All language subtitles for Agatha.Christies.Poirot.S13E05.720p.BluRay.x264-YELLOWBiRD

No, no!

Captain Hastings,
I presume!

Daisy Luttrell.
Delighted.

How do you do?

Poor Monsieur Poirot

has been so looking forward
to your coming.

He's quite beside himself!

How is he?

He'll be much the better
for seeing you.

Ah, Toby!
It's Captain Hastings.

How do you do?

I came by the 3:48.

We bought this place
in a fit of madness.

Guest house keepers
at our age.

Still, needs must
these days.

And at least one of us has
a good business head,

don't I, Toby?

Chop-chop. Take the captain
up to his room.

Unless, of course, you'd prefer
to see Monsieur Poirot first.

- Yes, I would.
- Drawing room, Toby.

And then see
to the cases.

Ah, Norton!

There's a pair

of n-nesting b-blackcaps
down by the sycamore.

This is...

Blasted builders!

Bill, this is
Captain Hastings.

- Hastings, yes.
- Sir William Boyd Carrington.

Excuse the tantrum.

Having my old place tarted up.
Knatton Hall, you know.

Lazy blighters need a good kick
up the backside.

So...
you're the famous Hastings.

Little Belgian chap, he never
stops talking about you.

And we've got our daughter
up here as well.

- Yes.
- Fine girl.

Pity Franklin has her slicing up
rats and rabbits all day.

Excuse me while I give 'em
another earful.

Tadminster 7211.

Poirot.
There's someone to see you.

Hastings?

Ah, Hastings,
my dear, dear Hastings!

Poirot, old chap!

Oh, mon ami,

mon ami.

But I forget myself.

This is the talented
Mademoiselle Cole.

Captain Hastings.

You have worn well, mon ami.

With a straight back
and the grey of the hair.

But the wound,
that is still fresh, eh?

No man could have wished
for better.

Still, she died as she would
have wanted.

No long, drawn-out suffering.

Bon.

And how are you?

Me? I'm a wreck.

No, a ruin!
I cannot walk.

I'm all crippled
and twisted.

I have to be attended to
like a baby.

But the core, Hastings,
that is still sound.

You have the best heart
in the world, Poirot.

Heart, no! But the brain,
as magnificent as ever.

Hastings, do stop, do!

It is not a wheelbarrow.

Sorry, old chap.

So, is it good to be back
after all these years?

The food,
it is disgusting.

Rationing,
I suppose.

No, it is
the English cooking.

And the water always so tepid
and the towels so thin.

They're of no use at all.

They why did you come?

Because when I see
the advertisement

in the newspaper and discover
your daughter,

she will be here...

I conceive of a plan.

I will persuade my old friend
Hastings to join us

and we shall all be together
en famille.

It is most agreeable,
n'est-ce pas?

You're up to something,
aren't you?

- Oui.
- I knew it!

Otherwise why come back to
the scene of our first murder?

Because, mon ami, I fear it will
soon be the scene of another.

Are you sure about this?

You think I have
the softening of the brain?

No, no, it seems so
unlikely... another murder,

all these years later,
under the same roof.

Eh bien,
that is how it is.

Can't you stop it?

How do you propose
that I do that?

You could warn the victim.

I do not know who is the victim.

You must know who the killer is.

No.

Well, then how on earth do you
know it's going to happen?

I cannot say.

Why not?

Because...

You are still the same
old Hastings.

You have the speaking
countenance, mon ami,

and I do not wish you to sit
staring at all the guests

with your mouth wide open and
give, as you say, the game away.

Poirot, that's a bit strong.
I do play poker, you know.

Yes, and always lose.

But this is not a game, mon ami,
make no mistake.

There is here work to be done

and that is why I ask you here.

Now the thinking you will leave
to me, but I need you,

my invaluable Hastings,
to be my eyes and my ears,

to go to places where
I cannot go,

to sniff out the snatched
conversation,

the shared confidence,
and report back to me.

For I tell you, mon ami, there
is here amongst us a murderer,

and that person must
be stopped.

Here is Curtiss, mon valet.

Your valet!
Where is George?

It was necessary for him to go
to Eastbourne

to care for his ailing father.

Well... I got here.

Very clever of you.

You remember my father?

Hello. I hear you work
my daughter

very hard, Dr. Franklin.

Nonsense.

I'm afraid I get so
awfully wrapped up in a thing.

