All language subtitles for 04. Four and Twenty Blackbirds

There's very little I can do for him
now, Mrs Hill. He's very weak.

Oh, dear.

Is there no hope? I'm afraid not.

It's more a matter of hours rather than
days now.

Does Mr Anthony have any relatives?

There's a brother, Henry, but they
haven't spoken in 20 years.

No one else?

Well, yes.

But Mr.

George, his nephew in London, I expect
he'd want to know.

First reaching for his axe, which he's
got near him, close by, the noble

goes to find... No, no, no, maestro,
please.

Have you ever been a fireman?

No, but I've sat next to one.

And what's this jolly laughing cobbler
song all about?

It's all about this cobbler.

Sorry to drag you away, George, but
there's a call for you. Can't you take a

message?

It's your uncle, old son.

I'm afraid he's in a bad way.

I see.

Thanks, Harry. I'll come right away.

Ha -ha!

Always bright and never grey.

You see, sir, when I'm singing this
song, I'll be cobbling and I'll have a

Oh, you'll get a boot, all right.

It was the doctor himself that I should
call.

He's very bad, Mr. Lorimer.

And I'm very grateful, Mrs. Hill. This
is very distressing.

But I can't travel to Brighton before
Sunday at the earliest.

He's at his last breath, Mr. Lorimer.
Sunday might be too late.

Oh, Lord, I'm sorry.

There really is nothing I can do.

Well, what about Mr. Henry Gascoigne,
sir? Do you think I should try to reach

him? Uncle Henry?

Good God, no. He'd welcome the news.

No, when the time comes, I'll break it
to him myself.

As you say, Mr Lorimer.

To Sunday, then.

Goodbye.

Following England's defeat in the first
test at Trent Bridge, the selectors have

made two changes.

Arias Wyatt returned to captain's side
and Bill Bowes has preferred to

Cricket.

The English enigma.

I know not of any other game where even
the players are unsure of the rules.

Thank you, Miss Lemon.

Oz is one up already.

You can bet the Don will be looking for
three figures at the hallowed ground.

He thinks I have no time for this Don
and his crusade at the hallowed ground.

I have a dinner engagement with my
dentist.

Your dentist?

Possibly morbid.

But you're always trying to avoid him.

Not at all.

Of beauty, he's quite charming.

Besides, he likes to see the end product
at work.

You won't get any of your fancy French
kickshaws here, I'm afraid, Poirot. Just

good, well -cooked English fare.

And I could ask for nothing more funny
than my friend.

Yes, well, I place myself in your hands,
I'm reserved.

Yes? Absolument.

Yes,

well, where's Molly?

Good evening, sir.

Ah, Molly. Now, what speciality have you
for us this evening?

You're in luck today, Mr. Bonington.
There's your favorite, roast turkey with

chestnut stuffing and fillet of soul for
dark. Oh, excellent.

For both of us.

Now, here is a girl who knows exactly
what I like, Farrow. Well, I ought to

by now, sir, I'm sure.

Do people always like the same thing?

Mostly, sir.

Though I'll tell you something odd.

You see old Mr. Gascoigne sitting on his
own over there?

I'd say he'd be needing a little queen
dye.

Henry Gascoigne.

Painter of some sort, I'm told.

Well, he's at that table every Wednesday
and Saturday evening. Never misses.

Except last week, he arrived on Monday.

Gave me quite a turn.

An interesting deviation from habit. I
wonder what the reason was.

Well, I reckon he must have forgot
himself.

You know, he can't bear suet pudding or
blackberries. And I've never known him

take thick soup.

Yet last Monday, do you know what he
ordered?

Thick tomato soup, steak and kidney
pudding, and washed it all down with a

blackberry crumble.

Won't you?

And he was back again on Wednesday, as
usual. His old self again.

Anyway, I mustn't stand to hear
gossiping.

She's a good girl, that.

And she knows a thing or two about food.

You know, I find that extraordinarily
interesting.

What? That old man's deviation from
habit.

No, the change in diet, you mean. Well,
doctor's orders, I'd say. It's common

enough. I think not.

Unless, of course, he thinks the old man
will benefit from indigestion.

