true, now I've arrived. [ Laughs]

Now, I expect you have heaps of questions to ask me.

Merci bien.

Madame... who are you?

Mrs. Katherine Woodward.

KATHERINE: Lynn's aunt.

Lynn's mother, Adela, and I are Gordon Cloade's sisters.

Did you not get my letter?

The first post, monsieur.

Ah. Merci, George.

Here.

There we are. That's the fellow.

Merci, madame.

When I heard you were coming to Warmsley Vale to see Lynn,

I thought, "Bingo.

Just the man for the job."

You see, the Child of Light has been particularly forthcoming

on the subject of Robert Underhay.

Gordon's widow's first husband.

The Child speaks for the dead.

But of course.

First-class spirit.

Very reliable.

In his punctuality at seance, madame,

or the accuracy of his intelligence?

Both.

He tells me Underhay is not among the dead.

Eh bien, Mme. Woodward.

How is it that Poirot, he may be of assistance in this matter?

You must find him.

This Underhay must be produced.

Je suis désolé, madame.

But this is a commission that Poirot,

he is not equipped to accept.

But can't you see what it means?

The woman Rosaleen was never at liberty to marry my brother.

She's a bigamist.

That is what we need you to prove, monsieur,

or the family's inheritance will be lost.

The tawdry little beast has got her hooks into Gordy's fortune,

but she must be stopped.

Merci.

[ Dog growls ]

[ Barks]

[ Dog panting ]

Mme. Lead better.

Count.

[ Growls ]

How do you know my name?

I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance,

madame, on previous visits to this establishment.

Hercule Poirot.

You killed what?

Welcome to Warmsley Vale, Mr. Poirot.

I'm so sorry.

I was engaged with the telephone.

Foreigner, Beatrice.

[ Barks, growls ]

Do you remember Mrs. Leadbetter and Count Bismarck?

They're residents.

Indeed I do.

Then they require no explanation.

Let me show you to your room.

POIROT: Merci.

[ Growls, barks ]

[Birds chirping]

[Grunts]

Damn it. Damn it!

Let me do it.

What?

Darling, what's the matter?

I'm afraid you made a bad bargain, Frances.

Please remain where you are.

If you approach me, I may not be able to continue.

Oh, God.

The whole thing is completely, unutterably bloody.

Is it a girl?

Oh, God. Don't tell me it's Edna, the new maid.

- No. - Fingers like sausages.

- No. - I couldn't bear it.

- Is it a boy? - It is nothing of that kind.

It is... a professional matter.

Money.

Is the firm going smash?

Are we to be bankrupt?

You know, don't you,

that I've never cared about money in the slightest?

It bores me to tears.

Would it be helpful if I asked you questions?

You could nod.

Whose money is lost? Is it ours?

Is it the clients' money?

Is it very much that is gone?

Pensions.

You spent the clients' pensions?

Jeremy, my father was a baronet.

He was also the most almighty feckless, sponging crook.

My brother Charles is just the same.

In memory, my childhood divides pretty evenly

between dining at the Ritz

and flitting from rented houses in the middle of the night

to escape the bailiffs.

Can we mortgage the house?

Of course. You must have done that already.

Right.

There's only one thing for it.

It'll have to be a touch. Big one.

Let's see if I really am my father's daughter.

ADELA: Poor old Furrowbank.

I've never seen anything so vulgar in my entire life.

It's as though we're going to an orgy.

The place stands empty all year.

It exists merely for the most occasional party.

A more perfectly disgusting display of extravagance

- I can't imagine. - Quite.

But not what you used to say when Uncle Gordon was around.

The Child of Light is adamant.

I see. That-- That's handy. In what particular...

About Robert Underhay.

- Who? - Rosaleen's first husband.

The Child is never wrong, and he insists Underhay is still alive.

I fear for Rosaleen.

She's guilty of the sin of bigamy,

and when she dies, her soul will burn in hell for eternity.

The Child's quite unequivocal about that.

Aunt Kathy, if you mention

any of this this hurtful nonsense tonight,

I shall be very cross with you.

Oh, really.

[ Mid-tempo music playing]

[ Indistinct conversations ]

Another drink, madame?

No, I shouldn't think. Thank you.

[ Indistinct conversations ]

Can you feel it?

What?

The hatred.

I think you're David Hunter.

Long-lost Lynn, yes?

[Music continues]

What is it that we're all hating?

Me.

And my sister.

Mostly me.

I'm the one that keeps her little purse snapped shut

when you lot are about.

What's the noun, I wonder, for a bunch of Cloades

whose train has just run out of gravy?

I don't know.

A wilderness.

A wilderness of Cloades.

That's very good.

[ Both chuckle]

Why are you marrying Rowley?

He's such a thug and a bore.

Look at him, trying not to stare at us,

worrying what I might be saying to you.

As he should.

LYNN: Your sister, Rosaleen-- Tell me about her.

Well, uh, she's not very bright.

But then you can see that for yourself.

You're like me.

[ Whispers ] You see everything.

[ Scoffs ]

I don't think I'm like you at all, Mr. Hunter.

David, my dear, you're very pretty, but you need beefing up.

You absolutely must try these.

Why?

Have they got the poison in?

What?

[Laughs]

[ Both laugh ]

[ Music, laughter continue]

[ Chuckles ]

Look, there's no elegant way of saying this,

so I'm just going to say it.

Jeremy's up a gum tree.

I shan't bore you with the details,

but a substantial amount of money that wasn't strictly his

has been... mislaid.

You find this embarrassing, Rosaleen.

Imagine how I feel.

How much do you think you're going to need?

But to administrate an entire hospital

in the heart of the jungle?

Now, that is a thing of some consequence, I think.

Your letters sustained me.

Non, non.

They really did.

Gave me strength.

But your father, he was a good friend,

and I promised to him

that I would observe your progress through life.

He did not know, of course, that your progress

would be conducted several thousand miles away.

But he would be most proud of you, mademoiselle.

Most proud.

Rosaleen, I have absolutely no doubt

that you have saved my marriage.

I shall dedicate every moment I possess

to making certain that you are happy and fulfilled

and welcome in Warmsley Vale.

[ Clapping ]

[Music stops]

Bra va.

Bra va.

Tell you what, Rosaleen, you could do worse

than getting a few professional tips off this one.

She's a natural.

