All language subtitles for Agatha Christie_ Poirot - 11x04 - Appointment with Death.DVDRip.XviD-SFM.English.orig.Addic7ed.com

Lord Boynton! Lord Boynton!

Hey!

Quoi?!

Don't... Don't speak.

Why not?

You've got sunstroke, you need to stay
where you are, be quite still.

Actually what I need to do is sit, I think,
and drink a lot of water. Shukran.

I'm dehydrated.

I've sent for a doctor.

Already got one. Sarah King, MD.

You're the fellow who's going to get
sunstroke, walking around without a hat.

I just introduced myself.

- Raymond.
- Ah, my-my mother needs me.

If you can't introduce yourself, perhaps
you might introduce me to your mother?

Unlikely.

- Thè au citron, s'il vous plaît.
- Oui, monsieur.

- Chaud, très chaud.
- Oui.

Alas, madame, I am desolate.

You have no newspapers
of any description?!

I am so sorry.

You don't know
what sorry is!

Got you, you double-distilled blighter!

Colonel Carbury, mon vieux.

Poirot.

All these years travelling, you'd think
I'd be used to creepy-crawlies by now.

I did not know that you were
the enthusiast for I'antiquitè.

For what?

You have come also for the exploration
of Lord Boynton?

Ah, no, no. Passing through.

Vraiment? To where
do you pass, Colonel?

Here and there.

You know, here and then... You know.

- There?
- Or thereabouts.

Absolutely.

- Can I help you?
- Oh!

Agnieszka, you are such a fool.

I am looking for... number nine?

This is six.

So sorry, my dear, for my intrusion.

You are, er, come to follow the labours
of Lord Boynton?

Yes, he's my stepfather.

Truly, God has smiled upon you.

Your stepfather does a great thing, I think.
A great man.

Oh!

So I may remain
assured of your very best services?

Thank you very much, sir.

Americans.

Do know how to arrive, hm?

Silly little man!

- Please!
- Look here...

- Do you know who I am?
- Pay fare!

I am the son of Lord Boynton.

Son of Lord, you pay, please.

Thank you, sir.

Bloody shambles!

Typical. If you...

It was an accident.

Jinny... It's all right, honey.

It's all right now.

I was being drowned.

It was a dream, baby,
it was just a dream.

It was a memory!

I can't go on like this.

Twelve minutes.

- You allowed me to oversleep...
- Mother...

...by twelve minutes!
- I'm sorry.

Fetch my stick.

Stick!

Ah, excellent. There you are.

It's Leonard.

Boynton. Your stepson.

How good of you to come,
Mr Boynton.

- Carol, my vitamins.
- Now, Mother?

Clearly.

Jinny, you look like you're suffering
from consumption.

That's drawing attention to yourself in
the most unattractive way. Apply colour!

Raymond... Don't sit there, sit here.

Nanny... Go somewhere else.

You look tired, dear.

We need to discuss your attitude.

Sulking is like shyness.
It is unacceptable, it is showing off.

I'm not sulking, Mother.

I merely question the wisdom of travelling
when the market is jittery.

Wall Street knows better than to breathe
without consulting me,

wherever I may be at whatever juncture.

I forgot my book. Fetch my book.

You think they're a rum crew, wait till
you meet the archaeologist husband.

Although he's not actually psychotic,
just old-fashioned bonkers.

Theodore Gerard. We have met.

Bonce doctor.

I advised on a case in Edinburgh.
Used to have a beard?

Oh. Yes, of course.

The bonce doctor!

- I recognise you, monsieur.
- Of course, it's all a sham.

The real object of the exercise...
is a reconciliation of his offspring and hers.

- Happy families among the tombs.
- There is disharmony?

Where Lady Boynton is, the Music of
the Spheres is like nails down a blackboard.

Now, you must excuse me
my personal disorder...

Can't help sticking my face
down the stupid lion's throat.

Do you mind if I join you?

I can't find these wretched pills.
Oh God, Raymond.

She has them.

What?

She has them already,
they're in her bag.

The book she sent me to find,
she didn't even bring to Syria.

Carol, we know these games.

One day, Raymond...
I swear to God...

- I know.
- I will take a hammer and I swear...

Maybe we should talk about that.

- Don't joke with me, Ray.
- I'm your brother.

I never joke.

The way we let that woman
steal them from us.

Oh, God, Raymond.
We have no choice.

She has to die.

Now, we're going now!
Please! Please!

Yes, sir. Please, please, please.

Tickety-boo. Please. This way. OK, OK.

Whoo! Looks like Lord Boynton's expedition
has created quite a stir.

Apart from the family
and a three-line whip...

Dr King joins us, I suspect, because
she stuck a pin in a map of the world.

Mr Jefferson Cope
may actually be a little bit dull.

He might possibly like old bits of bone
and pot and whatnot.

The honourable Leonard, stuck with
running his father's house in Dorset,

on no income, while said father
swans around the Middle East

looking for the head of John the Baptist.

As for the Polish nun, she gives me
the heebie-jeebies personally.

No problem, no problem.

Don't be afraid. No problem.

No problem, no problem.