To my good friend, Hercule Poirot, for
whom life without mystery would be like

roast beef without the mustard.

C 'est la vérité, mon ami.

I see that my customer is still
sensitive, Poirot. We must take a look

No, no, no. It must be the heat.

What's that, Maria?

Oh, Mr.

Gascoigne, is that it again?

Taking kidney pudding and blackberry
crumble.

Been out here for three days.

Look at the old devil.

Hasn't had a bath since last pancake day
either.

Look at the sound from inside.

He might have taken ill.

Cold as ice.

Poor love.

Must have taken a fall.

Here's a funny thing, Poirot.

Remember that old fellow we thought
bishop the other night, the one that

remarked on, about how he changed his
diet?

Ah. Try not to talk.

Well, I'm afraid he'd eaten his last
blackberry crumble.

Sure, old chap.

Kicked a bucket.

Seems when he got home that night, he
fell down the stairs of his lodgings.

He's lived here as long as anybody can
remember.

Kept himself to himself.

You never spoke?

Well, we'd pass in the street of an
evening and say hello.

Except last week, I might have been a
ghost.

He walked right past me and never said a
word, he did.

Excuse me, madam.

Do you remember which day last week?

Who are you, anyway, asking all these
questions?

Who's he?

Not English, is he? I'm begging your
pardon.

He's Hercule Poirot, private detective.

I don't know.

Oh, yeah, well, they all say that, don't
they?

You tell him it was last Saturday that
old gas going passed me by on the

It was the last time I saw him alive.

Saturday!

He was lying just here in his dressing
gown and

slippers.

Shabby old thing it was.

Wouldn't surprise me if he didn't trip
over the cord or something.

Tripped over the cord.

Yes, thank you, madame.

And then you called the police?

Yes.

They just wrapped his body up in a
blanket and carried it out.

Didn't pay much attention to anything
else.

Poor old devil.

Did Monsieur Gascoigne receive many
visitors, madame?

Only his model.

He was an artist, you see.

She's up there now.

Thank you, Madame Mollet.

Excusez -moi, mademoiselle.

Who are you?

I am Hercule Poirot, a private
investigator.

and my associate, Captain Hastings.
Morning.

Is there something here that requires an
investigation?

Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no. It's more a
matter of professional curiosity, that

is all.

A small idea.

Perhaps you can help us, mademoiselle.

Is there any reason why I should?

Is there any reason why you should not?

My name is Delphi Lane.

I was Henry Gathcoyne's model.

What else do you want from me? No, but
that is most helpful.

The bond between the artist and his
model is legendary.

Really? Oh, yes.

But you would have noticed if his
behaviour had been in any way unusual.

I doubt it.

A painter's behaviour is always unusual.

They can never make up their mind
whether to commit suicide or give a

So, nothing out of the way about him?

No, no worse than any of them.

Some odd arrangement with his agent, I
believe.

Peter Makinson.

But you'd have to ask him about that. An
agent? So he was successful then? Don't

be misled by all this.

Henry wasn't a poor man.

Just mean.

Did he have a family?

There was a nephew that he mentioned
from time to time. A musical man.

There was a brother, too.

Some way or other.

Anthony. Yes, Anthony.

But there'd been a falling out between
them.

He certainly never spoke with a man like
a brother.

Here.

Remarkable likeness.

They could have been twins.

Yes. Two pins in a pot.

This small idea of yours... What is it?

Oh, simply a notion.

I saw Monsieur Gascoigne on the evening
of his death.

I was told that his behavior had
recently been, uh...

How do you say?

Uncharacteristic?

But more than that,

the mantle of life should fit like a
well -tailored suit of clothes.

But it did not hang so well on that old
man in the restaurant.

You see, mademoiselle, I cannot accept
that the fall of Monsieur Gascoigne was

accidental.

Hardly the kind of woman to push an old
man to his death, Poirot. Ah, the old

man hair, mon ami.

Always the old man hair.

I just find it pretty hard to believe,
that's all.

Well, she did not seem to be unduly
upset by Monsieur Castron's untimely

Oh, why should she?

What about that brother, Anthony?

Yes, we need to find the brother, but
also the artist's agent, Peter

Thank you, driver.