- If you'll excuse me, David. - Oh, no. Don't rush off.

Let's discuss inhabiting the character.

Motivation.

- Plot. - You're in my way.

That's because my intention in this scene

is to prevent you from leaving until I have asked a question.

How much?

How... much?

Whatever has happened between Rosaleen and myself

is of no concern of yours.

[ Chuckles ]

Now, that's a silly and untruthful thing to say.

And if I hear you say it again,

I shall make myself very disagreeable to you, Frances.

And you won't like it.

How much?

Your sister has seen fit to lend me £10,000 of her own money.

[Gasping, murmuring]

HUNTER [Laughs]

Oh, it's all in the detail, isn't it?

The "lend" is particularly good.

I shall repay the loan in full at the first opportunity.

Well, that's now.

Give her back the check or she cancels it.

The bank manager won't like it. Won't look good at all.

But the choice is yours.

Unh-unh.

As you so rightly say, it's not my money--

It's Rosaleen's.

[Whispering] You give it back to her.

I'm so sorry, Frances.

Oh, that's quite all right, my dear.

I shan't forget the kindness you have tried to show me.

Nor, David, shall I forget this.

Oh, that's right, Frances.

You won't.

[Snaps fingers]

[Music resumes]

[ Indistinct conversations ]

ADELA: Quite the most extraordinary evening.

Good night, Rowley.

ROWLEY: Good night, Adela.

Don't be long, darling.

So that was David Hunter.

Not my cup of tea.

The answer to the question you asked earlier...

What question?

Oh, God, Lynn. I never for a moment...

...is yes, still a virgin.

Not through lack of opportunity, but because I never forgot

that I love you and you love me

and that we have an appointment with a vicar.

Which is when, by the way?

Any ideas?

Oh, Lynn.

ROSALEEN: I want to go home.

Real home.

As you have been told, I cannot sell the house

until the death duties are signed off.

And that shall be soon, but in the meantime,

enjoy the discomfort of your new family.

Bloody parasites, the lot of them.

They've had it too easy for too long.

It's time they learned to shift for themselves

without darling Gordy sprinkling cash over them like confetti.

They hate me.

[ Chuckles ]

Indeed they do, sister child.

And you've just got to learn to take it.

Takeit

Now...

...what are you going to do?

Everything you say, David.

And everything will be?

Peaches and cream.

And so it shall.

And so it shall.

[ Snoring ]

[Grunts]

[Birds chirping]

[ Metal rattling ]

[ Cows lowing ]

Morning.

I'm looking for a place called Furrowbank.

[Telephone ringing ]

[ Ringing continues]

Yes?

WOMAN: Do it with your brother, do you?

Say your name.

Say it.

You'd do it with a corpse.

[ Receiver rattles ]

[ Door closes ]

[ Footsteps approaching ]

Who was it?

What, again?

Did you open anything?

What's this?

Came by hand.

ROSALEEN: I didn't open anything.

HUNTER: See who brought it?

You spend enough time staring out the bloody window.

[ Paper rustling ]

Can I go now?

No.

Yes. Yes.

You must go to London.

Now, Rosie. Go and get the driver.

Go!

[ Exhales deeply]

[ Indistinct conversations ]

- Mr. Hunter, isn't it? - Mm-hmm.

How can I help you?

Well, a guest of yours

has invited me to call upon him this fine day.

[ Knock on door]

Come.

Anything I can get you, Mr. Arden?

I'm fine.

How about you, Hunter?

I think we're both fine.

HUNTER: "Call on me this afternoon

to learn something of interest

concerning the husband of your sister, Rosaleen."

[ Fire crackling ]

Doesn't say which husband.

Only one husband, old boy.

Robert Underhay.

[ Chuckles ]

I tell you what.

You say whatever it is you have to say, Mr. Arden,

or I'll tip you out on the pavement

on your scrawny arse...

old boy.

ARDEN: I'm afraid old Underhay's in a bit of a bad way.

People often are when they've been dead a few years.

He needs pretty continuous medical supervision.

Unfortunately, that can be rather expensive.

There. That was it.

The word we've all been waiting for.

Now, tell me.

Where does all this unfortunate expense take place?

That's the information I'm keen to keep from the Cloades.

But naturally, if your sister feels unable to contribute

to the cost of my-- my friend Underhay's treatment,

I'll be compelled to lead the whole pack of them to his door.

Naturally.

I'm only thinking of him.

I see that.

You, of course, have never actually met Underhay, have you?

Perhaps I should just cut out the middleman,

speak to Rosaleen myself.

What's your view on that?

I think we should try not to distress the ladies.

Mm.

£20,000-- in cash.

Why don't you have a little think about it?

Come back and give me your decision.

MRS. LEADBETTER: This establishment,

Beatrice Lippincott,

is a sewer of prurience and depravity.

Get away from that door.

[ Dog growls ]

[Bell chiming]

[ Cow lowing ]

I'm coming. Keep your hair on.

Whoa. Whoa. Slow down. Slow down.

You're gabbling.

Yeah, I've seen him. He came 'round the farm.

Paunch, soft hat.

Did he now?

Wait a minute. This is...

Christ. Y-You're sure he actually used the name Underhay?

And the-- the bloke's still there, yes?

And Hunter's gone?

Bloody right, I'm gonna want to have a word.

So will Jeremy.

I'll scoop him up and we'll be straight 'round.

[ Engine turns over]

Rowley.

Wants you.

Very agitated.

[ Door closes ]

[Sighs]

That boy.

[ Indistinct conversations ]

Come 'round to my side, Mr. Rowley.

Bit more private.

Don't speak. Listen.

Call the bank and tell them you wish to withdraw £20,000.

I'll come up tonight to get it.

Because a man's turned up

threatening to produce Robert Underhay alive.

He may actually be Underhay. God knows.

I never met the bugger when you married him.

The situation is not gonna be improved

by you asking questions, Rosaleen.

There is no alternative.

Our future depends on it. Everything depends on it.

Now, go call the bank.

There's my good girl.

[Birds chirping]

[ Footsteps approaching ]

[ Gasps]

It's my moon.

You like it?

A hunter's moon.

A good moon to hang by.

You frightened me.

You're trespassing.

Hm.

Forgive me.

What are you doing here?

Romantically enough, I'm trying to catch a train.

The 7:02 to London, if you really want to know.