Hm. What have we here, I wonder?
A mobile toll-booth?

Dame Celia Westholme.

Sorry to hold up the bus, everybody.
Camel's on loan,

had to go back.

Has Boynton made any significant
progress? Does anybody know?

- Have you read any of her books?
- Oui.

It's her fault I'm here.
She makes travel sound so thrilling.

Ah.

Welcome, welcome, welcome.
Did you have a nice journey?

I know, it's ghastly, isn't it?
Hello, little blossoms.

Hot showers and cold beer for everyone.

Even you, Nanny,
you raving old dipsomaniac.

- Leonard, dear boy!
- Father.

Ah. My child bride.

Dinner's in the pavilion at eight.
Everyone's invited.

Come along! Raymond.

Utter bonanza of crippled personalities.
I'd have paid extra for this.

Making yourself useful, Leonard?
Good man!

Coming along!

That blind chap down in the Arab camp,

every night I hear him tell a variation
on the same story.

I've heard it all over Syria.

The daughter of Herodius brought
John the Baptist's severed head to this land.

She buried it where the river
meets the mountain.

Now, I've been every damn place
in Syria

where any river meets anything that could
possibly be construed as a mountain,

from Krak to Aleppo.

This is the only place left.
It has to be here!

Come along then. Chop-chop.

Ah...

And these words...
Do they speak of John?

No. It tells a different story.

A man is sitting in a tavern in Damascus.

He looks up from his wine and sees Death
staring at him across the room.

He cries out, "But this cannot be my time!"

He flees Damascus,
he rides his horse fast,

right across the desert to Samarra.

When he arrives, he's thirsty.

Standing before him at the well...

is Death.

Hm.

You're nodding.

On seeing Death for the second time,
the man cries out, "This cannot be!

"For I escaped you in Damascus. "

And Death, he lays his hand
upon the shoulder of the man

and says, "I also was surprised
to see you... "

"... to see you in Damascus...

"for my appointment with you,
it was always to be here in Samarra. "

Try as one might,

one cannot escape
one's rightful destiny.

Oui.

I know you're here, Johnny.

I can almost smell you.

Sugar, Raymond?

To put sugar in one's tea
is indicative of weak character.

Raymond doesn't take sugar.

Oh, good morning.
You look dreadful.

- Thank you. I feel dreadful.
- You should see a doctor.

- I just did. He told me I had malaria.
- Oh, Lord!

I dosed myself up,
as much as it makes a difference.

You shan't come
on the expedition today?

If I have an attack on the way to the river,

I'll most probably die.

The obvious solution is to remain here
all day with Lady Boynton.

- Better come with us.
- Not a difficult decision.

The sun is up. I shall spend today
observing from the platform.

Good idea, poppet.
Cracking view of the Kasbah.

You can keep a beady one
on Leonard and myself.

You assist with the digging, monsieur?

Oh, I would assist with digging the drains

if the alternative were enforced
social intercourse

with my father's ghastly ten-ton wife.

You won't come down to the river,
Lady Boynton?

By all accounts, the vista of the Kasbah
is very fine.

- The boy bring my Times yet?
- No, Mother.

Dismiss him!

Sorry, might have stung.

Ah! I am stung!

Yes, there's the bugger there.

Goodness, let me look at you.

Don't touch me!

Never touch me!

You're always looking at me.

Golly, am I?

All the time.

I turn round and you're
just looking at me. Why?

Perhaps I like the shape of your face.

It's a very pretty face.
Do you mind?

I certainly shan't do it if you mind.

I don't mind.

S'il vous plaît, Monsieur Cope.
Do not allow Poirot to detain you.

Oh, I'm in no hurry.

The place has been there a few years,
it's not going anywhere,

You are acquainted with
the family Boynton?

One can't live in New York and fail
to be acquainted with the Boyntons.

Lady B is a pretty big financial noise.
I like her.

If I may say so, monsieur, it seems
your amitiè is not reciprocated.

Oh, she hates everybody.

Everybody knows that,
she just doesn't give a damn.

- I think it's quite stylish.
- You have the outlook most benevolent.

I'm easily pleased.

Out in the sun yet again
without a hat.

Some people never learn.

Raymond, let me read you
what Mr Baedeker has to say.

"The monumental edifice knows as... "
Excuse me!

Thank you so much.

I thought that free from the mother

I might be permitted some conversation
with Raymond.

But no. Evidently the family
has decided I'm a gold-digger,

and all overtures of friendship
must be stamped on.

Frankly it's rather insulting.
I'm not having it.

Ladies and gentlemen,
now we may rest.

We have arrived.

God is good.
God is glorious.

If you want my professional opinion,
which you don't,

but you should, so I'm gonna give it
to you anyway,

your family would do well to hear
what Herr Freud said to me last year.

"To be American is bad enough,"
he said, "but to put money... "

Oh! Let me look at you.

I'll be fine. I'll be... fine.

This gentleman needs
to return to camp immediately.

Get your hands off me, I'll be fine!
Doctors! Think you know everything?

You're too hot.

You don't have to... carry me.

- Jinny!
- That's my name!

I just need a drink of water.

