Original subtitles

You go straight up to the ward. They'll see you there.

The idea.

I'd like to see Lieutenant Hastings, please.

-Hastings. -When's the next ambulance --

Just a moment, nurse. I'll be with you in a moment.

Royal Fusiliers. The new film has arrived.

You'll probably find him upstairs, watching.

Thank you.

Excuse me, Lieutenant Hastings. There's a gentleman to see you.

Right. Thank you.

Don't you recognize your old friends?

Good Lord! John Cavendish!

How wonderful to see you.

I tried to join up, but they said I was too ancient.

What about your brother Lawrence?

-Is he practicing medicine yet? -Well, he wasn't until the war.

I don't know why he bothered to qualify.

Then they made him go to work at the local hospital.

He's still writing, though.

Anything published?

Stories, poems. Bits and pieces in magazines.

I suppose you heard Mother married again.

Good heavens! No, I didn't know that.

Some fellow turned up on the pretext

of being Evie's second cousin or something.

You remember Evie.

-Evie? -Evie Howard.

She's Mother's factotum, companion, jack-of-all-trades.

Great sport, old Evie.

Must have been after my time.

Well, anyway, this fellow Inglethorp turned up,

and about a month later the mater suddenly announced

that she and Alfred were engaged.

I mean, he must be 20 years younger than she is.

Good Lord.

Difficult situation for all of you.

Difficult?

It's damnable.

Can you get away from this place?

Well, I'm not a prisoner here, you know.

But you're up to traveling, aren't you?

I mean, I was going to suggest you come down for a few days.

I'd love to.

I could do with a break from the army.

I could come down on Saturday if that's all right.

That's marvelous.

Styles St. Mary! Styles St. Mary!

-Hastings. -John. Good of you to meet me.

Come on.

Still got a drop or two of petrol, you see.

Thanks to the Minister of Agriculture.

Do you have to do a lot of driving?

Quite a bit.

I have to visit every farm

within a 20-mile radius once a month.

I wonder if we've got time to pick up Cynthia and Lawrence.

No, they'll have started from the hospital by now.

Is Cynthia your wife?

No, no. Cynthia's a prot�g�e of my mother's.

Daughter of an old schoolfellow.

She was left penniless, and my mother came to the rescue.

She works at the same hospital as Lawrence in Malmesbury.

Come on.

I'm afraid you'll find it very quiet down here.

My dear fellow, after the joys of France,

that's just what I want.

-Is that one of your neighbors? -Hmm?

Girl on the horse. Beautiful girl.

Yes, I suppose she is.

No, that's Mrs. Raikes, widow of one of the farmers hereabouts.

Hello, Evie.

Here's our wounded hero.

Lieutenant Hastings, Miss Howard.

How do you do?

Better be careful, Lieutenant Hastings,

or I'll recruit you for the weeding.

Oh, only too delighted.

Don't be polite. You'll regret it later.

In case of refusal,

Lady Tadminster might open the fete on the first day

and Mrs. Crosbie on the second.

But what about the duchess?

Lieutenant Hastings has arrived, Mother.

Why, Mr. Hastings!

After all these years.

Are you quite recovered from your wound?

Oh, yes, pretty well, you know, Mrs. Inglethorp.

Just a scratch.

Alfred, darling, this is Mr. Hastings.

Mr. Hastings, my husband.

I'm delighted to meet you, Lieutenant Hastings.

How do you do?

Mary. Lieutenant Hastings.

Lieutenant Hastings, I've heard so much about you.

And I you, Mrs. Cavendish. John's a lucky man.

Ahh. Seedcake.

-Bye, Cynthia. -Bye.

Bye, Lawrence. Bye!

We're late.

Your mother hates us being late for tea.

She just likes to get us all on parade.

Emily.

Oh, well. One keeps busy, you know.

Comforts for the troops. Armament drives.

How many events have we got arranged

over the next three months, Alfred?

Three bazaars and two fetes.

Yes, and of course the sale of work.

You know, my dear, I'm sure that cushion is damp.

-Oh. -Allow me.

There.

That's better, dearest.

Can't have you sitting on damp cushions, can't we?

You're so thoughtful, Alfred.

-Dashed good seedcake. -Thank you, Dorcas.

Ah. Here's Cynthia.

You're very late today, Cynthia.

Oh, I know. I'm sorry. The bus was late.

This is Mr. Hastings. Miss Murdoch.

How do you do?

-Where's Lawrence? -Oh, he's just gone upstairs.

He'll be down in a minute.

He'd better hurry up. There won't be any cake left.

I've got a cousin who's nursing.

She seems to spend most of her time placating the sister.

Oh, they're terrifying. You've no idea.

But I'm not a nurse, thank heaven.

I work in the dispensary.

Oh. How many people have you poisoned?

Oh, hundreds.

Don't talk such nonsense, Cynthia, please.

What will you do after the war, Lieutenant Hastings?

Well, you may laugh at me,

but I've always had a secret hankering to be a detective.

I was in Belgium before the war,

and I ran across a very famous detective there.

What were you doing in Belgium?

Duck shooting, actually.

This detective was down from Brussels,

investigating a murder in the village.

I think I was a suspect for a time

because the victim was shot with the same sort of gun as I had.

How frightful.

Oh, no. Not really.

My system's based on his.

Though, of course, I've progressed rather further.

He was a funny little man.

A great dandy but wonderfully clever.

I love a good detective story.

Dr. Wilkins was saying yesterday

that owing to the ignorance of the more uncommon poisons

among the medical profession,

there are probably countless cases of murder

that went quite unsuspected.

Can we talk about something else?

My brother's a bit sensitive about this,

being a medical man himself.

Hold your fire!

Another example of the English bucolic beliefs.

Anagallis arvensis.

In English, the scarlet pimpernel.

It is believed that when this flower is open,

it is a sign of a prolonged spell of the fine weather.

It is seldom seen open in this country.

Something the matter, M. van der Stadt?

He wants to know why we have to speak English all the time.

He finds it tiring.

Hmm.

Because, M. van der Stadt, in this country, we are the guests.

If we are to gain the confidence of the natives,

we must learn their ways.

You men -- Where are the rest of your platoon?

They're -- They're dead, sir.

Least, they said they wasn't,

but the umpire said they had to be.

Well, get rid of these civilians anyway.

Styles Court really is a glorious old place.

Yes. Yes, it is.

It will be mine someday.

And our house in London, too.

I managed to persuade Mother

that Inglethorp's got no right to them.

No moral right, anyway.

As it stands at the moment, I get the houses,

but Inglethorp gets all the money.

Can't your brother help out?

Lawrence? No.