This is where the future of criminal
investigation lies.

Our new forensic division.

The most advanced in the world.

Won't be long before the likes of you
and me will be gone forever.

Cast onto the scrapheave of life like so
much... ...scrap.

And you'll think there is nothing to
save us? Not even all those little grey

cells of yours. Gat's going out.

We'll all be extinct, Poirot.

Dinosaurs. Henry Gascoigne, 68 years of
age, artist by profession. What's your

interest in this, Florence?

Oh, he was an acquaintance of a friend
of mine and I nearly wish to put his

at rest.

Hmm. Died from a broken neck caused by a
fall down the stairs.

Apparently he was a recluse, a bit of an
eccentric.

None of the neighbours can remember
seeing any visitors that evening or the

following morning.

That evening?

The estimated time of death was at or
around 9 .30 p .m. on Saturday, June the

16th. Remarkable.

Your forensic division is very precise,
huh?

Well, no.

There was a letter in the old boy's
dressing gown pocket.

It was posted that morning in West 1 and
arrived by the 9 .30 delivery that

evening. He must have gone down to
collect it and fallen on his way back

upstairs. I see.

May I see this letter?

The pathologist still got it with all
Gascoigne's clothes.

Perhaps you remember who might have sent
it. No, I don't.

It was harmless enough.

Of course.

Who was the pathologist, did you say?

I didn't.

You take it from me, Poirot, this case
is closed.

Yes, well, let us hope, Chief Inspector,
that the forensic sciences of which you

are so proud...

will not replace every aspect of the
detective's work. Let us hope that

camaraderie will still play a
significant role.

His name's Cutter.

I'd better telephone him to make sure he
knows what to expect.

You see, Chief Inspector, we are still
very far from being the species extinct.

Au revoir, mon ami.

Strong -looking fellow. Had years, you
might say. Still got his own teeth.

Gascoigne?

And the cause of death was a broken
neck?

Yes.

Second and third vertebrae here and
here.

You will also notice extensive bruising
to the ribcage and to the arms and legs,

consistent with a steep, tumbling fall.

Down the stairs, yes.

Is it possible that Monsieur Cascoyne
might have suffered a seizure of the

or perhaps that of the brain?

No, he simply slipped and fell.

I see.

I believe you were able to determine the
time of death with some accuracy.

It's never an easy task to ascertain the
precise time of death.

But this letter confirmed your medical
evidence, sir? Yes.

Gascoigne had been seen in a restaurant
at about 7 .30 that evening.

Yes, I was there myself.

And this letter arrived with a 9 .30
evening post?

Yes. An examination of the content of
Gascoigne's stomach revealed that he had

eaten a light supper two to three hours
before his death.

So it all fits together nicely, no?

May I please...

Borrow this letter, monsieur?

I'm sure you can be entrusted with its
safekeeping, Mr. Poirot.

Of course.

Are you sitting down, Hinting?

Yes, yes, I am.

Very good.

I'm coming.

Oh, fine, fine.

Hastings, this is a recipe of my mother.

Rabbit cooked in the town of Lierre.

I bet it's better than rabbit cooked in
the town of Hastings.

Yes, that is quite funny, Hastings.

However, when you are grown up, you will
find that food is not really the

subject suitable for the human.

The aroma is the most important
ingredient in any dish.

No, no, no, Hastings.

Use your spoon.

That is the Liege way.

To use a knife is an insult to the cook.
It implies the meaty stuff.

You're not eating?

I unfortunately know my left by Caspidi
is still causing me considerable

discomfort.

Is it good, Hastings?

Please, do not be stinting with your
praise.

Oh, it's wonderful.

Tastes more, um... Well, um... Rabbit,
even. Any rabbit I've ever tasted.

That is the juniper berries.

Shall I give you some more sauce?

No, no, no.

Not yet.

What was in that envelope they found in
old Gascoigne's pocket?

Huh.

You are invited to a preview of
contemporary European paintings recently

acquired by the Farringdon Gallery.

This may be both informative and
pleasurable, Hastings.

And it's tomorrow.

Man throwing a stone at a bird.

Nearly.