I can hear the gears grinding
in the old cerebellum.

Not really.

I was just wondering how Lady Boynton

managed to negotiate that ladder affair,
it's pretty vertiginous.

Would it kill you to call her "Mother"?

For me.

Stepmother would do.

God, it's hot.

Yes, it is.

Perhaps you would be kind enough to take
the lady in question a glass of water.

Father, look, I'm sorry, but are you
genuinely blind to the way she treats...

everyone, except you?

Now!

I say!

Would you like a drink?

Can we get you anything at all?
To drink?

Like a bucket of strychnine.

Get these buggers away from me!

I'm perfectly well.

Lie down.

- Ah...
- Doctor, what do we do?

What did he say?

He said bugger off.

Oh.
Right you are. Can do.

Not you.

You stay.

- No, Jinny.
- Oh, God. I thought...

- Yeah.
- I thought you wanted my company.

I do, yes. That's exactly what I want.

Listen to me, it's not... you.

It's not about a conquest.

For me, denial...

is a very... particular pleasure.

It's not...

People say travel broadens the mind.

Mainly because people like me
insist on it in their books.

But I have to say I doubt that it is true.

On the contrary. I suspect travel
narrows the mind.

One becomes so blasè
about the wonders of the world.

The more I travel the more clearly
I understand that...

all that ever matters is the people.

Not the places.

Those Arabs, telling stories
over couscous in the camp.

They fascinate me.

This, it's pretty enough,
but show me the humans every time.

I don't much care for her.

The way she hangs around
the younger Boynton girl.

They sniff out weakness, nuns,
and misery, and they gorge on it.

Bloody vampires in drag,
quite frankly.

Poirot! How did you find the river?

- Oh, I...
- Good, good.

We haven't turned up any glories here,
but we live in hope.

Nil carborundum, and all that.

And Lady Boynton,
she has enjoyed her day?

Oh, yes, monsieur.
Of course, she always does.

The word "boredom"
is simply not in the vocab.

Darling!

I think it's time you climbed down
from your perch for a martini.

Poppet? Shall we say
about ten minutes?

You little minx.

Help!

Et alors. Ça commence.

Help!

- Are you the girl who's a doctor?
- Yes.

Then you've met death. So have I.
Come on.

Shut her eyes. Shut them.

I'm afraid it's true.

She's dead.

Your appointment with death,
madame.

It was always to be here.

Et maintenant, mon Colonel,
you are arrived.

This is an event
for which you were prepared. Non?

No. This is something else. Later.

Show me the dead woman.

What happened here?

Excusez-moi, but do you commission
me to examine this case?

I do.

You two getting married or something?
Mind if I have a gander at your patient?

- Are you recovered, Doctor?
- I'll manage.

Juicy big hole where there
shouldn't be one. Somebody's stuck her.

- Mm, a knife.
- Bigger than a knife.

Fatter blade.

- Chisel?
- Chisel fits the bill.

Whatever the implement,
it was wielded with authority.

One blow in, then vigorously churned about
to create maximum damage.

She can't have been dead
for more than an hour.

Yes. I don't know
why that should be there.

It is wax.

Well, one thing's for certain.
She can't stay here in this heat.

I'll make arrangements
for the body to be transported.

Un moment, s'il vous plaît,
mon Colonel.

- Excusez-moi.
- Yes.

Already there is so much about this case
that is wrong.

You, yourself are wrong.
You are not what you appear.

You are not a policeman,

yet you know a crime has been
committed before it had been reported.

You bear the rank of Colonel,
yet where is it mon ami that you serve?

So enough of these crypticities.

Explain yourself to Poirot
or he cannot accept this case. Point.

- Crypticities?
- Oui.

Poirot, you're a foreigner.

But I judge you to be a good egg,
and therefore trustworthy.

What I'm about to deal you now

is a card you must keep
very close to your chest.

Is that understood?

Oui.

You continue with the digging,
monsieur?

I am given to understand it's what
Lady Boynton would have wanted.

You were, I think...
Please to forgive me...

...somewhere in this area
this afternoon?

Poirot, could you postpone your interrogation
of the obvious murder suspect

so he can arrange some necessities for
his distressed father? Thank you so much.

Oh!

I understand you're looking for
a chisel, yes?

Fill your boots.

Dame Celia. Lord Boynton.
What is it that you read?

I'm cheering the bereaved with judicious
extracts from The Perfumed Garden.

Are people saying
that I killed my wife?

Non. Non, monsieur.

We are all united in our desire
to comfort you.

I was always glad that I was older
than Leonora.

I thought at least... I'll die first.

I won't have the agony
of trying to live without her.

Nevertheless, it must
be admitted the death of Lady B

is hardly detrimental
to the community.

It is not well, monsieur, that a human
should die before her time it is come.

En plus, the nanny Madame
Taylor has the great distress.

All right, all right, keep your hair on.

For heaven's sake,
I was just trying to lighten the mood.

How did you achieve your newspaper,
Monsieur Cope?

Came with me.

Many thanks.

I'm just lousy at being intrepid.
Always so hungry for news of home.

Back at the hotel you couldn't
get a paper for love nor money.