We're an impecunious lot.

My mother's always been awfully good to us, I must say.

That is, up to now.

Since her marriage, of course.

Come on. Let's go back to the house.

Do you remember the song

that the British soldiers taught us?

Why don't we try and sing it together?

Keep in tune!

Ohh!

-Good afternoon, M. Poirot. -Good afternoon, Dr. Wilkins.

Good afternoon, messieurs.

I see you have joined the cavalry, eh?

Yes. I'm on my way home.

It's the second time I've been killed in a month.

Ah.

I say, do you fancy a pint of beer, if there's any left?

Non, merci.

I cannot yet bring myself to enjoy the English public house.

All those bottles of the different size,

all in the wrong order.

Eh!

Doesn't seem to bother your compatriots.

Oh, what is the use?

I try to instill in them a sense of order, method, but...

always they disappear into the public house.

Jolly good horse.

I thought they'd commandeered anything decent

for military service.

Agricultural use is one of the exemptions, fortunately.

I hack 'round the estate nearly every day.

There's really so little to do 'round here.

You work on the land, though, don't you?

Yes. Though it's frightfully early in the morning.

I'm usually finished at the farm by midday.

I wouldn't have thought it was woman's work.

There's a war on. We've all got to do what we can.

Well, the uniform looks jolly nice anyway.

That cream-colored overall.

There. Good boy.

Thank you.

Lieutenant Hastings, your leg.

I didn't think. Are you all right?

No, no, no. It's fine now, really.

I don't think I need this anymore.

Here you are. Compliments of the British Army.

I've never known it so hot in June before.

What we need is a cool glass of lemonade.

Lemonade?

I haven't seen a lemon since 1914.

-Game of tennis later? -Love to.

Mary, Hastings, come into my study for a moment, will you?

What's the matter?

There's a deuce of a mess.

Evie's had a row with Inglethorp, and she's off.

-Off? -She's leaving.

Given in her notice.

You see, she went to see the mater, and they had --

Well, I've spoken my mind, anyway.

-Evie, this can't be true. -True enough.

I'm afraid I said some things to Emily

she won't forget or forgive in a hurry.

Oh, Evie.

"You're an old woman, Emily," I said.

"And there's no fool like an old fool.

The man's 20 years younger than you."

Oh, no.

Well, I'm sorry. I had to do it.

I had to tell her.

I said, "I'm going to warn you, Emily,

whether you like it or whether you don't.

That man would as soon as murder you in your bed as look at you.

He's a bad lot."

Good God. What did she say?

Oh, "Wicked calumnies.

Wicked lies. Wicked woman.

Darling Alfred."

Et cetera, et cetera.

Ended up by saying the sooner I left her house, the better.

So I'm off.

Mr. Hastings, you're honest. I can trust you.

Well, I, uh...

Look after her, Mr. Hastings. My poor Emily.

They're a lot of sharks. All of them.

Of course I'll do everything I can, Miss Howard.

I only ask you to keep your eyes open.

Above all, Mr. Hastings, watch that devil.

It's almost too hot, isn't it?

Too hot?

I shouldn't be surprised if we had a thunderstorm.

That'll be 2 and threepence, please, sir.

And don't you go telling anyone about that, sir.

There's them 'round here who'd do more than murder

for that much cocoa in one week.

I am very grateful to you, Mme. Dainty.

And I give you my word

that I will be the soul of discretion.

-Thank you, sir. -Thank you.

Mme. Dainty, has it ever occurred to you

to organize the goods by the country of origin?

Well, no, I-I can't say it has.

Ah, you would be amazed, madame.

Now, let me see.

North, south, east, west.

Yes.

The spices which come from the Orient

we could place over there by the door,

which represents the East, eh?

Voil�.

All you would need to remember is from where came each article

to lay your hand on it quickly and with efficiency.

I can do that already, sir.

And, anyway, as far as I'm concerned,

everything comes from the wholesaler.

In Malmesbury.

Ah, yes, Mme. Dainty, but --

-Half a dozen stamps, please. -Very good, sir.

Hastings?

Good Lord! M. Poirot!

It is indeed mon ami Hastings!

I was talking about you only the other day.

Oh, mon ami, mon ami!

This is my old friend M. Poirot. We haven't met for --

We know M. Poirot.

I didn't know he was a friend of yours.

Oh, well, it is only by the charity of Mme. Inglethorp,

the mother to M. Lawrence, that I am here.

She has kindly extended her hospitality to, what,

seven of my countrypeople

who are refugees from our native land.

En effet, she has provided us

with a delightful house over there.

You must come to the house. Oh, no, no, no, no. Pardon.

You must come to tea.

Now, that is the proper English expression, no?

Yes, very proper.

Bon. I improve, eh?

Excuse me.

-Oh, M. Poirot. -Oh!

Mme. Raikes.

I told you before!

None of your own business.

It is my business!

Not content with carrying on a sordid affair with this woman,

I now find you are squandering large sums of money on her!

It's not a large sum of money.

And it was a loan, anyway!

No, no! My mind is made up!

And you need not think that any fear of scandal

between husband and wife will deter me!

I have fed you and clothed you.

I've given you a roof over your head,

and this is the way you repay me!

He's such a dear little man.

You've been entertaining a celebrity unawares.

Oh, it's you.

Is there anything the matter, Aunt Emily?

Of course not!

Oh, uh, Dorcas, bring me some stamps, will you?

Yes'm. You're looking awfully tired, ma'am.

Didn't you ought to be resting?

Yes. No! Not now!

I've some letters I must finish before post time.

Have you lighted the fire in my bedroom?

Yes'm.

I'll go to bed directly after supper.

Then you won't show it to me?

My dear Mary, this has nothing to do with the matter.

Show it to me, then!

I tell you, it is not what you imagine!

It does not concern you in the least.

I say, there's been a most frightful row.

I got it all out of Dorcas.

Yes, I know. I just overheard Mary and Mrs. Inglethorp.

No! Between Aunt Emily and him.

Oh, I do hope she's found him out at last.

I'm sure he's a fortune-hunter.

Well, Dorcas happened to be near the door.

Apparently, it was a real old bust-up.

Oh, I wish I knew what it was all about.

-Where are you going? -Just down to the village.

You're going to see

your precious Mrs. Raikes, aren't you?

For God's sake, Mary!

I warn you, John --

I'm not gonna stand for this much longer.

I'll have my coffee in my room.

I still have some papers to see to.

I read in the newspaper

the first American divisions are due in France next week.

Will you take Mrs. Inglethorp her coffee, Cynthia?

Shall we have our coffee in the drawing room?

Come in.

Put it by the bed, dear.