How did you find Uncle Hercule?

Not well.
Not well at all.

I promised I'd read to Barbara.
I'd better...

As if she couldn't
read herself.

How is Mrs. Franklin?

The same and rather more so.

She just likes making a fuss.

That's rather harsh.

It's true. She takes no interest
in John's work,

goes on and on about her health.

Ah, there you are.

Thought Frankenstein had dragged
you off to his lab again.

This is my father.

- Allerton.
- Hastings.

Heard a lot about you.
Poirot's loyal lieutenant, eh?

I'm so glad you're here.

Uncle Hercule always manages
to bring you out of yourself.

He gets so sad.

Ah, well, you must

allow him that, mon cher.

But what's the use of
dwelling on the past?

We must all look forward.

You know, you've been
rather queer all evening.

I don't know what you mean.

Staring at everyone.
You're so transparent.

Maybe it's being back here
with its memories and ghosts.

There was a murder,
wasn't there?

Oui. The lady of the house,
she was poisoned.

She controlled, as you say,
the purse strings,

but her stepchildren felt they
had no life of their own.

That's so selfish.

Old people,

sick people shouldn't be allowed
to ruin the lives of others.

Judith!

Oh, I didn't mean...

Selfishness is not the monopoly
of the old, I can assure you,

mon cher.

It's just that I was
thinking of this case,

of a man who treated his
daughters appallingly.

But when the eldest
steeled herself to...

cut the knot, so to speak,
in order

that her sisters might go free,

she gave herself up
and was hanged.

Margaret Litchfield.

Yes. How did you know?

It is a case most famous.

Well, I think
she was very brave.

And Dr. Franklin,
what does he think?

He thinks it served
the old man right.

Some people just ask to be
murdered.

Murder is never
justified, Judith.

But when a situation is
so extreme.

And who has been putting
into your head these ideas?

Nobody.

Pernicious nonsense!

Actually,

I came over to give you
a message from Mrs. Franklin.

She's invited you to her room.

Excuse me.

I've never
understood that girl.

Oh,
she is her own woman,

and a good one too, Hastings.

But she's become so
cold-hearted.

I put it down to
the company she keeps:

that wretched Dr. Franklin.

And Allerton.
I don't like that man.

What you call the
"nasty bit of goods," eh?

But most attractive
to the ladies.

Isn't that always
the way?

I'm delighted you're here,
Captain Hastings.

Dear Monsieur Poirot
must be so pleased!

Sharp as a knife,
old Poirot,

even though he is falling
to bits.

And it will be so nice
for Judith;

the child has been
working far too hard.

She looks very well on it.

Oh, how I envy her.

III health has been the bane
of my life.

Pillows, Craven.

Yes, my husband's
a real slave driver.

Aren't you, John?

Hmm? What's that, Barbara?

She was just saying

how you work
poor Judith into the ground.

Judith, yes.

There was something
we had to... do. Excuse me.

Oh, I feel so inadequate.

I know I ought to take
more interest.

You shouldn't
worry yourself, Babs.

But I find it all
so nasty,

the guinea pigs and the rats
and everything.

It makes me feel quite sick.

I just want to think about
lovely, happy things.

Babs and I are
old playmates

even though she is
15 years younger.

Darling Bill.

Then when I
came back

from Burma to find her
a beautiful young lady...

My family used
to live

in this part of the world
and Bill would come to stay

with his uncle at Knatton Hall.

A mausoleum of a place.
Needs a woman's hand.

I don't mind
telling you

I completely lost my heart, but
she went and married Franklin.

The fellow doesn't
understand her.

He's only interested in
his test tubes, damned fool!

Fancy a rubber?

Hearts, you stupid man!

There's nothing for it;
we'll have to start again.

I don't know what's got into me.
I'm all at sixes-and-sevens.

We haven't cut yet!

Oh, I'm sorry, dear,
I'm so sorry.

Well, that was pretty
g-ghastly.

Shh!

It gets my back up to see him
b-bullied like that.

Keep it down.

But it's too b-bad,
it really is.

And what's worse, he just
t-takes it.

Couldn't assert
himself if he tried.

Oughtn't we to shut that?

Ah, I d-don't think
everybody's in yet.

Who's still out?

Your d-daughter, I think,
and Allerton.

Still about, old chap?

I couldn't sleep.

I was going to get some
pills from Poirot.

Oh.

I'll fix you up.