I know.

This may help you in times of stress.

Mon Colonel.

Your men.
When is it that they arrive?

- Midnight, I should think.
- Hm.

Then you must have them
search this area at dawn.

The search most diligent. All around.

Looking for what?

In the first place, mon ami, a syringe.

It is instrumental
in the murder of Lady Boynton.

Right. Good grief.

- It will be done.
- Bon.

You see, mon ami...

the voices
of the little grey cells.

They have begun to sing to Poirot.

Slit throat.

Je comprends pas.

It is not the custom du pays
to waste life and food in this manner?

Barbarous.

Monsieur.

- Monsieur.
- Monsieur.

Look, Poirot,
sorry to be so stand-offish.

Bit grim seeing one's father cry.

Oui. Je vous en prie, monsieur.

What do you want to know?

I should like for you to tell me if you spoke
to your stepmother yesterday afternoon,

- and if so, when?
- Er, we spoke...

about one o'clock, hottest part of the day.

Bon.

She'd been perched up there
like some evil great pudding

ever since you lot set off.

I say we spoke. I spoke.

She ignored me.

Nothing unusual about that.

Can we get you anything at all?
To drink?

You know how it was. One mustn't
disturb her when she was taking the sun,

but... God help you
if you neglected to do so.

- Monsieur.
- Oui.

- We found this syringe.
- Ah.

- Where was this discovered?
- In the tent occupied by the old lady.

The nanny.

Merci.

"And the Lord said
unto the servant:

"Go out into the highways
and compel them to come in to my feast... "

"... that my house
may be filled. "

It's a beautiful parable.

The word King James
renders as "compel"

is in the Greek "anankadzo".

It means compel with violence.

The Spanish knew this.

They used this single word to justify
every atrocity of their Inquisition.

For it is God's own command

that those unwilling to enter
His Kingdom

should be persuaded in with pain.

That's terrible.

Compulsion of any kind, my dear.

It can be terrible.

I overheard my stepfather
telling the story that was written here.

Of Death following the man
across the desert.

Something has followed me
here to this place. Something evil.

God is here to guard you, Jinny.

He lives in every grain of sand.

What is it now?

Sorry gentlemen.
Sand in the grooves.

Quite. Well,
the Arabs are all accounted for.

Oui.

This case, it is most unsatisfactory.

Still plenty of suspects, old boy.

But almost all of them were outside
of the camp

when the murder it was committed.

And this is corroborated
by a witness who is impeccable.

Me. They were with Poirot
all of the time.

Raymond wasn't. He came back.

Bien sûr.
Cela je connais bien. Oui.

Also Lord Boynton and his son.

Yes, yes, and tomorrow we begin
the further interrogations.

That's a queer one.

Without doubt there is more
to Monsieur Cope

than he wishes to be known.

But in that desire, and in this company...
he is not unique.

Off in this direction.

Where did it come from?

Close all those gates down there.

- What the hell was that?
- I don't know.

Did you see anyone moving?

No. Where did it come from?

It's got to be something.

Good Lord.

Get her inside, quickly!

It's OK.

You men, over here.
Close all the exits!

Don't let anyone leave.

Sister Agnieszka!

Ohh...

It's OK. It's OK.

It's OK. Shh. It's OK.

Everything's going to be OK.
Shh, shh.

Can I help?

It would be useful to know
what she was trying to tell us.

She's not trying to tell us anything.
She's talking to God.

You have Polish?

You don't need Polish to spot a woman
at her prayers. Pretty needlework, Doc.

Shouldn't we be getting her
back to the hotel?

- Ask Dr King.
- You're the senior physician here.

You're much prettier and you're handier
with the cutlery.

Besides, the nun is your patient.
I've got my hands full with the loony nanny.

Well, this, what I've done, it's only temporary.
So yes, we should.

It would be helpful
to Poirot for all of us to return.

- Ei veniam da.
- That's Latin.

"Forgive him"?

Poirot has little Latin, but it can
also be, I think, "Forgive her".

- My men can track...
- Non, non...

There is no need
to despatch your men, Colonel.

The assailant of Sister Agnieszka
has not fled.

There was a man...

He followed me
across the desert.

I woke up and... he was putting a bag
over my head.

Slaver. Bound to be.

People think the slave trade
is finished. It's not.

I've seen the Waiting Cave
on the beach at Mangapwani.

One hundred souls crammed into a space
hardly bigger than this tent.

I threw myself on the floor to get away.

When I looked up, I saw...

You saw Sister Agnieszka
struggling with your attacker and...

Well, you tried to help her, and...
you struck at the man with what?

A rock.

Bon. And in your terror,
and in the dark,

accidentally you
struck your friend and protector.

Now, you try to get some sleep,
if you can.

Because tomorrow we face
the rigours of the return journey.

Come close, Jinny.

Let me tell you story.

This... is the legend of Gilgamesh.

Oh. Shukran.

Will she be all right? The nun?

Oh, God knows.

Will you?

I'm not wounded.

That's debatable.

Seems to be consensus
that you killed your mother.

Is that your view, Sarah?