I'm turning in soon, too. I'm exhausted.

I'll take some sleeping powders, I think.

Just light the lamp before you go.

Yes.

It will be dark soon.

Oh, no.

Oh.

Thank you, Dorcas.

I have to go down to the village.

To see our agent about those estate accounts.

And no one need sit up for me.

I'll take the latchkey.

Dashed funny time of night to go and see Denby.

Mother!

Mother!

Mother!

Mother!

Mother!

Open the door!

Mother!

Mother!

Open the door!

-What are we gonna do? -What's the matter?

Mother seems to be having some kind of fit.

She's locked herself in, though.

Try going through Mr. Inglethorp's room, sir.

Oh, Alfred.

Alfred.

Alfred!

Locked.

Oh, the poor mistress.

Let's try and break the door down.

Beth, go and get Dr. Wilkins at once.

There's a door on the other side from Cynthia's room.

But it'll be bolted, sir.

Worth a try.

-Mary! -Have you got the door open yet?

No.

That one's locked, too.

-Damn! -I can't wake Cynthia.

She must have taken a sleeping powder.

Cynthia!

Try again. 1, 2, 3.

-Once more. 1, 2, 3. -Help me!

Annie, get some brandy from the dining room.

Let us in. I've managed to wake Cynthia.

-Are you all right? -I took a sleeping powder.

What's the matter?

Oh, better now.

Very sudden.

Stupid of me.

Stupid of me to lock myself in.

It's all right.

It's all right.

Feeling a little better now.

Out of my way. Out of my way.

Alfred.

No.

Is she dead?

Oh, God.

Where is Mr. Inglethorp?

He's not in the house.

Where is he?

Mr. Cavendish, I would like your consent to a postmortem, then.

But that's not necessary. Surely it was a heart attack.

Oh, no. I'm sorry.

Mrs. Inglethorp showed classic symptoms

of strychnine poisoning.

That can't be.

Do whatever you think necessary, Dr. Wilkins.

These are your mother's keys.

I've locked both the rooms.

I suggest they remain locked for the time being.

You remember my speaking of my friend Poirot --

the Belgian in the village?

Oh, the one who used to be a detective?

Yes.

I want you to let me call him in to investigate this business.

This is all rubbish, you know.

Wilkins has got a bee in his bonnet about poisons.

Poisons are his hobby, so of course he sees them everywhere.

I'm inclined to give Hastings a free hand, Lawrence.

Though I should prefer to wait a bit.

We don't want unnecessary scandal.

No, no, no, no, no.

You need have no worry about that.

Poirot is discretion itself.

All right.

No, John!

I'm sorry, Lawrence.

Dear God. This is terrible. My poor wife.

Well, where have you been?

Denby kept me late last night.

Then I discovered that I'd forgotten the latchkey.

Denby gave me a bed

so that I wouldn't have to arouse the household.

Oh, my poor Emily.

She was so self-sacrificing.

She overtaxed herself.

Now I'd better get on my way.

Yes. Yes, of course.

Oui?

M. Poirot. Good morning.

Ah, Hastings! You rise early.

Mrs. Inglethorp is dead.

One moment.

I am pleased with you, Hastings.

You have a good memory

and have given to me faithfully the facts.

But of the order in which you present them, I say nothing.

Truly, it is deplorable.

Oh, but I make allowances. You are upset.

Later, when you are calmer,

we will arrange the facts neatly,

each in his proper place.

And those of importance, we will place on one side,

and those of no importance...

...we blow them away.

But whatever allowances I make,

I cannot escape the fact

that you have omitted one piece of evidence

of the paramount importance.

And what's that?

You did not say to me

if Mme. Inglethorp ate well last night.

Ah, well, as far as I can remember, she hardly ate at all.

She was obviously upset, and it had taken away her appetite.

I see.

Bien.

Uh, Hastings, you dressed in haste.

Your tie is to one side.

One must not let oneself go, Hastings.

Why did you want to know

if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night?

The contention at the present

is that Mme. Inglethorp died of the strychnine poisoning, no?

It looked like it to me.

Bon.

At what time did Mme. Inglethorp retire for the night?

Oh, very early. About 8:00.

And yet the symptoms did not manifest themselves

until 5:00 in the morning.

Nine hours.

Now, a heavy meal taken at about the same time as the poison

might retard its effect, but hardly to that extent.

And you say to me that Mme. Inglethorp

ate very little for supper.

Yes.

Hmm.

One of those curious little facts, mon ami.

We put it here.

This is a very dreadful business, M. Poirot.

Hastings has explained

that we're anxious to avoid publicity.

I comprehend perfectly.

You know Inglethorp's back?

Yes, I met him.

It's damn difficult to know how to treat him.

That difficulty will not exist for long.

The key to the room, if you please, monsieur.

Oh, of course.

Merci.

Hastings, we must leave this

until the lawyer of Mme. Inglethorp is present.

This goes through to Cynthia's room.

What is it?

We shall see.

I think that this is cocoa, mon ami,

but we will now send it for analysis.

Ah.

Regardes, mon ami.

The chimney piece of the lamp is broken in two places only,

and yet the coffee cup next to it

is ground almost to the powder.

I suppose somebody must have stepped on it.

Yes, mon ami.

Somebody must have stepped on that coffee cup

and ground it almost to the powder.

And the reason that they did so

was either because it contained the strychnine

or -- which is far more serious --

because it did not contain the strychnine.

I wonder what is that.

Hmm. This, I think, is a coffee stain that is quite fresh.

Eh bien, Hastings,

we have in this room now six points of interest.

Shall I catalog them or will you?

Oh.

Uh... well, um, you.

Very well.

Number one, a coffee cup that is ground almost to the powder.

Number two, the dispatch case with the key in the lock.

Number three, the coffee stain on the carpet.

Number four, a thread or two of dark-green material

caught on the bolt of that door.

Ah, that's what you put in the envelope.

Oui. D'accord.

And number five, this.

What is it?

Candle grease, my friend.

It must have dropped to the floor since yesterday.

Otherwise, the good housemaid would have removed it.

Lawrence Cavendish brought a candle

into the room this morning.

He seemed very agitated.

He seemed to see something over there

that absolutely paralyzed him.

At the door, do you think?

No, at the fireplace.

That is most interesting, mon ami.

But his candle, it is pink.

And that candle grease over there, it is white.

And the sixth point?

No, the sixth point I prefer to keep to myself at the present.

Alors, there is nothing more to do here, I think.

Unless...

A bedroom fire in midsummer, Hastings?

The fire warms, but it also destroys.

There might be...

Ah!

Voil�!

What do you think of that, mon ami?