This place is not on the way.

It's on the way to you.

[ Exhales deeply]

What were you thinking?

Just now, here on your own...

...looking at the sky.

Don't prepare your answer.

Tell me.

I was...

I don't know.

I was...

...thinking about the horror of drifting.

You know what it is about a woman that really arouses me?

It's a very rare physical quirk.

It's when she tells the truth.

Not here.

I have to catch my train.

My sister is in London. She's expecting me.

I'll call you as soon as I get there.

The moment I arrive.

Now go in to your mother.

[Telephone ringing ]

Warmsley Vale 1139.

WOMAN: I have a call from London.

Hello?

Hello?

[Telephone rings]

HUNTER: I'm here. Can you talk?

I don't know.

I can listen.

David?

You must marry Rowley Cloade.

And do it quickly.

Forget about me.

I shall make it my business to forget about you.

I don't believe you.

You and I... we'd tear each other to pieces,

destroy each other.

You're lying to me.

Why... Why are you lying to me?

I'd certainly destroy you.

It's in my nature, Lynn, to desecrate the things I cherish.

And I love you too much for that.

[Humming]

Mr. Arden, are you decent?

Breakfast!

[ Screams, dishes clatter]

LYNN: Those are my gardening gloves.

But, mademoiselle, it is essential for the great farewell

that it not be overdressed with ceremony, huh?

You see?

You are happier this morning, huh?

Quite the reverse.

But this morning I see things more clearly,

which is useful.

Well, bien alors.

Of all the virtues, the English, they value usefulness.

ROWLEY: Monsieur.

A man calling himself Enoch Arden has been murdered--

last night in the pub.

I think he was Robert Underhay.

God help me, monsieur, but you must come and sort this out.

Please. You must come now.

Here's a bit of luck, then, anyway, you being here.

You'll be able to show me how it's done, this detecting caper.

Superintendent Spence.

Superintendent.

Even better, I believe you're acquainted with the Cloades.

How is that better, Superintendent?

Prickly bunch.

Handy for me to have a man on the inside.

[ Knock on door]

Dr. Lionel. Come in.

Ah. M. Poirot.

Doctor.

Well, this, um, presumably, is the patient.

You know, the woman Lippincott

is telling all and sundry that this is suicide.

- Dear Beatrice. - Yes.

Not the most efficient way of dispatching oneself--

smashing in the back of one's head with a set of fire tongs.

Now, the, uh, time of death.

Between 6:00 and 9:00 last night.

- I agree. - I'm so glad.

And Beatrice heard Arden at half past 8:00,

which narrows it down quite nicely.

Now, I will fill in the certificate,

but if you don't mind, I must be getting along.

I have other patients to attend to.

Unlike this poor fellow, their treatments are billable.

Mr. Cloade, there you are. Good.

Is this yours, by the way?

I found it upstairs in the bedroom.

Not my color, Superintendent.

Quite right.

Definitely one for a brunette, though.

He must have had a woman up there.

[ Sighs ] Where were we?

You were upstairs looking at the dead man.

I was here being treated as though I'd killed him.

- Did you? - I did not.

I told you. Beatrice rang me up.

She'd overheard this Arden character

lobbing a colossal blackmail demand at Hunter,

reckoned I should pop 'round and confront the bloke.

So around you duly popped?

Wouldn't you?

And what did he say to you, this Arden?

Well, he didn't seem particularly surprised.

In fact, he tried it on with me, the bugger.

How much will the family pay

for definite proof that Underhay is still alive?

I'm afraid at that point, I rather lost my rag.

Told him if Underhay were still around, we were--

Pardon. What is "lost my rag"?

- It's when you lose-- - Lose one's temper. Thank you.

So I told him if Underhay were still around,

we were perfectly capable of establishing the fact ourselves.

We're not, of course. That's why I came to you.

At what time did you lose your rag, Mr. Cloade?

I don't know. Too busy storming off. Ask Bea.

I have. She says half past 6:00.

Then I expect that's when it was.

I also expect Bea told you

that Hunter came back here just after I left,

which makes him the last person to see Arden alive.

We shall have the need to speak to M. Hunter and his sister.

They're in London.

Tiens.

Superintendent, will you be good enough

to make the telephone call

and to give to them the invitation most pressing

to come this afternoon to my apartment?

I'll get a car to take us to London.

Merci.

Johnson.

And, George, the guests-- M. Hunter and Mme. Cloade?

Already here, monsieur.

- Uh, monsieur. - Oui?

Ah. Merci.

They've, um, made themselves comfortable.

Good pictures.

- Poirot you already know. - POIROT: Madame.

And, judging by the cheap shoes, some policeman.

Superintendent Harold Spence.

Superintendent Harold Spence.

It is so good of you both to come at such short notice.

Look, Poirot, you may have time for small talk,

but Harold here is working.

And I'm easily bored. What's going on?

Enoch Arden is dead.

[ Lighter clicks]

You interest me, actually, Harold.

Go on.

You know the man I'm speaking of,

and you're not surprised to hear that he's dead?

That about sums it up, yes.

Are you working on this?

No. The superintendent, he searches for the murderer.

Hercule Poirot searches for Robert Underhay.

But the information we discover may be of mutual benefit.

You don't deny discussing Underhay

with the man calling himself Arden?

I haven't had the chance to deny anything, Harold.

I can't get a word in edgeways.

Robert is dead.

SPENCE: Just for the sake of form, Mr. Hunter,

why don't you tell me where you were

between the hours of 6:00 and 9:00 last night?

For the sake of form, why don't I refuse to answer?

Because a refusal to cooperate will incriminate you.

I can only incriminate myself if I'm actually guilty of a crime.

He's not very bright, is he?

You should work alone.

M. Hunter, what did Arden want?

I have made it my job to intercept and destroy

every crooked attempt to relieve my sister of her fortune.

And I've heard some very pretty tales of hardship and misery,

mostly from the Cloades.

But to use Underhay for blackmail.

That takes the cake.

Frankly, I was looking forward to seeing

what sort of Underhay this fellow would produce,

because it wouldn't be a live one.

However, to protect my sister, I decided to pay the man off.

Why open old wounds, eh?

SPENCE: Beatrice Lippincott says

you paid a second visit to Arden that evening.

Why?

To tell him he'd get his blasted money.