Heavens. Five consecutive words,
culminating in my Christian name.

If you're going to be this garrulous,
I shall have to ask you to be less familiar.

- Do you think I killed her?
- No.

No, but what I think is irrelevant.

He's the one you need to convince.

You're the authority on stories.
Tell me...

what was it that got loose
when Pandora opened the box?

- All the evils of the world.
- That's it.

Mm.

Madness, greed, shame.

Those guys. My stepfather
did pretty much the same thing

when he took the cork out
of that goddamn tomb.

And here you are, Poirot...

kicking the contents all over town.

Did Lady Boynton...
harm you physically?

My mother had little recourse to violence.
She was too smart for that.

Instead, she just prised open
the top of our skulls

and raked her poisonous tongue
through our brains.

No place to hide, Poirot.

Even in your own head.

Ever.

Carol, Carol grew up petrified,
did her best to ingratiate herself,

you know, to win approval,
which she never got.

Jinny just... was terrified to
the point of madness

and possibly beyond.

Did you murder your mother,
monsieur?

No.

But only because I lacked
the moral courage.

She was a monster, Poirot.

It was her pleasure,
always, to watch us suffer.

Why was she driven to be so cruel?

- To punish us, I guess.
- For what offence?

For being someone else's kids.

It's true. We were adopted.
All of us.

It is no crime against God or nature
to be an orphan.

Oh, but it is, monsieur.

It is a hideous crime.

Lady Boynton -
Mrs Pierce as she was then -

she wanted to have children so badly.

But between her and Mr Pierce,
they couldn't make it happen.

For Mom, adoption was the only route.

But once she'd assembled her family
of which there were many candidates...

Don't! It was an accident.

...and rejected a great number...

Yes, monsieur,
there were many children

who were presented to us
as new siblings,

only to be removed a day later...

One child stayed longer than the others

but the beatings went on,
until she also disappeared.

So there we were, we lucky few.
Raymond, Carol and Jinny.

Je comprends pas.

Mademoiselle
Jinny, she was not even born.

Who was this other child?

I don't know.

I can't remember.

Who was that little girl?

Unacceptable goods.

Merci.

Who was the child
that you beat, madame?

Can you tell it to Poirot?

Lesley.

Yes. Lesley.

Can you tell to me
about Lesley, Madame?

You had to beat her.

She needed to be punished.

I did what was required...

of me.

I don't think we're sufficiently sorry.

Not by a long chalk.

Again, Nanny.

God, she was
an evil woman.

And Lesley, madame?
What became of her? She is alive?

Fa... Fa... Father!

I'm not your father, my dear.

But I'll do my best.
Can you get me that bag?

I'll do my best
to make you comfortable.

All right?

Thank you.

Bog standard sedative.
Check it if you want, Poirot.

Come on. There's a good girl.

Oh, Monsieur Cope.

Monsieur, do you have a moment?

- But of course.
- I, er...

I don't know if this has
any relevance to, er...

what's been going on, but...

it seems
I've lost quite a lot of money.

Monsieur Cope, je suis desolè.

No, no, that's OK.

What's of interest is that
the stock that's gone down the pan

is The Pierce Holding Company.

- Non.
- Yes. Lady Boynton's outfit.

Fireproof, bombproof,

the safest bet on Wall Street.

I myself invested substantially.

Seems that there's been this rumour
about the true value of the company.

These things, they come and go.

Lady Boynton'd generally get up on her
hind legs, tell everyone to sit up straight.

It'd all calm down.

But she wasn't there.
The rumour became a panic,

then a stampede to get out.

The whole outfit's bust to hell.

The shares are worthless.

Oh God, here comes
that ghastly little Belgian,

wringing his hands like the cowman
come to collect his Christmas box.

- He's being respectful, Father.
- He's being a damned nuisance.

Monsieur.

Come for a nightcap
among the bereaved?

Non, merci, Lord Boynton,
quand-même.

Oh for God's sake, sit down, Poirot,

you're giving me indigestion,
hovering like that.

Merci.

I suppose it is quite proper
that I should be questioned.

I was on the spot at the time.

And I imagine
I inherit my wife's estate, so...

And the estate of Lady Boynton.
Of what does this principally consist?

God knows.
I never had charge of the money.

Leonora just subbed the digging
as it went along.

Do you know, Leonard?

Raymond would have
a clearer idea of value

but it must add up to a few quid.

You disagree, monsieur?

Since we have been in Syria, there has
been the financial collapse catastrophique.

The Pierce Holding Company
is utterly disintegrated.

It seems that the death of Lady Boynton
was not enough.

It also seems that...

she has been obliterated
from the earth.

It may surprise you to know,
Mr Poirot,

that I am not unaware that Lady Boynton
was not universally adored.

Like many women
who know their own mind,

she found it all too easy to make enemies.

She did not make an enemy of me.

I loved her.

I am not ashamed to say so

to you or to my son.

Was it necessary to air that
observation in quite that way?

The methods of Poirot, monsieur,
cannot always be agrèable.

Mesdames.

Excusez-moi, Dame Celia.

Were you acquainted with Lady Boynton
before encountering her at the tomb?