Which is which?

Jean Miro, he seems.

An exponent of the surrealist vision.

A work inspired by the dream, no?

Yes, a man with the most individual
imagination.

Is there some way I can help you,
gentlemen? My name is Mackinson.

Peter Mackinson?

The agent of Henry Cascoyne?

Yes.

What a tragic loss.

I understand that your contractual
agreement with Henry Gascogne was an

one, monsieur.

Unusual? Have you ever heard of an
artist who wouldn't sell his paintings?

Wouldn't sell?

You mean not at all?

Well, that must have made your work
impossible.

Oh, I could sell the small of his
sketches and watercolours. But the oils

never to fall into the hands of the
Billisteins.

His name for all collected the dealers.

No, no one actually owns the Gascoigne
painting.

We may give to the father.

Yes, Mr. Franklin.

I have a small collection, and Dolphy
Lane, his model, has several works.

But he was a man of few friends.

And now, of course, after his death, his
paintings can be sold.

I imagine that would be so.

And you, Monsieur, you are free to sell
your own collection, yes?

Look, what is all this about?

You're not a collector, are you?

No, monsieur.

I am Hercule Poirot.

A private detective.

And I am investigating the circumstances
surrounding the death of Henry

Gascoyne. I see.

I see.

Perhaps we'd better talk about this in
my office.

Gentlemen. Ah, that is a picture by
Monsieur Gascoigne, is it not?

But not his usual model.

No, that was painted years before he met
Dulcie Lane.

Here's Charlotte Gascoigne, a rare
beauty.

His wife?

No, Charlotte was married to Anthony
Gascoigne, his brother.

There was, I understand, some ill
-feeling between them.

Yes.

Henry arrived here one day with this
painting and asked me to take it into

safekeeping. For what reason?

I don't think Brother Anthony was keen
on the idea of his wife's naked body

being displayed in public.

You know, the way I see it, Poirot,
everyone tends to benefit from the old

death. Indeed, mon ami.

His work was in demand, but
unobtainable. His death will create much

Probably pushed the prices through the
roof. Yes.

Whoever is fortunate enough to own an
original gas coin can expect to feather

the nest, including Makinson and
Mademoiselle D 'Aquilaine.

Unbelievable. No, no, no, mon ami. Even
the closest acquaintances could be

tempted. Well, they could have played
for lunch.

Lunch? England won the toss, went into
bat, Sartre and Hammond were back in the

pavilion before lunch.

78 for two at the end of the opening
session.

Chipperfield trapped them both.

Lunch! Of course, Hastings, lunch!

Don't you see?

See what of?

420 flapper baked in a crumble.

I think you mean pie, don't you?

Well, that's what they have done in all
these years.

Up there at the door, found a good...
Miss Lemmon?

Deborah? And Jules with him, before
alarm could be raised.

Quite a trickster, oh, that I never knew
he was condescending to play.

Not so old as it looks.

Such a dashing figure.

Choosing the cigars and handing me mine.

Miss Lemmon?

How did you get on with the musicals?

George Lorimer?

is the manager of the Carlton Theatre,
Rappinal Green.

Excellent work, Mr. Nimmo.

Nimmo. That was where he left his rope
ladder.

I don't believe in that rope ladder,
Bunny, except as a

blind.

Well... Hastings, tonight we must visit
the theatre.

What's all this about blackbirds,
Poirot?

That Saturday evening,

Henry Gascoigne finished his meal with
the blackbird, or rather, the blackberry

crumble.

Now, the juice of the blackberry leaves
a dark stain, and yet, the teeth of

Henry Gascoigne were not discoloured. I
looked, most particularly.

Oh, then the waitress must have been
mistaken.

It's easily done, you know.

According to the pathologist, Henry
Gascoigne died two hours after eating

light meal.

I do not consider soup, followed by the
steak and kidney pudding, to be the

light meal.

But suppose that meal was not dinner,
but lunch.

But the old boy was seen at the
restaurant at 7 .30.

You saw him.

Yes.

But that was not Henry Gascoyne.

That Saturday night, mon ami, I dined
not with Henry Gascoyne, but with his

murderer. Henry Gascoyne was already
lying dead at the foot of the stairs.