And when I talked to him, he was alive.

Mme. Cloade, the man Arden claimed

that he knew your first husband for Robert Underhay.

Therefore, it is possible that you knew him--

perhaps by another name?

So if you would be so kind--

Slow down, Poirot.

I'm not going to have Harold drag my sister off

to see some battered corpse.

"Battered," monsieur?

ROSALEEN: Very well.

Can't you see what they're suggesting?

They're saying that this dead man could be Robert.

I must find out for myself.

How can I not, David?

Please.

Well, forgive me, but I have little faith in that exercise.

Under the circumstances, is she likely to identify

the corpse as Underhay?

S'il vous plaît.

Oui. Merci beaucoup.

Superintendent, you have been most kind.

Au revoir.

The afternoon of the murder,

Rosaleen Cloade telephoned to her bankers

to arrange the withdrawal of £20,000 in cash.

God.

Bloody hell. We've got him.

You construe this as evidence against David Hunter?

Well, Hunter made her do it because he'd decided to pay.

Yes, I'd call that evidence-- with knobs on.

No.

It is evidence corroborating the existence of blackmail.

It is not evidence of the intent to commit murder.

No. You cannot have it both ways, my friend.

Either M. Hunter, he was preparing to pay

or he was preparing to kill.

Ah. Ma foi.

This whole case, it is entirely the wrong shape.

And above all else, the dead man, he is also wrong.

Enoch Arden.

Not even an anagram.

No. He's a character in Tennyson.

Hmm?

I looked him up.

Bloke goes off and comes back

to find his wife's gone and married someone else.

Um, I can't remember what he does next.

[ Buzzer sounds]

What you need, M. Cloade, is a witness who is independent,

who has no connection with the family,

who knew Robert Underhay

and can point to the dead man and say,

"Yes, that is Robert Underhay," or, "No, that is not,"

and you will have, without doubt, the truth.

Oh, yes. Obviously.

But where are we going to find such a convenient individual?

Oh, M. Cloade, have you or have you not engaged the services

of the greatest detective in the world?

Viens. Come and meet your star witness.

Major Porter, greetings.

Ah. Yeah.

Don't suppose you've got a smoke, M. Poirot?

I seem to have run myself dry.

[ Chuckles ]

- But of course. - Oh.

Most kind. Mm.

ROWLEY: But, Lynn, don't you see?

If this Porter character can identify the dead man

as Rosaleen's husband,

it means he was still her husband when she embarked

on a bigamous and unlawful marriage to Gordon.

That means Gordon's original will still stands.

Uh-huh.

Yes! Exactly.

And that means quarter share of the entire estate to Jeremy,

quarter to Kathy, quarter to your mother,

and a quarter to me.

Now, if we all work to ginger up proceedings,

we could have the money in our pockets by this time next year.

I won't have you pig it, Lynn.

You had enough of that in Africa.

In fact, I reckon I've had enough of it here, too.

What will they do?

Who?

Rosaleen and David.

[ Exhales deeply] You're a good woman, Lynn.

You won't gloat in victory.

I have a great deal to learn from you.

Personally, I think Hunter's going to swing.

God, I'd pay good money to see him kick.

[ Clattering ]

Lynn.

Lynn!

[ Door opens]

I didn't do it.

We both know I can make you believe that.

But I want you to believe it freely.

Because it's true.

I can't believe I've had to come back to this bloody place.

Well, there has to be an inquest, Rosaleen.

It's only one day.

It'll all come out-- about me.

Nothing will come out.

Because nothing will come out of here...

that has not come out of here.

And that is how all shall be well.

Come.

I have something for you.

[ Gavel taps ]

Thanking you. Thanking you.

Next.

Uh, call David Hunter.

[ Spectators murmuring ]

[ Gavel taps ]

Mr. Hunter, you received a letter from the deceased

summoning you to the public house the Stag?

Yes.

Do you still have the letter?

No.

I can't see the point in saving unsolicited messages, can you?

Do you suppose it's sensible

for a man in your position to adopt such an insolent tone?

What do you mean, my position?

I've never had a position in my life.

[ Spectators murmuring ]

PEBMARSH: This is very ill-advised, Mr. Hunter.

We are trying to establish the cause of death

of a person to whom you--

Precisely. And you've already done that.

Heavy object, skull, bonk.

The man, whoever he was, is dead.

Somebody killed him.

But you have no mandate to speculate on the matter,

no authority to harass witnesses.

You're a doctor on expenses.

[ Spectators murmur, gavel taps ]

But since you are clearly so fascinated

by the lives of people more interesting than yourself,

I shall enlighten you.

While murder was being committed in the Stag, I was elsewhere.

And that can be vouched for by a lady.

[ Spectators murmuring ]

PEBMARSH: Does this lady have a name?

Obviously.

But you're not going to hear it from me.

[ Spectators murmuring ]

PEBMARSH: Call Major Porter.

Major, is it correct you have been taken under supervision

to view the body?

Yes, sir.

And were you able to identify the man you saw?

I was indeed, sir.

You sound very certain, Major.

PORTER: Absolutely no question about it, sir.

The man I saw was Bobby Underhay.

- Yes. - [ Spectators murmuring ]

Now, Mrs. Cloade,

Major Porter has identified the deceased as Robert Underhay--

"absolutely no question about it."

What do you say to that?

I say the major is mistaken.

[ Spectators murmuring ]

PEBMARSH: But he is adamant.

He served with Underhay in Mombasa.

He messed with him, paraded with him--

If the major was a close friend of my husband's,

then why did Robert never introduce him to me?

[ Indistinct whispering]

Every morning for two years,

I watched Robert Underhay take a bath.

I listened to him sing "Your Baby's Gone Down the Plughole."

I slept beside him in his bed.

Did Major Porter do these things?

I loved Robert.

I knew him.

He died.

It was awful.

It is beyond madness

to suggest that he has somehow been resurrected

and brought from Africa to Warmsley Vale

and that I should not know him.

[ Spectators murmuring ]

[ Gavel taps ]

SPENCE: Plucky girl, Rosaleen.

On top of everything, she's been getting telephone calls.

Usual filth. Someone doing a voice.

There's nothing we can do about it.

Superintendent, if you please to help me

with the English idiomatic.

When M. Hunter professes himself to have no position,

does that mean he considers himself

to be a gentleman of leisure?