Well, I'd seen her about.

Where had you seen her, madame?

Lady Boynton was pointed out to me
by a man at a party

who then preceded to tell me
rather a lot about her.

About the way, in particular,
she treated her children.

I decided then that I had no wish
to further acquaintance with the woman.

She sounded perfectly odious.

Who was this man
that was so well-informed?

I didn't get his name.

I wanted her dead, too.
Just in case you were wondering.

She was clearly blocking my way.

Raymond couldn't even look me in the eye
with her still in existence.

So do you commend yourself to me
as a suspect, mademoiselle?

I commend myself to you as one who
has recently invested a great deal of time

in a relationship
that was always heading nowhere.

I now know that when I find something
I want, I must act to take it.

Bravo!

Sadly, all this resolution has taken
your mind off the game.

Little trick I learnt the other day
in Vienna.

You see? Just when you least expect it,
the church comes storming back.

Checkmate.

I didn't know you smoked.

I don't.

I've given up.

Since you threw the cigarette away,
you've given up?

Your determination
is impressive. All six seconds of it.

Keep talking, I could go ten.

If I hadn't spoken,
would you just have kept watching me?

We'll never know.

You're a strange man.

Does that matter?

Not necessarily.

- Raymond.
- Yeah.

Now is the time to kiss me.

Yeah.

Anybody in here
who isn't dead?

They have him, by God!
They have found the head of John!

News that is astonishing, monsieur.

I must return to Ain Musa
immediately.

Is there a problem?

Nanny Taylor
has drowned herself in the bath.

- Suicide.
- Oh, my God. That's awful news.

Is somebody... dealing with it?

Oui, monsieur.

Because I must...

I must get back to the dig, I can't...
you know.

Oui.

Moral of the story: If you want your death
to attract the concern of your employer,

make sure you're 2,000 years old.

Oh! I keep meaning
to give you something.

It's the details of the immigration
you needed.

And on the back
there's a list of employees.

Merci.

As requested,
I've had a word with Mahmoud.

Some of his boys are privately saying

that there was some character lurking about
on the ladder that afternoon.

An Arab. Not one of them.

But that was a good hour or so
before the time of death.

This case is a mess, Poirot.

Not so, mon ami. This case...

When Poirot has almost given up scrabbling
for purchase on its shell of armour...

boff... it opens to him like a flower.

Good Lord.

So... What do we do?

We do what the murderer least expects
Poirot to do.

We return to the dig.

All of us.

Ahem!

This case, mes amis,
it is full of the red...

fish.

Herrings, possibly?

Merci. There's so many diversions,
so many distractions.

Attend well to Poirot as he peels
them away like the skin of an onion.

Herrings, onions, do get a wriggle on,
there's a good fellow.

Your wife, she funded your
expeditions as you went along.

How much more efficient it would be
to have the money all at once, non?

- What?
- There is no money.

Non, vraiment monsieur,
for you there never has been.

For the running of Boynton Hall,
alors, is for you always most arduous.

Lady Boynton, she was always
most munificent to your father

but never towards his son.

You can stare at me significantly
as long as you like, monsieur.

I've done nothing wrong.

Tell to Poirot what was in the bag.

What bag?

What did you agree to purchase
from the ragged Arab boy?

I remember the boy, I don't
remember what rubbish he was flogging.

Fortunately, Poirot, he does.
And from it he extracted...

this.

- Voilà.
- Voilà what?

Well, it's a tooth.

D'être precis,

it is a molar taken
from the upper jaw of St John.

You will observe that it bears the traces
of the filling of gold.

For this skull it was
supposed to masquerade

as the skull of John the Baptist.

But in fact it is as you say,
Monsieur Leonard, rubbish.

What the devil are you
talking about, man?

This wasn't purchased
from a hawker and planted.

This is untouched.

This entire sample was exhumed
e situ intacto.

Forgive me, Poirot,
but you're drivelling utter bilge,

pompous little Belgian.

As my father has explained,
this object was discovered undisturbed.

It's a perfect fit.

I don't understand.

All your life, Father,

traipsing about the Middle East...

time after time finding absolutely
nothing of significance.

I wanted it to end.

You dear, deluded, stupid man.

I never expected your wife's bloody money.
I never wanted it.

I wanted you to be free of this need.

To find what you've been looking for.

Do you mind if I step out for a while?

- I'll come with you.
- No, no.

I simply wish to be alone
for a moment.

Is that permitted?

Je vous en prie, monsieur.

Now the three of you.

The litany of cruelties
you have endured.

The ceaseless humiliations.

You multiply these incidents
by hundreds and thousands.

The corrosion of the spirit,
it is inevitable and insupportable.

No wonder you wished to see
Lady Boynton dead.

Indeed Poirot, he overheard you,
Mademoiselle Carol,

and you, Monsieur Raymond,
whispering that your mother... must die.

And you, Dr King...

By your own admission,
you also wished to see her dead.

You are a woman who has wasted time
and is determined to waste no more.

What do we know of you,
Monsieur Cope?

Me?

Will you show to me your passport?

Merci.

You choose to use your second
Christian name and not your first?