And the killer, disguised as the old
man, was able to leave the scene of the

crime without arriving suspicious?

Not quite.

He walked past the neighbor, Mrs.
Mullen, without so much as a good day.

But why take the old boy's place at the
restaurant?

To make it appear that Gascoyne was
still alive.

So the question is, who could imitate
Henry Gascon?

I vote for the brother.

Well, Hastings, it would certainly take
a long stretch of the imagination to see

Miss Tulsi Lane in the white wig and the
whiskers.

Steadfast, Poirot.

with a small idea.

Please, mademoiselle, forgive this
intrusion. Not at all, gentlemen.

As you have already seen for yourselves,
I have nothing to hide.

No, no, we were out in the gallery.

Miss Lane, I am now completely convinced
that the death of Henry Gascoigne was

deliberately arranged and by someone he
knew well.

Am I a suspect?

I understand Henry Gascoigne gave you a
number of paintings.

Yes, four life studies.

So you are aware, no doubt, of their
value?

Yes, I've had a number of generous
offers.

So you could be a wealthy woman, Miss
Lang?

You think I'd part with them?

At any price?

Miss Lane, one final question.

Henrik has gone to twin brother,
Anthony.

Do you know where he might be found?

No, I don't.

Perhaps you should ask the nephew.

Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great
pleasure to introduce Mr.

Tommy Pinner!

It's called, Dinah come and hold my
hand.

Dinah come and hold your hand? Yes, sir.
It sounds pathetic.

And when it's over, Dinah comes out and
holds me hand.

Yes,

sir. And that's the end.

It certainly is. It's awful.

Atrocious. Atrocious, sir? Yes.

And the fireman, sir?

Oh, that.

Worse still.

Well, what now?

Do you want a sword, swallower?

No.

Badass. Goodass. Hotass.

They love you.

Come in here.

Ready?

Come

in.

Mr George Loriman?

No, actually, I'm Harry Clark, George's
assistant.

He's not here tonight.

Ah. Can you tell me where I might find
you this evening, monsieur?

Well, I'm afraid not. He's out of town.

In Brighton, attending to his uncle's
funeral arrangements.

In Brighton?

Yes. Is there something wrong?

No, no.

C 'est difficile, monsieur, you see.

We were led to believe that Henry
Gascoigne would not be buried until next

and then here in London.

Henry? You've got the wrong chappie.

George was talking about his uncle
Anthony.

Died last week. Anthony?

Yes. Funeral's tomorrow.

A quiet affair, is it not, Hastings?

With both the brothers dead, there
aren't many gas coins left to pay their

respects.

Not too many suspects left either, eh?

I'm Lorimer.

George Lorimer.

Anthony's nephew.

Captain Hastings.

Acute Poirot, monsieur.

Poirot? The name is familiar.

Should I know you?

Perhaps. Henry Gascoyne might have
mentioned me in passing.

Ah, you knew Uncle Henry.

I was an acquaintance, but many years
ago.

I only heard of the double tragedy last
evening, and I felt the need to express

my condolences to...

Mrs. Gascoigne, and to yourself in
person, monsieur.

I'm sorry?

Mrs. Gascoigne?

Yes, the wife of Anthony.

Oh, you mean Mrs. Hill, the housekeeper.
She looked after him for years.

Isn't Madame Gascoigne dead? Yes.

Ten years now.

Marked the beginning of the end for old
Anthony. He became a virtual recluse.

But listen, I'm being terribly impolite.

Why don't you both come back to the
house?

Oh, there's no wake, you understand.

But I'm sure Mrs. Hill will provide us
with some refreshment.

An offer that is most generous,
monsieur.

We accept.

The least I can do.

Thank you.

Anyway, I'd like to hear about you and
Henry.

Henry's passion for painting once lit a
small fire of my own imagination.

But alas, my...

A talent as a painter was not as great
as my ambition. May I be of some

assistance, Mrs. Hill?

I can manage very well, thank you, sir.

And the two brothers, they were twins.

Yes, not identical, but they bore a
great resemblance.

And also they had together the great
rapport, no?

Rapport? No, not at all. They hadn't
spoken in 20 years.