Probably.

Though by trade, he's a road builder.

M. Hunter, he is a navy?

No, no. Engineer.

At least he was till little sis hit the jackpot.

Tunnels through mountains. That sort of thing.

He's an expert.

Now, that is information that is most intriguing.

Whatever he is, he's up the creek

if this lady doesn't pipe up on his behalf, and pretty sharpish.

Because I'm going to have him... and he's going to hang.

Humbug?

Uh...

[Bells tolling]

[ Indistinct conversations ]

Monsieur?

- Sorry. Have you got a moment? - Oui.

Um, a bit off accosting you like this among the graves.

I'm not entirely sure where we go from here.

I asked you to find Underhay, and as far as I'm con--

well, we're all concerned, you found him.

- Oui. - What remains now

is to prove the fact in court.

Rowley's worried, monsieur,

that the money being used to retain your services

should now be spent on barristers.

Ah. Eh bien.

Poirot, he waives his fees.

It is my wedding present.

That is so kind, monsieur.

Isn't it, darling? So generous. Thank you.

M. Poirot always knows what it is people need,

even if they don't know it themselves.

Well, in my experience, mademoiselle,

people always know

but are sometimes reluctant to admit it.

Excusez-moi.

[Bird chirping]

ROSALEEN: [ Sniffles ]

POIROT: Do you know when the priest, he is buried,

he is always facing his parishioners?

Oui.

Because when the day of judgment, it comes

and the dead, they all arise, he can greet them

and lead them through the gates of paradise.

It is a beautiful idea, hm?

He shan't be leading me.

You must not say that, ma chére.

Despair is a sin.

I'm cut off from the mercy of God.

No, no, no, no, no.

Nobody is cut off from the mercy of God.

Even

I try to pray-

Mm-hmm.

And it feels like...

I'm going to choke.

God is patient.

I'm just a simple farm girl.

I never wanted any of this.

Holy Mother and all the saints, sir.

But I'm a wicked bitch.

You have told a lie?

[ Sobs]

The man you saw was Robert Underhay?

- No. - Your brother, he killed him?

No!

That is what the police believe.

I am not the enemy, madame.

And I believe I can help you if you will allow me.

I...

It's David.

I-I need-- I need David.

[ Indistinct conversation ]

David?

My God. Look at you.

Church must have been a riot.

Oh, um, the constable and I have become, uh,

somewhat attached.

Come on, Mr. Hunter.

[ Metal clanking]

No.

David, I-I need this to stop now.

David, please.

It's only just started.

Constable.

HUNTER: [ Chuckles]

[Birds chirping]

Monsieur, I hoped that you'd come.

I wanted to talk to you earlier, but I couldn't.

Oui. I noticed at the church you were not happy.

I've changed, monsieur,

and I don't quite know how to cope.

Non, mademoiselle. You have not changed at all.

You went to Africa because you wanted to get away from England.

Because what was England to you?

Your school that was cold, the food was gray,

your climate, it was dismal.

All of that.

No.

You left England because you wanted to escape

from Rowley Cloade, and you still do.

- You've been talking to David. - No.

But you have.

He spoke of you in court, did he not?

You're a devil at knowing things, aren't you, monsieur?

That is my métier.

We talked for... what?

A couple of minutes.

Here, in this garden.

Ithoughtn

"This man... I need him."

Even if he beat me, I would kiss his hands and love him.

And David Hunter has placed his life at your disposal.

Do you know why?

To force your hand.

For to save him from the gallows,

you must stand up and say, "Yes, it was I.

I was with him at that time."

And Rowley Cloade, he will discard you.

David's trying to protect me from a loveless marriage.

Oh, perhaps.

But perhaps he plays with you

the games most dangerous and cruel.

But he's made you his alibi, and you must stand up.

- [ Snoring ] - I say.

Madame.

How was church?

We don't go, of course.

Lionel's an atheist,

and I converse regularly with Joseph of Arimathea,

so I really have no need.

Sit.

Let me see your eyes.

But, madame, I do not wish to disturb--

Oh, he's always nodding off.

Mm!

You have a lot of unresolved indigo in your aura.

Yes, I know. It is a problem.

[ Exhales deeply]

Right.

How can I help you?

- See? Never very far away. - No.

Uh, M. Le Docteur, could you tell to me

if the medical aspects of this case are entirely satisfactory?

- Kathy? - Hmm?

Shove off.

Oh. Righto.

Can't be in the room when he discusses blood and horrors.

I'll just go and powder my... you know.

[ Pills rattle]

You don't suffer from your bowels?

Uh, mercifully, no.

Sound constitution and a clear conscience.

I'll tell you what's wrong

with the medical aspects of this case, Poirot.

The murder weapon is not what killed him.

Smothered in gore and blood and hair.

But...

It is the wrong shape.

Clever you.

M. Le Docteur, where were you at the hour of the murder?

Here.

I was called out to Cecily Leadbetter,

which means having to listen to her rant for an hour.

- But she pays well. - [ Snoring ]

Check if you like. Wake her up.

But you'll need your tin hat.

If you'll please to excuse me, Doctor.

Oh.

Just one thing.

Mme. Rosaleen Cloade.

What about her?

I think she is not well.

Be kind enough to call upon her, and send to me the bill?

Of course.

LIONEL: The murder weapon is not what killed him.

POIROT: It is the wrong shape.

Not so fast, sir.

Madame.

I know jolly well what you are, sir.

Oui.

You're a pimp, sir.

That's what you are.

I've seen the floozies traipsing.

Floozy?

Up and down the stairs the night that idiot was killed.

I saw that vinegar-faced doxy

with her hair tied up in an orange scarf.

Oh! I know your game, sir.

This woman in the scarf, madame.

She was up the stairs or down?

She was scuttling down, having leeched the vital juices

from your customer in number three.

- Enoch Arden? - What?

Did you report this observation to the police?

The police? Where?

You direct them to me.

I'll make the stinkers hop.

What you make hop, Mme. Leadbetter,

are the little gray cells.

And they speak to Poirot.

Hello?

It is I, Poirot.

[ Indistinct conversation ]

Merci.

Are we seriously under suspicion for bludgeoning a man to death?

I call it a bit thick.

I mean, if it were Underhay,

we would have prostrated ourselves at his feet.

He'd have been our savior.

Well, yes indeed.