No need to wake him.

Do you normally stay up
this late?

I never go to bed when there's
sport abroad.

These moonlit evenings aren't
made to be wasted.

This is the real stuff.
It'll make you sleep like a log.

Slumberyl.
Is it dangerous?

It is if you take too much
of it.

It's one of
the barbiturates.

Don't you need a prescription?

Damned right, but I've got
a pull in that line.

An old friend of mine gave me
a few useful introductions.

Dead now, sadly.

Chap called Etherington.

Leonard Etherington?

That's the one.

Who'd have
thought she'd have it in her?

- Arsenic, wasn't it?
- Yes.

Knew him too, did you?

No, I read about it.

I see.

Funny chap, but good company...
in small doses.

Sleep well.

This is the Calabar bean.

Physostigma venosum.

I've been experimenting with

various alkaloids derived
from it.

You know, Poirot, this stuff's
more up your street than mine.

How is that, mon ami?

Well, you see, it's also called
"the ordeal bean,"

supposed
to prove innocence or guilt.

Don't you like rats, Father?

I certainly don't like Allerton.

So that's it!

And I suspect you don't either.

Why shouldn't I like him?

He's not your type.

And what is my type?

You have no idea, have you?

Well, as it happens I find him
most amusing.

Amusing, yes.

And very attractive.
Any woman would.

- Well, that's the trouble.
- Really, Father!

You were out with him
very late last night.

What has that to do with you?

This is most interesting.
I would find it a great help

if I could test so easily
the guilt or innocence.

Then you have to ask,

what is guilt or innocence?

Pretty obvious,
I'd say.

One would always feel guilt when
it comes to murder.

You think so?

There are lots of people I'd
like to kill

without my conscience being
too much troubled.

I do so hate making a fuss.

I sometimes think,

if one isn't healthy,

one should be quietly put away.

God no, Madame.

Look at me, all cramped
and twisted,

not able to move, yet I do not
think of quitting.

I enjoy still what I can.

But you have only yourself
to consider.

In my case there's
poor John.

I feel such a millstone round
his neck.

But I'm sure he's never
said such a thing.

These scientist chaps
can get

quite obs-sessive about
their work.

Absolutely.

Sometimes, Monsieur Poirot,

I think I can hear the poor
little creatures

screaming in the night.

P-perfectly horrid.

Stephen and I are as one
on this.

I can get so terribly depressed
that I think

what a relief it
would be to end it all.

Oh, come, Madame!

But what use am I
to anybody?

Ah, to step into
the Great Unknown...

and then John would be free.

I'll fetch your malted milk.

I will come with you.
Hastings!

Madame, Monsieur.

All right, old chap?

Yes, I need to rest.

I gather you were here
in the first war.

Yes, in 1916.
I came here to convalesce.

That's when I met Poirot.

Didn't an old lady get murdered?

I was once in a house where
there was a murder.

She was an old lady too,
one of my patients.

It was not by any chance

the case of Miss Sharples,
was it?

Yes, it was, actually.

Her niece Freda Clay was accused
of her poisoning,

but there was evidence
insufficient to prosecute.

How did you know?

Oh, my dear, it was my job
to know, Nurse Craven.

He doesn't miss a trick.

Blasted pigeons.

They do a lot of damage,
you know.

Toby's always been
a fine shot.

TOBY, CHUCKLING:
Oh, I used to be.

You know I often used to think
of evenings like this back home

in India, but nothing's ever
quite as you picture it.

I don't know why, but I've got
quite a thirst on.

Have a drink on the house!
What d'you say?

Splendid idea!

Have you done the tropics,
Norton?

No-no, uh, w-w... my hands were
t-tied with m-mother.

You all right, old chap?

Can't st-stand bl-blood.

You'd get used to it.

Nothing like bagging a few birds
and blasting the odd bunny.

Eh, Hastings?
Darned good fun.

What on earth do you
think you're doing, Toby?

I just thought I'd give
the fellows a snifter.

You'll do no such thing!
Give that bottle to me!

- But, Daisy...
- How do you think we'll

ever make this place pay if you
keep standing people drinks?

TOBY, IMPLORINGLY:
They're old friends, Daisy.

Locked up!

- I won't have it.
- You won't have it?

Who are you,
I'd like to know?

I'm, I'm awfully sorry,
you chaps.

We...

We seem to have run out
of whisky.