- Yes.
- Why is that, I wonder?

My first given name is ambiguous,
in terms of gender.

The spelling is different
but it's also a girl's name.

As a child I found that tiresome.

I suggest that there are many things
about your childhood that you found...

"tiresome",

Monsieur Leslie...

Jefferson Cope.

I don't think we're sufficiently sorry.

The child that was thrashed...

so brutally,
on the orders of Lady Boynton,

was not a girl, as misremembered
by her daughter Carol, non...

but a boy...

by the name of Leslie.

If you know all that,

you'll also know that I didn't kill her.

Merely to deprive her of her life would
afford for you satisfaction most scant.

No, you wanted
to make her life unbearable.

To degrade her,
to hurt the woman,

as she hurt you.

Lady Boynton was a person
preoccupied with station and money

and you decided to strip her
of them both.

So I may remain assured
of your very best services?

Of what service in particular
did you wish to remain assured?

You have no newspapers
of any description?!

I am so sorry.

The withholding from Lady Boynton
of the newspapers...

that would keep her ignorant
of the panic

that you yourself had inspired to ensure
the destruction of her empire.

I'm just lousy at being intrepid.

Back at the hotel you couldn't
get a paper for love nor money.

And like the confidence trickster
so accomplished,

you invested in your own deceit.

You wrote off thousands of dollars
of your own savings,

merely to blow smoke
in the face of Poirot!

Oh, Monsieur Cope.

It seems I've lost quite a lot of money.

Alors, Poirot has one more red herring
left to fry.

And it is a fish most substantial.

Le Colonel, mes amis,

he is not a policeman
but is retained by the Foreign Office.

His mission in Syria was to uncover and
destroy the trafficking of female slaves.

The abduction and sale of women
for one purpose only.

- Pardonnez-moi, mesdames.
- I knew it!

Arab women.

Whatever the client ordered.

- White women?
- Yes.

They wanted... me?

Helas, mademoiselle.

It is the opinion of Poirot...

that there is a person
who instructed his agent

to search for a young lady
who is Caucasian and resembled you.

Exactement.

With your skin that is pale
and your hair that is red.

Who is this agent, Poirot?

Is he here amongst us now?

Certainement!

Mademoiselle Jinny, when you struck at
your attacker that night,

you hit your target.

It's OK.

The woman who befriended you
so assiduously...

it was she who was
smothering your face!

Sister Agnieszka!

Rot in hell!

You, Sister,
will face the consequences.

The key... to the murder
of Lady Boynton...

it is not who, it is when.

Dame Celia, do you have any children?

No, I do not.

I urge you to reconsider
your answer, madame.

I cannot reconsider. I have no children.

Madame, you are a liar. You have
a daughter and she is amongst us now.

That is a filthy lie.
And in extremely poor taste.

So you disown her now,
as you did when she was a baby?

Reclaim her of your own volition!

You owe to her a debt of ungiven love!

I had no choice. No choice.

What was your position in the household
of Lady Boynton?

In the days when she was
Mrs Pierce? Hm?

- A junior maid.
- Oui, c'est ça.

The servant of the lowest position
whose duty it is to scrub.

Not to become pregnant
by a guest of your employer.

The woman to whom you surrendered
your child on the day of its birth.

Is it me?

Non, mademoiselle Carol.
It is not you.

Oh, my God.

I'm so sorry.

You gave birth to me?

And delivered me up to that bitch?

I came... to save you.

How did you know this?

Mademoiselle,
Poirot he did not know for certain.

Until this... very moment.

Non, non, non, mademoiselle.

Mon Colonel, Poirot he is much obliged to
you for the accounts of the household

and the registry of immigration

which shows that three weeks
after the baby was born,

Celia Westholme arrived
on the coast of Ireland,

to be taken care of by nuns.

Your child, she had been taken
from you,

and so you were now to become invisible,
to nurse your shame.

But you were not to be
the outcast. Oh, no.

You were to recreate yourself
as a free spirit.

A writer, a traveller. A success.

Dame Celia Westholme.

And every time you thought
of your daughter,

you consoled yourself with the hope
that she was happy

but she had not begun life afresh,
she was not happy.

She remained as a prisoner
in the household of Lady Boynton.

And your regret,
it came flooding back...

to boil in your heart.

Let me tell you a story.

This... is the legend of Gilgamesh.

Gilgamesh was
the most beautiful man in all creation.

So you went in search of the father
of your child, to Vienna,

so out of the way
of your customary travels,

and together with this man,
you agreed...

to investigate to see whether the cruelties
of Lady Boynton they were true.

And you discovered that all of the children
had been tormented.

It was not the hornet
that stung Lady Boynton.

How could it?

- Sorry, might have been stung.
- Ah!

The hornet, it was already dead!

You stung her...

with this...

Ah!

...which you then returned
to Dr Gerard, who had prepared it for you.

I am stung!

He then cleaned it and discarded it
in the tent of Nanny Taylor,

to implicate her.

This is... colossal!

Wh-What was in the syringe?

A concoction of your own devising,
Doctor, probably based on morphia.

You can't kill a woman the size of
La Boynton with a thimbleful of morphia.