Very thick paper.

Much thicker than ordinary writing paper.

And?

A will.

This could be a fragment of a will.

That could be "will and testament."

Exactement.

Just as I expected.

Tell me, mademoiselle,

did your mistress have in her wardrobe

a dress that is dark green?

No, sir.

Does anyone in the house possess a dress that is dark green?

No, sir. Not that I know of.

Very well.

We will leave that and pass on.

I would like to ask you, if I may,

one or two questions about the afternoon of yesterday.

Yes, sir.

Your mistress -- She had a quarrel?

I don't know that I ought --

My good Dorcas, Mme. Inglethorp lies dead,

and it is necessary that we must know all

if we are to avenge her.

Amen to that, sir.

Uh, naming no names,

there's one in this house none of us could ever abide.

Ah.

Now, as to this quarrel...

It was about 4:00.

I happened to be passing the study, and I heard voices --

loud, angry ones -- coming from there.

I didn't mean to listen.

Continue, mademoiselle. What happened next?

At 5:00, Mrs. Inglethorp rang the bell

and told me to bring her a cup of tea.

She looked dreadful, sir.

Your tea, mum.

I've had a great shock, Dorcas.

I'm sorry for that, mum.

I don't know what to do.

Scandal between a husband and wife is a dreadful thing.

These few words and everything's changed.

Never trust a man, Dorcas. They're not worth it.

Tell me, mademoiselle,

this paper that she had in her hand --

What would she likely do with it afterwards, do you think?

I expect she'd lock it up in that purple case of hers.

If it was important.

I see.

Tell me, mademoiselle, do you think it likely

that your mistress would have taken

a sleeping powder last night?

Not last night, sir. I know she didn't.

She took the last dose of her tonic,

but she never took a sleeping powder.

How is that you're so positive?

The box was empty, sir.

She took the last one two days ago.

And she didn't have any more made up.

Oh, Miss Howard. It's so good to see you again.

Terrible time to come back, Dorcas.

Evie.

Started the moment I got the wire.

Dorcas will make us some tea.

I don't want tea.

Ah, here's Mr. Poirot.

Mr. Poirot's helping us with our investigation.

Nothing to investigate!

Have they taken him to prison yet?

Taken who to prison?

Alfred Inglethorp, of course.

Poor Emily was never murdered till he came along!

Evie, don't shout so.

Whatever we may think or suspect,

it's better to say as little as possible for the present.

The inquest isn't until Friday.

Inquest? Fiddlesticks.

The man will be out of the country by then!

He won't stay here tamely waiting to be hanged.

Mademoiselle...

It's no good trying all that.

Mr. Alfred Inglethorp is going to hang!

Even if I have to drag him to the gallows myself!

How did you know that Mrs. Inglethorp

took sleeping powders?

Ah, because, Hastings,

I found this in the drawer of the wash stand in her bedroom.

It was this that was the number six of my catalog.

But if the last powder was taken two days ago,

it can't be that important.

Probably not.

Mr. Poirot, my mother's lawyer is here.

I don't know if you'd like to talk to him.

He's also the coroner, you understand?

Yes.

Yes. Thank you, M. Cavendish.

M. Wells, there is one thing that I should like to ask you --

that is, if it is not against the professional etiquette.

In the event of the death of Mme. Inglethorp,

who would inherit her money?

It's all right.

By her last will, dated two months ago,

she left this and her house in London

to her eldest son, Mr. John Cavendish.

The remainder of her fortune goes to Mr. Inglethorp.

And suppose that, unknown to you, she made a new will?

It's always possible, of course.

There was a new will.

-What? -Where is it now?

Burned.

What an extraordinary coincidence

that my mother should have made a will

on the very day of her death.

Are you so sure it's a coincidence?

What do you mean?

Your mother, you tell me, had a violent quarrel

with someone yesterday afternoon.

And the consequence of that quarrel?

She very suddenly and hurriedly makes a new will.

She told no one of its provisions.

The will disappears, and she takes its secret to her grave.

I fear there is no coincidence here.

What do you mean?

You've got the keys still, haven't you, Mr. Poirot?

Oui. Voil�.

My mother kept some things in this.

You will need the key because I locked it this morning.

It's not locked now.

Mais c'est impossible.

But I have had the key in my pocket for all of the day.

En voil� une affaire.

This lock, it has been forced.

This door, it is unbolted.

Why?

When?

There must have been something

of great importance in that case.

Something that connected the murderer with the crime.

-What? -Ach!

That I do not know.

An intriguing case, this, mon ami, do you not think?

It seems quite straightforward, really.

Everything seems to be tied up with Mrs. Inglethorp's money.

And her two houses, Hastings.

Well, yes.

They go to John, and everything else goes to her husband.

But then they had that dreadful row --

the one that Dorcas overhead --

and Mrs. Inglethorp changes her will.

And what about her two sons, Hastings?

Oh, no. I don't imagine they're involved.

No, what happens is,

Inglethorp finds out that the will has been changed,

leaving everything to her son rather than him,

and poisons her.

-And the new will she has made? -He burns it.

That was the scrap of paper we found in her bedroom grate.

Ah. You have a good grip on this affair, Hastings.

-Grasp. -Yes?

You know, Hastings, there are in this case

only two points of any significance.

Oh, really? What are they?

The first is the state of the weather on Tuesday.

But it was a beautiful day.

Must have been 80 degrees in the shade.

Not a cloud in the sky.

Do not forget that, mon ami.

It is the key to the whole riddle.

I don't see why.

All right, then. What's the second point?

The second point is the important fact

that M. Inglethorp wore the peculiar clothes,

wears the black beard, and uses the spectacles.

That's ridiculous.

No, mon ami. It is momentous.

Dr. Wilkins, can you tell us

exactly how much poison Mrs. Inglethorp had consumed?

Judging from the amount recovered,

Mrs. Inglethorp had ingested

about three-quarters of a grain of strychnine,

possibly a grain.

I took a sample of the cocoa remaining in the cup

in Mrs. Inglethorp's room.

There was no strychnine in it.

Then you consider it more likely

that the drug was administered in her after-dinner coffee

and that, for some reason unknown,

its action was delayed?

Yes.

But the coffee cup was so completely smashed,

there was no possibility of analyzing its contents.

It seems to me that my mother's death

may be accounted for by natural means.

Really?

Well, my mother was, for some time before her death,

taking a tonic containing strychnine.

That was dealt with in previous evidence.

But is it not possible that she may have taken

an overdose of the medicine by accident?

I think not, Mr. Cavendish.

The maid, Dorcas, has already told us

she had only one dose left on the day before her death.