Sacre?

What could have caused such disharmony?
Well, years ago, Charlotte was Henry's

model. But that's too light a word. She
was more his inspiration.

Ah, the muse.

And then along came Antony and stole the
girl's heart.

He whisked her away, leaving his brother
a broken man.

And the wounds from such a battle run
deep.

Well, their differences are well and
truly buried now.

They both had a good innings.

Up stumps and back to the pavilion.

If you'll excuse the expression.

A most distressing time for you, Mother.

Nursemaid and companion, I won't.

Cook and cleaner, all those years.

And then he goes, just like that.

I've got to thank you for all my
trouble.

I've got a penny by way of remembrance.

Not even a small legacy in the will of
your services?

There was no will.

next of kin.

He's right, I suppose, though he doesn't
deserve any of it.

He wouldn't come to see his uncle when
he was at his last breath.

This is him.

Could you please tell me exactly when
did Mr. Antony Gascoigne pass away?

One in the afternoon, last Friday.

There was just me and him at the end.

I told Mr. George, Mr.

Larimer, that is, that there wasn't much
time, but it was the Sunday before he

arrived.

By tea on the second day, the office was
63 without loss, chasing England's

first innings total of 440.

Leyland made 109, and Ames 120.

You know, that's the first time a
keeper's made a century in a test.

I wonder if the weather will hold the...
Hastings.

It occupies too many of your little
great cells.

This is Hill.

Thank you so much for giving us of your
time.

Would you like us now to walk you back
to the house?

No, thank you, sir.

I just want to sit and listen to the
band for a bit.

Well, that was quite a yarn you were
spinning back there, old man.

Fires of artistic endeavor finally
flushed. Ah, Hastings, you do not

the finer feelings.

But you were lying.

No, no, no, Hastings. I did not want to
cause Mr. Lorimer further grief with the

revelation that one of his anchors had
been murdered.

And by posing as an acquaintance of
Henry Gaston, my inquiries appeared no

than innocent curiosity.

Well, certainly puts faith to my theory
anyway.

Ah, yes, you expected more from this
brotherly intrigue. La creme

eh?

No, no, mon ami.

We have been running at the wrong tree.

Twice every week, Henry Cuthbert walked
from his house here to the bishop's job

house.

So he was a man of routine.

There would be no variation.

Now that Saturday evening, after the
imposter had pushed Henry Gascoigne to

death, he would have followed this route
as a matter of course.

These things, where of an evening can a
man be seen to enter a place as one

character and emerge as another
completely different character?

Well, he was a boarding house or a
hotel.

Without arousing the slightest
suspicion?

After the masquerade at the restaurant,
he'd need to abandon his disguise.

He would want to change back into his
own clothes in a hurry and secure his

alibi.

Discretion would be the problem.

I think I have seen the answer, Martin.

Well,

if you're expecting a show or something,
you've come to the wrong shop. I can

assure you, monsieur, that I am in the
right shop.

Don't you come the old ass here with me,
squab. I'm sorry, the old? Oh, I made

sure so before.

No, no, no, no, no. I do not think so.

And if I mistake not...

That beret you are wearing would suit
better a man of an artistic calling.

What's going on here?

You are aware, are you not, that the
withholding of evidence that might lead

the conviction of a known criminal is a
most serious offense?

What evidence?

The yellow neckerchief worn by a man
wanted for questioning in connection

the mother of Henry Gascoigne.

There would also be the corduroy jacket
with the trousers.

A waistcoat with the berets.

and a cave in a dark wood.

Well, they were just lying there,
weren't they? I wasn't going to throw

and make a few bucks with them.

You have been diligent and honest, sir.

I trust that this will compensate for
the few bucks you might have made.

Dorothy Lane was sitting for a life
class from 1 until 5 on Saturday

so we can eliminate her.

Oh, yes, Miss Lane is innocent.

He's running in now. One, two, three,
four, and his arm goes over. Oh,

he staggers back.

Make it to two, I'm afraid. He was in
Paris.

That brings us back to square one.

No, no, mon ami, far from it.

We are about to make our final move.