The position most desirable for the dedicated blackmailer, no?

Mesdames, there is strong evidence

that the murderer may have been a woman.

You are not obliged to tell to Poirot anything,

but it may spare you

the less delicate intrusions of the police.

Very well. Fine.

I was here with Adela, playing...

- Hangman. - Hangman.

Well, there you are. You see? That was not so painful, huh?

[ Chuckles ]

Alors.

Oui. Poirot, he must fly.

Would you please tell to your daughter

that I'm sorry to have missed her?

Oh. One thing before I go.

The last word that hanged the man,

what was it?

"Adze."

It's a sort of... tool.

POIROT: Oh, yes. Of course.

A cross between a hammer and an ax.

Au revoir.

Anything I can help you with, Major?

No. Thank you, Gerald.

That's what I ordered.

Sir.

Bit of news.

Bit of a blow for the Cloades.

Have to find someone else to identify Underhay to the judge.

[Gunshot]

POIROT: Punctilious in life and yet so indiscreet in death.

And why not leave to me a message?

There is a message, but it's not addressed to you.

"Dear Gerald"-- club servant--

"Sorry to cause you extra bother.

Have a drink with me. Chin-chin."

With the note was 100 quid.

Even under the circumstances, that's a big drink.

I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, monsieur.

Jeremy isn't here, I'm afraid.

But Poirot, he has come to see you, Mme. Cloade.

Oui, he has some information that you might find distressing.

Oh?

Were it not that you are already, I think,

in possession of the facts.

[ Clock ticking ]

Your brother, madame?

- Charles? - Oui.

Alas, he is dead.

Oh, that is bad news.

When did you discover that?

I discover it with certainty even now as we speak.

But you have endured this knowledge for many days, no?

[ Inhales sharply]

Damned if I'm going to cry in front of a stranger.

You're itching to tell us how you know this.

You might as well.

Poirot, he sees things, madame.

It is a habit that he cannot change.

It seemed probable that a member of the family Cloade

conjured into being this Enoch Arden.

The guess of Poirot was that an actor had been instructed.

But as he waited for you just now,

he looked along the photographs of your family

and he found a space--

a space where a photograph, it has been removed.

FRANCES: Charles.

We were never close.

POIROT: But close enough to make him come running

to make the imposture, huh?

A charade that cost him his life.

Money, monsieur.

I dangled money-- half my share of the inheritance.

Oh, he came sprinting on the chance of that, all right.

He was always a deeply venal man.

But plenty of front.

He'd buy a Bentley subject to a morning's trial

and swan all over London buying suits, paintings, wine.

Nobody questions your checks when you arrive in a Bentley.

Master of the swift and heartless confidence trick.

When Hunter ground my face into the dirt,

I thought, "Do you know what?

Charles is the man we need here."

I'm sorry that he's dead.

And Major Porter, madame-- Does your sorrow extend to him?

What?

This morning, he killed himself.

[ Gasps]

He left the entirety of his bribe

to a servant that he barely knew.

It was the action of a man who was in utter despair

at his own faiblesse and corruptibility.

What bribe?

Oh, madame, did you not bribe Major Porter

to identify your dead brother as Robert Underhay for £100?

I did not!

What did you think, madame, when he made the claim?

A rank lie that he could not bear to face

having to repeat in a criminal court.

[ Exhales sharply]

To be absolutely honest, monsieur,

nothing surprises me anymore.

The world has gone mad.

[Vehicle approaching ]

[ Horn honks]

[ Engine turns off]

[Laughs]

- Made you jump, eh? - Oui.

Think of it as a test for your heart.

No charge.

Rosaleen, on the other hand.

How did you find her?

Um, run down.

- Under the weather. - Ah.

Nothing that can't be patched up with a few vitamin supplements.

[ Chuckles ] These I have furnished.

Now, effectively, what's wrong with her is, um... shell shock.

From the blast.

I mean, living with that bloody wretched brother

doesn't help, of course.

But there again, that's, uh, beyond my remit.

My terms are 30 days.

Comment?

Ah! La douloureuse, oui?

The tragic moment when one must pay for what one has consumed.

We've all of us been perfectly bloody to her.

Simpering to her face

in the hope that she'll come across with the cash

and then sniggering up our sleeves

at the way she talks, the way she dresses.

But your statement, mademoiselle,

may have saved the life of her brother.

That is not sniggering up the sleeve.

That is courage.

But M. Rowley, what is his view of your admission?

He doesn't know.

Ah.

Yet.

I wanted to talk to David first.

That's why I came. I know he's been released.

[Woman screams]

[Whimpers]

What is it?

No, no, no, no. Mademoiselle.

Mademoiselle, please.

Let Poirot, huh.

Trop tard? Trop tard?

Not too late. She's breathing.

Get sal volatile and call an ambulance.

Smelling salts. Ambulance. Now!

Help me get her up on the bed.

Oui. Oui.

[ Grunts, sighs]

Get rid of that and get cold water and towels.

Do it now.

Sorry.

But in the bush, one has to get a bit shouty

to make things happen.

No. You are magnificent.

May I?

Madame? You will permit Poirot?

LYNN: I don't know why that keeps happening.

POIROT: It is like the bilious attack.

It is the result of ingesting too much morphine.

Even for a hardened addict like Mme. Cloade,

the dose was most substantial and designed to kill her.

Voilà. 15 to 20 ampoules.

Certainement, she should have died.

But she did not. Why?

[ Footsteps approaching ]

Oh, now, here's a very pretty scene.

- David-- - Don't speak to me.

Don't look at me.

I never asked anything of you.

Your running to the police earns you nothing.

Do I have you to thank, Poirot, for saving my sister's life?

Tell me, did you actually catch the Marchmont woman in the act?

Poisoning her?

The only act, monsieur, it is yours.

You are the source of poisons here.

I regulate the amount of opiate Rosaleen takes,

and I have done so ever since the blast.

Wherever we go, the filthy stuff is kept

under lock and bloody key.

Non. Not today, monsieur.

Non.

Your sister, she wished to kill herself.

Who enabled her to try?

Get that woman to step away from my sister.

I want Rosaleen.

Mademoiselle.

[ Exhales sharply]

Desecration, Lynn.

Everything I draw close, I defile.

Make foul.

Shh.

Shh, Shh.

[Vehicle approaching ]

One attempted suicide.