I should be obliged if you would tell us

all you overheard of the quarrel

the day before Mrs. Inglethorp's death.

I overheard?

Yes.

I understand you were sitting,

reading on a bench outside the open window of the study.

Is that not so?

Yes.

Will you repeat what you overheard of the quarrel?

I really don't remember hearing anything.

You mean to say you did not hear voices?

W-Well, yes.

I heard the voices.

But I didn't hear what they said.

Not one stray word or phrase?

Yes. I remember.

Mrs. Inglethorp said something.

Something about causing a scandal

between husband and wife.

She sounds as if she's trying to hide something.

-That is true, Hastings... -Call Mr. Mace.

...and is of some interest.

I swear by almighty God that the evidence I shall give

shall be the truth, the whole truth,

and nothing but the truth.

Mr. Mace, as a qualified dispensing chemist

with a shop in the village of Styles St. Mary,

have you lately sold strychnine to any unauthorized person?

Yes, sir.

When was this?

M-Monday, the 18th of June.

At about 6:00.

Would you tell us to whom you sold it?

Yes, sir.

It was Mr. Inglethorp.

He -- He said it was to poison a dog.

He signed the poison book and everything.

Very well.

Thank you, Mr. Mace.

Call Mr. Alfred Inglethorp.

I swear by almighty God that the evidence I shall give

shall be the truth, the whole truth,

and nothing but the truth.

-Are you Alfred Inglethorp? -Yes.

On Monday evening last,

did you purchase strychnine for the purpose of poisoning a dog?

No. I did not.

There is no dog at Styles Court.

Do you also deny that you signed this register?

Yes.

Hmm. That is not my signature.

I see.

Would you mind telling us, Mr. Inglethorp, where you were

on the evening of Monday, June the 18th?

I don't recall.

Were you in company with anyone?

No.

I am to take it, then, that you decline to say where you were

at the time that Mr. Mace positively recognized you

as entering the shop to purchase strychnine?

If you'd like to take it that way, yes.

Does he want to be arrested?

You had a discussion with your wife on Tuesday afternoon.

Pardon me. You are misinformed.

I had no quarrel with my dear wife.

I was absent from the house the entire afternoon.

Have you anyone who can testify to that?

You have my word.

There are two witnesses who have sworn

to having overheard your disagreement

with Mrs. Inglethorp.

Then those witnesses are mistaken.

Very well. Thank you, Mr. Inglethorp.

That will be all for now.

Members of the jury...

He's put a noose right 'round his neck.

Perhaps.

Hastings, do you know who is that man by the door?

...of Dr. Wilkins that the deceased, Mrs. Inglethorp...

That is Detective Inspector James Japp from Scotland Yard.

And if I am not mistaken,

the man next to him is also from Scotland Yard.

Things are moving quickly, my friend.

Perhaps too quickly.

Gentlemen of the jury...

How do you find?

Willful murder by some person or persons unknown.

And is that the verdict of you all?

It is.

Mon Dieu. I had some warm moments in the court, Hastings.

I did not figure to myself that the man would be so pigheaded

as to refuse to say anything at all.

I can't understand why the jury didn't name Inglethorp.

You surely can't still believe he's innocent.

Why not, mon ami? Nothing has changed.

Ah.

I see you do not remember me, Inspector Japp.

Well, if it isn't M. Poirot.

This is Superintendent Summerhaye.

You've heard me speak of M. Poirot, sir.

Yes, the Abercrombie forgery case, wasn't it?

-Just before the war. -That's right, sir.

M. Poirot caught our villain for us in Antwerp.

What are you doing in England, Poirot?

The Boche has made my own country temporarily unhabitable

by their presence, Inspector.

But I would like you to meet my friend Lieutenant Hastings.

-How do you do? -How do you do?

Excuse us.

Well, one need hardly ask the reason

for your presence here, Inspector.

No. Pretty clear case, I should say.

There I differ from you.

From the evidence I heard at the inquest,

Mr. Inglethorp murdered his wife as sure as I'm standing here.

I don't know, sir.

Me and M. Poirot have met before,

and there's no man's judgment I'd sooner take than his.

If I'm not greatly mistaken,

he's got something up his sleeve.

Well, I will tell you this --

If you arrest M. Alfred Inglethorp,

it will bring you no kudos.

The case against him will be dismissed comme �a.

I'd take your word, but there's others above me might not.

Me, for one.

Alfred Inglethorp must not be arrested, Superintendent.

That I have sworn.

Have you ever been to New York, Hastings?

New York? No.

It is a beautiful city.

Beautiful.

There each street is at right angles to each avenue,

and each avenue is numbered nicely -- 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th.

Man is in command there.

But here, how does one live with the fact that, au fond,

nature is untidy, uncontrolled, anarchic, inefficient?

But that's what I like about it.

Hastings, did it not strike you as peculiar

that M. Lawrence Cavendish has suggested

that his mother might have been poisoned by accident?

Oh, it seemed quite a natural suggestion for a layman to make.

But he is not a layman.

You have told me yourself that he has a degree in medicine.

Yes, that's true. I'd forgotten about that.

And then there is also Mme. Cavendish.

What did you make of her attitude?

Well, it seems inconceivable

that she should be shielding Inglethorp,

but that's what it looked like.

Oui. D'accord.

A great deal that was peculiar showed itself today.

Where are we going, Poirot?

To see the beautiful Mme. Raikes, Hastings.

She's an absolute corker, you know.

Thank you.

No, no, no, no, no, Hastings.

I am going to see the beautiful Mme. Raikes.

You, I fear, are far too impressionable

for this particular task.

-Who's that? -I don't know.

I'll go out the back way.

Bonjour, Mme. Raikes.

We'd like you to come into Malmesbury

with us, Mr. Inglethorp.

Malmesbury?

To the station.

You're arresting him, are you? About time to.

We'd just like Mr. Inglethorp to answer a few questions, madame.

Madame.

One moment, if you please, Inspector Japp.

Now, you just leave well alone, Mr. Poirot.

Sorry, M. Poirot.

I understand.

Superintendent, I beg of you to allow me to ask to M. Inglethorp

just one question.

Go on, then.

Thank you, Superintendent.

M. Inglethorp, do you still refuse to say where you were

at 6:00 on Monday afternoon?

Speak.

Very well. Then I must speak for you.

You? How can you?

I speak.

Listen!

I, Hercule Poirot, affirm

that the man who bought the strychnine poison

on Monday afternoon at 6:00 was not Alfred Inglethorp.

For at 6:00 on that day,

M. Alfred Inglethorp was at Tadminster.

I can produce no less than five witnesses

who swear to have seen him and to have spoken to him there

at 6:00 or just after.