As you well know.

Doctor, you affect to know little
of the administering of drugs,

when en effet
you are the expert.

You greet Poirot and ask him
if he remembers you from Edinburgh.

The "bonce doctor," huh, with a beard?
Poirot, he remembers everything.

When you took the witness stand
in Edinburgh to speak on the mind,

the clerk of the court,
he read out your qualifications.

Anaesthesia, Doctor, was your discipline,
long before psychiatry.

No, of course you cannot kill Lady Boynton
with such a dose,

but you can remove from her
control of the nervous system.

The power over her movement.
The power over her speech.

And Lady Boynton, who professed herself
a lover of the sun...

was now roasting to death
and could say nothing.

Ingenious, monsieur,
and commendably grotesque.

But Lady Boynton did not "roast to death".
She was stabbed.

Your prestidigitation with drugs, Doctor,
was not over yet.

You injected yourself to simulate
the symptoms of malaria.

Symptoms so authentic
that you fooled even Dr King.

- I'll be fine!
- This gentleman needs to return to camp.

Mademoiselle Jinny,
she attended you.

And how did you repay her
for her kindness?

By giving to her another sedative
of your own invention,

to consolidate your alibi.

Earlier, you had killed a goat

and trapped a quantity of its blood
in a ball of wax.

This object you secreted in the folds
of the clothes of your victim,

where in due course
it would melt in the heat of the sun.

One can never have enough sun, huh?

What?

You could have killed her then,

but you wanted her to suffer
for as long as possible.

Speak up, dear.

I can't help you if you don't speak up.

You used the ball of wax
to confuse the time of death,

and it was this wax that Poirot,
he discovered on the dress of Lady Boynton,

and on the floorboards and the little
piece of pottery beneath her chair.

Wax which told to Poirot that there was
an accomplice to the murder.

Et puis, you waited patiently.

The wax, it melted,

the blood of the goat it began to flow,

suggesting to the naked eye
that she had already been stabbed.

And at last the cry it went up
to tell the world...

Help!

...that Lady Boynton was dead,
but she was not dead.

Non, not yet.

- Are you the girl who's a doctor?
- Yes.

Then you've met death. So have I.
Come on.

Only now...
was Death to meet its victim.

And in the sight of everyone,
in the sight of Hercule Poirot himself...

you, Dame Celia, murdered Lady Boynton
with your own hands,

as prescribed by Dr Gerard
to quench your rage.

It took but a few seconds.

Even Dr King was deceived into believing
that Lady Boynton had died earlier that day.

If you please to empty the contents
of your handbag.

Ha. Ah, oui.

And Dr Gerard, he encouraged
Poirot to seek for the chisel.

Chisel fits the bill.

Whereas the murder weapon
it was in your hand all of the day.

Goodness. We did go
to considerable trouble.

One question -

what makes you think any of this
has any basis whatsoever in the truth?

Nanny Taylor.

Dear God! Did I kill her as well
or was she one of yours?

You disordered her mind with
a solution of mescaline so strong

that the very speck of it made
the head of Poirot to spin.

You wanted to promote in her hallucinations
to make her susceptible to suggestion.

You burdened her mind with
so much shame and guilt

that given the opportunity you knew
that she would do harm to herself.

You know you can't go on...

after everything that you did.

Think what you helped her do
to little Jinny.

What did Nanny Taylor say to you?

Fa... Fa... Father!

This was not the ravings
of a nervous breakdown.

For you yourself had told to her...

that you were the father
of Mademoiselle Jinny.

Portrait of Mum and Dad.

You'll appreciate now why I declined
your particular offer of affection.

Well, well. This is a pickle.

We set out to save you
and destroyed everything.

- Thank you, Theo.
- It's all part of the service.

No extra charge.

I never stopped loving you, you know.

Be careful with this one, Poirot.

Digitalis.

The action, as you will appreciate,
is irreversible.

I'm so sorry.

We hoped it wouldn't come to this.

There, there, there.

There, there. There.

No. Don't, Doctor.

Look to the living.

They pay their bills quicker

and they make better... conversation.

Monsieur. I've just been chatting
to Lord Boynton.

He pronounces himself
"cured of archaeology".

- "Chatting. "
- Oui.

Monsieur Raymond,
in the matter of Pandora,

you will recall that after all the evils
had escaped the box,

there was one other creature
very small, very frail,

that followed them into the world.

Hope.

Au revoir, la jeunesse.

- Monsieur Poirot.
- Mademoiselle.

Carol and I are going to Egypt,
to see the Sphinx.

It's not much of an adventure,
but we're doing it on our own.

It's a start. It was actually my idea.

Lady Boynton would've said
I was constitutionally too feeble,

that my skin was too fair

but I think it's probably time I showed
my feeble skin who's boss.

C'est bien, mademoiselle.

Before he leaves,
you will permit an old man to pontificate.

Alors, mademoiselle, there is
nothing in the world so damaged

that it cannot be repaired
by the hand of Almighty God.

I encourage you to know this
because without this certainty,

we should all of us... be mad.

Je vous salue, mademoiselle.

Au revoir.