One successful suicide.

One ordinary, decent murder.

I don't understand any of it.

- [ Knock on door] - MAN: Mr. Poirot?

Oui?

From Scotland Yard, sir.

Merci.

[ Door closes ]

How I dread the answer that is contained in this envelope.

If it is "no"...

then Poirot has mistaken this case from the very beginning.

But if it is "yes"...

[Sighs]

Poirot, très imbécile.

You ordered the newspapers. You read them.

You should whip yourself around the town...

for not asking this question before.

The answer, it is "yes."

You know who's done our murder?

There is no murder at Warmsley Vale.

But it is a place that harbors one who is guilty

of the most cynical, merciless, abominable slaughter

of many blameless people.

Many.

The carapace is torn away, mon ami.

And the evil, it is disclosed.

[ Cows lowing ]

Rowley.

You've been crying.

I shall probably cry again in a minute.

Is this a good place to talk?

Or shall we go inside?

No. Here's good. In the shit.

I can't marry you, Rowley.

You know that, don't you?

It's a relief, isn't it?

What does that mean?

We've each been waiting for the other one--

I asked you a question!

It means, Rowley, that you and I are not suited to each other,

and to pretend otherwise would be to condemn ourselves.

So who am I suited to?

I'd be fascinated to know.

Somebody who properly appreciates

what you're trying to achieve here.

Someone for whom...

...it is enough.

I see.

So we've established that I am not enough for Lynn Marchmont.

- Don't do this, Rowley. - Don't tell me what to do.

You have no authority over me now.

So the question is, who is enough for her?

Who is the lucky lad?

David.

Mm.

I love him.

He loves me.

I don't for a minute imagine

we'll be particularly happy together.

But the funny thing is, I don't care.

Love is bigger than happiness.

You bitch.

- [ Gasps, screams] - You bloody bitch!

"Love is bigger than happiness"?

Bloody, heartless bitch!

He shan't have you, Lynn.

No, no. That wouldn't be right at all.

Please.

I've killed two people for love of you!

What's David done? What's David done?!

Be careful!

M. Cloade!

You will help the lady to her feet immédiatement!

It is time for Poirot to speak.

The death of Rosaleen Cloade.

Through whose mind has this thought not crossed?

Could anything be more convenient

for the indigent family Cloade?

She's not dead, Poirot.

POIROT: No, monsieur. She lives.

But if you could have killed her by wishing it,

she should have died a thousand times.

And such dissembling.

Such mendacity.

You, madame...

with your great command of the voices from the dead.

Voices that speak miraculously at seance.

Hatred like a sore.

Say your name.

Say it.

You'd do it with a corpse.

Bloody little whore.

POIROT: But your sister, she did not approve.

She tried to get you to desist. But oh, no, no.

You could not.

And on the night of the killing, she found you again.

And knowing that you would be compromised,

she offered to you the mutually convenient alibi

of the game of hangman.

"Adze."

Buggering Irish dwarf!

LIONEL: Katherine.

There's words for her.

Sniveling slut bucket!

- LIONEL: Katherine! - F-Frothing little frigger!

- [Laughs] - LIONEL: Katherine!

That's enough.

POIROT: Bien sûr.

The good doctor,

who on the night of the killing attended to Mme. Leadbetter.

For how long, Mme. Leadbetter?

For one hour?

An hour? Ten minutes at the most.

Charged me for an hour, the sewer.

The physician, whose own digestive system

is crippled by the colossal quantity of morphine

to which it is subjected every day.

Bon sang!

No wonder this household is in need of funds.

And then Poirot, he sent you to examine Rosaleen Cloade.

Et Voilà--

what you had suspected since the day of the trial,

when you saw in her your own symptoms of... intoxication.

It was confirmed.

Good.

POIROT: A fellow addict with a treasure trove of morphine.

Good.

POIROT: C'est marrant, eh, doctor,

that your self-serving theft

actually saved the life of the patient?

For in her attempted suicide, she had consumed what,

15, 20 ampoules?

But only a handful of these contained the morphine

because the rest you had emptied most hastily

and refilled with the castor oil.

The vitamin supplement

for which you wish to charge Poirot 20 guineas, huh?

Monsieur.

I'm sorry, but you are damaging this family

by saying things that can never be unsaid.

It has to stop.

I can't pretend

that I never thought about bumping off the widow.

But I killed Arden.

Oui.

Charles.

Bea summoned me here.

Told me the whole damned thing

before I even set foot in the room.

I felt I had the advantage.

But he just stood there so revoltingly supercilious,

oozing corruption.

I just felt the red mist coming over me.

POIROT: For not only had you already met this man,

but you had seen his photograph in the house of your aunt.

Ever since I was a bloody child,

nobody in your generation took me seriously or trusted me.

But you knew they were scheming, this pair, independently,

to get the money of Gordon for the family.

Why didn't you tell me?

Eh bien, your temper, it was gone.

And you struck him.

Oh, I struck the bugger like it was going out of style.

- [ Thud ] - Straight down.

He whacked his head on the stone thing 'round the fire.

Funny, I knew immediately that he was dead.

POIROT: And you saw your opportunity.

You dragged the body to the center of the room, and...

you killed him for the second time.

But you remembered

to clean the fire curb of the blood, monsieur, oui?

But you only cleaned one side.

Poirot, he sees.

I was pretty confident,

what with Bea's enthusiastic account of what she'd overheard

that this whole affair would be laid squarely at Hunter's door.

That suited me well enough.

I knew Lynn had fallen in love with him.

Knew it before you did.

And then came the pretty little comedy of the poor Major Porter.

How-- How do you know it was me who set him up?

Don't suppose you've got a smoke, M. Poirot?

I seem to have run myself dry. [ Chuckles]

POIROT: Because Major Porter, he did not include you

in the cadging of the cigarette.

Because he already knew that you did not smoke.

"But where are we to find such a convenient individual?"

Your words.

When only hours beforehand,

you had pressed £100 into the hand of the man

that you knew that Poirot would produce.

Told you I'd killed two people.

I did for Porter

just as surely as if I'd pulled the trigger myself.

Oui.

Two deaths.

But neither of them were acts of murder.

But today, mes amis, Poirot shall produce a murderer

of whose viciousness he stands in awe.

What about the tart in the head scarf?