And, as you may know,

Tadminster is at least eight miles from the village.

My word, Poirot. You're the goods.

Didn't I tell you, sir?

These witnesses of yours are all right, I suppose?

Voil�.

I have made a catalog of them. Names and addresses.

You will find them all perfectly genuine.

They even include the charming Mme. Raikes.

Didn't I tell you, sir?

So we're back to square one, then.

Well, not quite, mon ami.

We now know there is one person who did not buy the poison.

Eh bien, we have cleared away the clues manufactured.

Now for the real ones.

"...is cut down, like a flower;

he fleeth as it were a shadow,

and never continueth in one stay.

In the midst of life we are in death:

of whom may we seek for succor, but of thee, O Lord,

who for our sins art justly displeased?

Yet, O Lord God most holy, O Lord most mighty,

O holy and most merciful Savior,

deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death."

-Lieutenant Hastings, sir? -Yes, Dorcas?

I know this is hardly the time or the place,

but you remember this foreign gentleman

particularly asked if my mistress

or anyone else in the house had got a green dress?

Yes. Go on.

I've just remembered --

what the young gentleman used to call a dressing-up box.

It's up in the front attic.

This is green.

No, it is too dark.

Good Lord.

Aha.

Hold it up to your face, Hastings.

Do you think it's the one?

I do.

It is trimmed exactly to the same shape

as the beard of M. Inglethorp.

The question is, who put it there?

Someone with a great deal of intelligence, Hastings.

He chose to hide it in the one place

where its presence would not be remarked.

But we must be even more intelligent.

We must be so intelligent

that he does not suspect us of being intelligent at all.

Absolutely.

And there you will be invaluable, mon ami.

Come.

Well, he took the hint at last.

Comment?

He's moved out.

Gone to the hotel at Malmesbury.

-Oh, Lieutenant Hastings. -Hello, Cynthia.

Just the man I was looking for. I want to talk to you.

Can I steal him away from you, Mr. Poirot?

Steal him away?

Ah! Pardon. Yes.

By all means, Mlle. Murdoch.

Hastings, how I envy you, eh?

To be stealed away by such a charming young lady.

Excuse me.

What do you want to talk about?

Let's sit down first, shall we?

Oh. Right.

Lieutenant Hastings...

You've always been so kind.

And you know such a lot.

Oh. Well.

You know.

I want to ask your advice.

You see, Aunt Emily always said I should be provided for.

Well, I suppose she forgot.

Or didn't think she was likely to die.

Anyway, I'm not provided for.

I don't know what to do.

Do you think I ought to go away from here?

Oh, good heavens, no.

They don't want to part with you, I'm sure.

Mary does. She hates me.

-Hates you? -I don't know why.

And he can't bear me, either.

Oh, well, now, there I know you're wrong.

John's very fond of you.

Oh, yes, not John.

I meant Lawrence.

Not that I care whether Lawrence hates me or not.

Still...

It's rather horrid when no one loves you, isn't it?

But they do, Cynthia.

I'm sure you're mistaken.

There's John and Miss Howard.

Lawrence never speaks to me if he can help it.

And Mary can hardly bring herself

to be civil to me, and...

I don't know what to do.

Marry me, Cynthia.

Oh!

Oh, don't be silly.

I'm not being silly.

I'm asking you to do me the honor of becoming my wife.

Oh, that's perfectly sweet of you.

I don't think there's anything to laugh at.

There's nothing funny about a proposal of marriage.

No, there isn't.

And you ought to be careful.

Because somebody might accept you next time.

Goodbye, Lieutenant Hastings.

You've cheered me up no end.

I don't know.

Perhaps I just don't understand women or something.

No. I'm just joking, of course.

It's Inspector Japp.

Hastings, who is that with him in the back of the car?

Looks like Lawrence Cavendish.

What's the matter, Dorcas?

Those wicked detectives.

They've arrested Mr. Cavendish!

Arrested Lawrence?

No, not Mr. Lawrence.

Mr. John!

Old Bailey murder trial!

Read all about it!

Cavendish in dock!

Old Bailey murder trial!

John Wendover Cavendish,

you are charged with murder of your mother,

Mrs. Emily Rose Inglethorp,

on Tuesday, the 19th day of June, 1917.

How do you plead?

Not guilty.

Members of the jury, as you all know,

willful murder is a hanging matter,

and the murder which you will hear described

is a most horrible, premeditated,

and cold-blooded one.

The poisoning of a fond and trusting woman by her own son.

The accused and his wife lived in some luxury

at his mother's house, Styles Court.

Entirely supported by her,

Mrs. Inglethorp had been their kind and generous benefactress.

I will call witnesses to show how the prisoner

was at the end of his financial tether.

You will also hear how the accused

had been carrying on an intrigue

with a certain Mrs. Raikes, a local farmer's widow,

and how he had plotted to get his mother

to make a will in his favor and how,

when he believed that she had changed that will,

he murdered her and destroyed the new one.

You will hear...

I cannot bring myself to listen to any more of this, Hastings.

It sounds very bad, n'est-ce pas?

It'll probably sound better when the defense gets going.

I don't know how Mary Cavendish can bear to sit there.

Ah, well, she is one of those women

who show at their best in adversity.

Her jealousy and her pride have --

-Jealousy? -Yes.

Have you not yet realized, Hastings,

that Mme. Cavendish is a woman of unusual jealousy?

You overheard the fragment of conversation

that she had with her mother-in-law

when she demanded that Mme. Inglethorp

show to her something?

Yes.

Mme. Cavendish believed

that the letter her mother-in-law was concealing

was proof of the infidelity of her husband, John.

But she was wrong, Hastings. There was no such letter.

What Mme. Inglethorp had discovered...

...was that her son John had loaned to Mme. Raikes --

and I heard this from Mme. Raikes herself, Hastings --

had loaned her a large sum of money

in order that Mme. Raikes might purchase

the freehold of her cottage.

You deny that there was anything improper

in your relationship with John Cavendish.

Yes.

I see.

Did you receive money from Mr. Cavendish?

No.

You also deny, then, that Mr. Cavendish gave you a check

for �200 on the 21st of June last?

That was a loan.

Thank you, Mrs. Raikes.

I have no further questions, my lord.

Very well, Mr. Philips.

That seems a convenient time to adjourn.

The court will rise.

Is this your first time in London, Poirot?

Mrs. Inglethorp must have been very wealthy,

with this beautiful house and Styles Court.

Are you gonna be doing this all day?

I steady my nerves. That is all.

This employment...

...requires precision of the fingers.

And with precision of the fingers

goes precision of the brain.