Kindly ask Miss Lemon to get me the
chief inspector's job on the telephone.

Quicker ball this time. Oh, darling Miss
Stewart, the balls of the air and

touchless statements.

Simple catch and darling is out for
naught.

That's Verity's third wicket of the
morning.

Australia are now 204 for four.

Afternoon, Freddie.

Hello, sir.

Ah, Monsieur Loimer, I'm so glad.

Pleased to come up here.

Farrow, what's going on?

Who are your friends?

Captain Hastings, of course you know.

And this is Chief Inspector Japp from
Scotland Yard. We have reason to

Mr. Lorimer, that your uncle's death was
not an accident.

Not an accident. Please.

This clothing was part of the assassin's
disguise.

It was discarded close to the bishop's
chop house after he had masqueraded as

your uncle following the murder.

The strands of white hair are from the
wig, sir. The darker hairs would be the

guilty parties.

They should be an easy match.

Wigs?

Masquerade? Yes. A devious finale to a
most sinister plot, monsieur.

You see, that Saturday evening, after he
had pushed Henry Gascoigne to his

death, the assassin searched through the
correspondence on his desk. He

retrieved this envelope, which he had
sent the day before. Now.

What could be more innocent than an
invitation to an art gallery, eh?

he had one last artistic task to
perform.

But he was not a skilled craftsman.

Regard.

He changed the postmark from the 15th to
the 16th

and smudged the mark on the blotter to
further conceal the forgery.

He placed the envelope in your uncle's
dressing gown pocket, and then,

as the old man, he took his place at the
bishop's chop house. And so it appeared

that Henry Gascoigne had fallen to his
death that Saturday evening. Oh, yes.

after the 9 .30 post had been delivered.

Whoever could do such a thing? Oh, well,
at first I suspected his colleagues,

but they all had the solid alibis.

And then, naturally, I turned my
attention towards his family.

But Anthony was dead.

It appeared that you were the only
living relative, and of course you were.

And where were you when your uncle was
murdered, monsieur?

Where was I?

Well, I'd have been here at the theatre
for the second performance.

Of course. Ah, yes, but that would have
been a Saturday evening, Mr. Lorimer.

Neither the staff nor the artist here
can remember seeing you on that Saturday

afternoon. At which time I would say you
are attending to some business, yes?

Yes.

The murder of your uncle.

You think I killed Henry?

This is madness. I had no quarrel with
him. After Anthony's death, Henry was

only living relative to stand between
you and the Gascoyne estate.

This is a lie. A damned lie.

We have acquired a sample of typeface.

From the typewriter in your office,
monsieur.

I am certain that it will be the perfect
match with the address on the envelope.

The signature of the murderer.

musical act that made you think Lorimer.

Well, it was a very good impression of
an old man, and Lorimer must have seen

him many times.

Indeed. And Lorimer had been ready for
many weeks.

When Mrs. Hill, the housekeeper,
telephoned with word of Antony's

death, Lorimer knew that all of Antony's
money would go to Henry Gascoigne

because there was no will.

But why on earth would Lorimer
masquerade as old Gascoigne on the

Monday night? Dress rehearsal.

Had to be sure of the disguise on the
night.

He nearly got away with it.

Yes, but you cannot play Othello simply
by blacking your face, eh? You have to

think like a Moorish general.

And Lorimer's performance was fatally
flawed.

It stinks.

Suddenly you look very pale. Are you
feeling unwell?

The past, Moorish.

It's true.

Verity takes 14 wickets for 70 rounds on
a day when England bowl out Australia

twice to win the second Tet.

Six wickets in the last hour.

And after the weekend rains, you are
surprised, mon ami?

Australians are used to hard pitches.
The Lord's wickets would have been

decidedly sticky, no? So it's not a day
for the stroke play.

No, it's a day for the art of spin
bowling.

And Hedley Verite is the greatest
exponent alive.

Bowling left arm, the leg breakers to
the right handers. He would have them

marching through the long room in no
time. He has flight variation.

The Chinaman.

And the most deadly quick of all, that
dips into a yoke. Oh, yes.

On such a day, Monsieur Verite would
consider, what, 14 for 70?

A fair haul.

laughter laughter