Mme. Leadbetter, now, that is a question that is most apposite.

Can't understand her at all.

No?

But she is here with us now, madame--

the cold-blooded murderer of whom I speak.

Superintendent.

Purely for the sake of form, M. Hunter,

would you put on this scarf?

You'll have to do a little bit better than that, Poirot.

Very well.

Superintendent, am I correct in assuming

that you still have in your pocket the lipstick?

Here.

S'il vous plaît, pass it to M. Hunter.

- Again, purely for the-- - No.

It's undignified.

Peculiarly lacking in dignity at the time, too.

Then perhaps you might explain to us

why you thought it necessary.

Would you mind awfully doing it yourself?

You seem fairly comfortable with the sound of your own voice.

Very well.

At half past 6:00,

you return here to say yes to M. Arden,

that you will pay to him the blackmail money.

But you find him dead.

And you realize that you are in imminent danger

of being chained to a crime that you did not commit.

So oh, no, you must not be here. You should be in London.

So you seek out or...

No.

You converse with Mlle. Marchmont.

And in her statement, we find that you told to her

that you had to catch the 7:02 to London

and that you telephoned her from there soon after 10:00, huh?

Pas possible, monsieur!

You did not go to London!

You returned here, dressed in borrowed robes

to forge yourself the perfect alibi

for the crime you did not commit.

You leave for the police to find a little clue-- the lipstick.

You did everything to create the illusion

that at half past 8:00, Enoch Arden was still alive...

I've seen you right, sweetie.

Now, there's a good girl. Off you pop.

POIROT: ...by imitating his voice

and making sure that the woman visitor to his room

was seen hurrying away by Mme. Leadbetter.

Tell us about the telephone call.

That's the bit that intrigues me.

As instructed, at precisely 4 minutes past 10:00,

Rosaleen Cloade makes the telephone call

to Mlle. Marchmont.

I have a call from London.

[Telephone rings]

- LYNN: David? - I'm here.

All of which proves that I am alert

to the hideous subterfuges to which this family will stoop.

But none of which makes me a murderer.

And then you left unlocked

the door to the cabinet that contained the morphine.

HUNTER: Oh, yes.

That was remiss of me. Why did I do that?

POIROT: You knew that if you gave to her the opportunity,

she would take her own life.

The final service for your delectation.

HUNTER: Never.

I would never harm my sister.

No.

But the lady presently watching you from over there,

she is not your sister.

- LIONEL: Good heavens! - KATHERINE: What?

POIROT: Her name is Eileen Corrigan.

A simple farm girl,

as she defined herself to me at the church.

And whatever the papers may say...

...she did not die in Mayfair two years ago.

No.

But the real Rosaleen Cloade-- She did.

Why?

Because you murdered her.

More than any Cloade, you hated Rosaleen.

For in her happy marriage to Gordon Cloade,

she had excluded you.

Your first love, your little sister,

had surrendered herself to another man.

But you had already made your own arrangements

to deal with her,

for you had drawn under your spell

a parlormaid who was young, Irish,

and in the service of your sister.

Her name?

Eileen Corrigan.

You had seduced her, had deliberately...

impregnated her.

And had had the baby disposed of.

[ Gasps]

- Not true. - True.

Outside of the church, Eileen Corrigan told me

that she'd been cut off from the mercy of God.

She miscarried.

No, monsieur.

She endured abortion.

As it was always your intention that she should.

You wanted to crush the very soul

of this simple Catholic girl...

to make her so terrified by the state of her own life

that she would deliver it to you.

And maintained by morphine... ruled by terror,

Eileen Corrigan would do whatever you told her to do.

Why?

Why?!

Because you, monsieur, offered her salvation if she did

and... the fires of hell if she did not.

And what you wanted from her that day

was to become-- in totality, huh?--

the widow of Gordon Cloade.

But your sister, she had the concern for you.

She knew that her marriage had upset you.

So she wished to use the occasion of this luncheon

as a reconciliation.

She wanted to beg your forgiveness,

to have a share in her good fortune.

[ Gasps]

Dear God, David.

What in hell is happening here?

POIROT: But there was no forgiveness to be had.

You punish her by taking her fortune for yourself,

and so you'd send to her death most violent your only sister.

Cut me.

EILEEN: Cut my face.

That's what you said, Mr. Hunter.

[Voice breaking] And that's what I did.

And I felt pleasure in it.

So your sister, she returned to her husband.

[ Hinges creak]

[Ticking]

Dynamite.

[Sighs]

There was no accident of gas in Mount Street.

No, no, no.

A letter received today from Scotland Yard

contained the expert forensic evidence

confirming my suspicions.

There was only the premeditated explosion of a bomb.

A device built and operated by you, David Hunter,

engineer and road builder.

How depraved and how evil does a man have to be...

...to cause the slaughter of so many innocent people

for the concealment of a single murder?

If God should withhold His mercy

from anyone on earth, monsieur...

...it surely will be you.

One thing you don't know.

How many sticks of the blasting stuff

is tick, tick, ticking away around this room?

I can't honestly say myself.

I did it in a bit of a hurry.

But quite enough to blow this dreary little pub

half a mile in the air.

No, you won't.

You won't do it.

You won't do it.

Because you love me.

You love me, David.

And this time you will care for what you love.

You will not destroy it.

I don't believe I will.

Besides...

...there is no dynamite.

I had you going, though.

Your baby has gone down the plug hole.

Your baby has gone down the plug.

The poor little thing is so skinny and thin.

It ought to have been washed in a jug.

[ Breathes heavily]

[Thud]

[ Door opens]

Miss Lynn Marchmont, monsieur.

Ah.

Bon. Show her in, George.

This is a pleasure so unexpected, mademoiselle.

So this is for me?

It did not make me popular on the underground.

Open it.

It happened yesterday.

I suppose you read about it in the newspaper.

Oui.

The members of my rich family still speaking to me

keep saying how lucky I am.

And what do you say, mademoiselle, to them?

I say... good bye mostly.

So you will return to Africa?

It's my home.

But you will come again to see Poirot sometime?

Don't know.

Might do.

Can't promise.

Bon.

Look, open that, will you, before I blub.

I don't want to blub.

Ah!

I got her from an Arab.

Her job, apparently, is to watch over your house

so that only good things are allowed to enter.

Write me a letter, monsieur.

I like your letters.

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