And never have I needed that more than now.

Absolutely.

I can build a house of cards seven stories high

by placing one card on top of another

with a mathematical precision, eh?

But I cannot find the last link in this so-mysterious case.

Well, you've got a steady hand, Poirot, I must say.

I think I've only ever seen your hand shake once.

On an occasion when I was enraged, no doubt.

It was in Mrs. Inglethorp's room.

Just after we discovered

that the locks on the dispatch case had been forced.

Ah, yes.

You stood by the mantelpiece --

rearranging the ornaments, as you always do --

and your hand shook like a leaf.

Because I was enraged.

I was enraged at...

-Oh, mon Dieu! -What is it?

I have an idea. That is all. But...

Mon Dieu!

garage! garage!

For the love of heaven, madame, direct me to the garage!

Someone must drive me!

I must hire a car immediatement!

Can you go no faster, driver?

Not unless you want us to have an accident, sir.

No, no, no. No. No.

Just as you please. You know best.

The correct position for your hands on the steering wheel

is 10 minutes to 2:00, is it not?

Mlle. Dorcas!

Tell me, mademoiselle,

has anyone been in the bedroom of Mme. Inglethorp

since we left the house?

No, sir, it's locked. And we all kept a good lookout on it.

-Good. -Mr. Poirot?

-Yes? -The keys.

Ah.

Thank you.

There. You see?

Already the strychnine is beginning to precipitate

and fall to the bottom.

In a few hours, it'll form colorless crystals...

Which remain at the bottom of the liquid?

Which remain at the bottom of the liquid.

Inspector Japp, when, in the course of your investigations,

you searched the bedroom of the accused at Styles Court,

did you find anything?

I did.

Will you tell the court what you found?

In the chest of drawers in Mr. Cavendish's room,

underneath some clothing, I found a small poison bottle.

It was empty.

Will you introduce Exhibit D?

Is this the bottle?

Yes, sir.

Did you have the bottle examined?

I did.

It was examined by the laboratory at Scotland Yard

and was found to contain traces of strychnine.

Ah.

Where is he?

He telephoned earlier

to say he'd be back in London this evening.

He asked me to arrange for everyone to be here.

What did he mean?

I don't know.

Oh, it really is too bad of him.

Here he is now.

-No. -Oh, that's Inspector Japp.

Evening.

Where's Poirot?

We don't know. He ran off this afternoon.

Well, I got a phone message saying I should be here at 7:00.

You better go up, then.

Haven't had my tea yet, you know.

Oh. Good evening.

May I ask what's going on?

You may ask, madame.

If you get any reply, you might let me know.

Here he is.

What on earth is he doing?

He seems to be giving the driver a driving lesson.

Where on earth have you been, Poirot?

Good evening, Hastings.

Good evening, Mme. Cavendish.

We are assembled, yes?

Bon.

Please.

We are all assembled, yes?

With one exception.

Pardon, but I must ask you all to wait a few moments longer

for the arrival of M. Inglethorp.

If that man comes into the house, I leave it.

Oh, no, no, no, no, no, Mlle. Howard.

You must not do this.

Remember, mademoiselle, that this is for the sake

of your dear friend, the late Mme. Inglethorp.

Why have I been summoned?

-What's going on? -Wish I knew, old boy.

Ah, voil�, M. Inglethorp.

Asseyez-vous, monsieur.

Mesdames et messieurs, good evening.

As you all know, I was invited to investigate this case

by M. John Cavendish,

who, tonight, in his prison cell,

awaits the verdict of the jury.

I at once examined the bedroom of the deceased,

and I found several things indicative.

To take first, a fragment of dark green material.

I found it caught on the bolt of the communicating door

between that room and the room of Mlle. Cynthia.

Now, for a long time,

I did not recognize it for what it was, this material.

It was a piece torn from a green land armlet.

At Styles, there was only one person who worked on the land.

Mme. Cavendish.

Therefore, it had to be Mme. Cavendish

who entered the room by that door.

But that door was bolted on the inside.

When I examined the room, Hastings, yes.

But in the first place,

we only have the word of Mme. Cavendish

to say that the door was locked.

And in the confusion that followed,

there was ample time for her to bolt it again.

No, I am convinced

that Mme. Cavendish was actually in the room

when the deceased was taken ill.

Her reasons for entering the bedroom of Mme. Inglethorp

are to do with her terrible jealousy,

for she had learned of the existence of a letter.

But it was this letter

that she had confronted Mme. Inglethorp about

and which she believed would show the proof

of the infidelity of her husband with Mme. Raikes.

At that moment, she was quite literally mad with her jealousy.

Mad enough to creep into the bedroom of her mother-in-law

in order to retrieve that paper.

Alfred!

Am I not right, madame?

So it was you who destroyed the will!

No, no, no, no, no, M. Lawrence.

There was only one person

who could have possibly destroyed that will.

Mme. Inglethorp herself.

But she only made it out that very afternoon.

Nevertheless, mon ami.

The temperature that day was 80 degrees in the shade, hmm?

Oh, yes. It was very hot.

And yet Mme. Inglethorp ordered a fire

to be lighted in her room.

Why?

Because she wanted to burn something.

Pr�cis�ment, Inspector Japp.

Now...

At 4:00, Mme. Inglethorp quarrels with her son

and threatens to denounce him to his wife.

...large sums of money on her.

It's not a large sum of money! And, anyway, it's a loan.

No! My mind is made up!

And you need not think that any fear of scandal

between husband and wife will deter me!

It was this argument which Dorcas overheard,

but she mistook John Cavendish for M. Inglethorp.

At 4:30, she makes a new will

eliminating John Cavendish from his inheritance.

Now I must conjecture.

But I believe my conjecture to be correct.

She writes a letter to her lawyer, M. Wells,

asking him to call on her to finalize the new will.

She finds she has no stamps in her desk.

So she goes to the desk of her husband

to see if he has any stamps.

It is locked, so she opens it using her own key.

She discovers a paper --

that very paper that Mme. Cavendish

believed to be a written proof

of the infidelity of her husband, John,

but was in fact far more serious.

Is this really necessary?

All we need to know is who put the poison in my mother's coffee

and why the poison took so long to act!

Yes, that is very true, M. Lawrence,

but here we have the little problem, you see,

because Mme. Inglethorp, she did not drink the coffee.

What?

No.

The stain on the carpet was the coffee.

She must have spilled it before she could drink it.

But feeling in need of a hot drink,

she heated up her cocoa and drank that.

If the strychnine wasn't in the coffee,

and we know it wasn't in the cocoa, where was it?

Ah.

Now I will pose to you all the little question, eh?

What third medium was there readily to hand,

a medium so suitable for the disguising of the strychnine

that it is absolutely extraordinary

that no one has thought of it?

Hastings?

I've no idea.

No?

Inspector Japp?

Her medicine.

Somebody put strychnine in her tonic?

No, there was no need, Hastings. It was already there.

The strychnine that poisoned Mme. Inglethorp

was the same strychnine prescribed quite legitimately

by Dr. Wilkins.

The addition of bromide to a solution containing strychnine

precipitates all the strychnine

into colorless crystals

which fall to the bottom of the mixture.

It is likely that the last dose is fatal.

Someone added her sleeping powders to her tonic?

Yes, Inspector.

But the last link in the chain was a paper one, eh?

But it was not her will.

You see, our murderer wrote a letter.

And that letter excepted,

there was nothing to connect the murderer with the crime.

But Mme. Inglethorp found the letter,

locked it in her dispatch case, and took it to her room.

It became essential that that letter should be retrieved.

Without it, certain doom faced our murderer.

But I had already locked the briefcase of Mme. Inglethorp

on the morning of her death.

At the very moment of trying to retrieve the letter,

I was approaching the room with M. John Cavendish

and M. Wells, the lawyer.

Desperately, the murderer looks for somewhere to conceal it.

But there is no way in the room of destroying the letter.

In a moment, the letter is torn into three long strips...

...got the keys still...

...rolled into the spills,

and placed amongst the other spills on the mantelpiece.

The murderer then unbolts the door

to the room of Mme. Cynthia and gets away.

My mother kept some things in this.

And there, mes amis, they remained

until they were found... by Poirot.

Oh, yes.

The little gray cells have done well today.

Un...

...deux...

...trois.

"Tonight is the night.

There is a good time coming

once the old woman is dead and out of the way.

No one can possibly bring home the crime to me.

That idea of yours about the bromide was a stroke of genius.

We must..."

And here the writer breaks off.

It must warm your heart

to know that your lover thought so fondly of you

that he could not bear but to bring himself to write to you

at this so important moment...

Mlle. Howard.

Me?

Nothing to do with me.

Oh, but it is everything to do with you, mademoiselle.

Did I omit to read the greeting on this letter?

Forgive me.

"My dearest Evelyn."

You fool! You bloody fool!

Be quiet, Evie.

No, it is too late for silence, M. Inglethorp.

The handwriting on this letter shouts your guilt.

You are a heartless murderer.

How dare you?

How dare you make such an accusation?!

Oh, M. Inglethorp. You do disappoint me.

All right!

We love each other.

Take them away, Inspector Japp.

Did you think we were going to sit and wait

for the old bitch to die?

We deserve the money anyway.

And I'm not sorry.

I'm not the least little bit sorry.

Mr. Inglethorp?

Madame?

How horrible.

How horrible.

But why did he keep the letter?

Ah.

He never finished writing it, you see, mon ami.

Possibly Mme. Inglethorp returned early,

interrupted him, and, caught in the act,

he hastily shuts and locks his desk.

The rest we know.

Mme. Inglethorp finds the letter,

decides to say nothing about it to her husband,

but determines to destroy the will

she had just made in his favor.

Probably the next day she intends to make a will

in favor of her son John again, but...

...death intervened.

I can't tell you how awful it's been M. Poirot.

I've had the worst six weeks of my life.

I never for one moment believed you did it.

Inspector Japp and the whole of Scotland Yard

believed it, Hastings.

-Poor Mother. -It's all over now.

t's a good thing we have M. Poirot.

I really don't know how to thank you, M. Poirot.

-It was nothing, monsieur. -I thought I was done for.

You must learn to have faith in Poirot.

-M. Poirot. -Madame.

Come on, John.

I want to hear everything about it.

Do you know, Hastings,

I owe the final discovery of the spills entirely to you.

-Really? -Oh, yes.

Do you remember telling me that my hands shook

when I straightened the ornaments on the mantelpiece?

Oh, that's right. You jumped up and rushed off.

Exactement.

I remembered that when you and I were together

in the room of Mme. Inglethorp

that I already straightened the ornaments.

When?

Now, if they were already straightened,

there would be no reason

for me to have to straighten them again...

...that would have connected the murderer with the crime.

...unless someone in the meantime had touched them.

Good Lord.

You know, one thing I don't understand

is why Inglethorp seemed so keen to get himself arrested.

Because, mon ami, it is the law of your country

that once acquitted,

a man cannot be tried for the same offense again.

No, he wished to be tried.

He would then produce his irreproachable alibi

and be safe for the rest of his life.

So it was him who bought the strychnine

from the chemist's shop?

No, no, no, no, no, Hastings.

Have you not yet realized that it was Mlle. Howard

who went to the chemist's shop?

Miss Howard?

Mais oui.

Of course she was heavily disguised.

The clever devils.

It is good to see them reunited, is it not?

That silly entanglement with Mme. Raikes forgotten.

The things men and women do for love.

Ah, oui.

One thing you haven't explained

is the peculiar behavior of Lawrence Cavendish.

I'll never forget the way he looked

when we went into Mrs. Inglethorp's room.

That is because you thought

he was staring at the mantelpiece, yes, Hastings?

Whereas, in effect, he was staring at the door

to the room of Mlle. Cynthia...

right next to the mantelpiece.

He saw that that door, it was unbolted.

But he swore it was bolted.

Exactement. He was shielding her.

When M. Lawrence saw

that the door to the room of Mlle. Cynthia, it was unbolted,

he jumped to the conclusion

that she knew something about the murder.

But why? Why would he want to protect her?

Because he's in love with her, of course.

Well, now, that's just where I know you're wrong.

I happen to know for a fact that he positively dislikes her.

Indeed?

Then let me enlighten you, mon ami.

He succeeded in crushing the coffee cup beneath his feet

because, Hastings, he remembered that it was in fact

Mlle. Cynthia who took up the coffee for Mme. Inglethorp

on the previous night.

Now, from that moment, he quite uselessly and quite strenuously

upheld a theory of death by natural causes.

Well, I know you're wrong about this, Poirot --

Mr. Poirot! Lieutenant Hastings!

Oh!

Oh, you're both such dear men.

Well, we want to tell you something.

We?

You are both to be offered congratulations.

-Is that not so? -Congratulations?

Well, Cynthia and I are to be married.

Where are Mary and John?

Oh, uh, they're, um...

Come on.

Hastings.

What a wonderful girl.

I shall never understand women.

Ah. Console yourself, mon ami.

Perhaps one day, when this terrible war has ended,

we shall work again together, huh?

And Poirot will explain all to you.