Do you know, I'm not that
thirsty anyway.

We'll soon be having dinner.

Oh, dinner, yes.

Don't worry,
Toby, old chap, we'll live.

Right!

Stretch the old pins
before mess call.

S-splendid chap, isn't he?
- Yes.

Whatever he turns his hand to,
always makes a s-success of it.

Some chaps have all the luck.

All he needs now
is a wife.

So long as she doesn't
b-bully him.

He won't get bullied.
He wouldn't let himself.

There's a damned rabbit!

Is there?

Nibbling the bark!

I thought I'd
wired the place.

My God!

Get Franklin!

It's all right, Mrs. Luttrell.

It's all right.

That's it.
It's fine.

Franklin's seeing
Daisy, she's going to be fine.

Do you think he did it
on purpose?

Well, I did

until I saw them together,
but now I'm not so sure.

Poor old Luttrell.

I mean Daisy's a good sort,
I suppose,

but a chap can only take
so much.

After the bridge, Norton
actually said as much...

I'm sure Luttrell heard
every word.

The killer is here!
I know it!

- But how do you know?
- I know!

Whether Luttrell shot
his wife by accident

or whether he meant to,

it is impossible to prove.

Oh, you'll prove it,
all right.

You always do.

If only life were that simple.

Poirot always gets his man.

Perhaps this time he does not
wish to!

You've lost me there,
old chap.

Unless, of course...

Someone was hiding
in the bushes,

and at the exact moment the
Colonel fired, they fired, too.

Who might be this mystery killer
in the bushes, Hastings?

I wouldn't put it past that
drug-addled Lothario Allerton.

Drug-addled?

He was a chum

of Leonard Etherington, that
addict poisoned by his wife.

- And how do you know this?
- He told me.

And you did not think to tell it
to me?

- Well...
- The trouble with you, Hastings,

is that you are lazy mentally.

I say, Poirot, I know I'm not much of
a fellow, but no need to rub it in.

You do not like to work
with this.

Perhaps we should get someone
else on board.

- Boyd Carrington, for instance.
- Certainly not.

- He's cleverer than me.
- That would not be difficult.

But Boyd Carrington...

Is a pompous bore whose memory
is so bad

that he tells back to you the
story that you have told to him!

Now I forbid you

to speak of this matter to
anyone, do you understand?

- Yes.
- It is up to you

to follow people where
I cannot go,

to talk to them,
to listen to them,

to spy on them,
watch through keyholes.

I will not look
through keyholes.

Oh, very well, you will not look
through keyholes.

You will remain the English
gentleman

and someone will be killed.

Dash it all, Poirot.

You can be quite obstinate
at times,

do you know that, Hastings?

I also wish there was someone
else I could trust,

but I suppose I will have to put
up with you,

and since you cannot use your
little grey cells

because you do not possess them,
at any rate use your eyes,

your ears and your nose,
if need be...

but only, of course, as far

as the dictates of honor
will allow.

Now go away.

I am very tired.

At it again, are you...

at your deadly exercise?

I knew you would be.

For my sins, I knew you would.

But while I have breath
in my body, I will...

Ohh!

I will damn you to hell...

whatever the cost!

He doesn't look
too happy.

He isn't.

He was offered the chance to go
to Africa, you know,

to continue his research,
but his wife protested.

He probably felt he couldn't
leave her.

Do you know much
about her, Captain?

Only that she's an invalid.

She certainly enjoys ill health.

So you don't think there's
very much the matter?

She always seems

to be able to
do anything she wants.

You know the Franklins well,
do you?

Uh, no.

What I've told you,
I learnt from your daughter.

She's up in arms on his behalf.

What do you think of Mr. Norton?

Why do you ask?

You seem to get on well.

We have a good deal in common,

and he's awfully kind,
if a little ineffectual.

He's a gentle soul.

He lived with his mother
for many years...

she was very bossy...

and I don't think he had a good
time at school either.

He's very perceptive,
you know.

Quiet people often are.

Yes.

That's
the depressing thing

about places like this:

it's full of failures.

I suppose it's having endured
another war.

We've all had the stuffing
knocked out of us.

Did you see much action,
Captain Hastings?

Oh, not allowed to
this time round.

Gammy leg...

and, let's face it,
I'm pushing it a bit.

But your life's just beginning.
Anything might happen.

If you mean marriage,

I could never think of it,
not with my history.

What do you mean?

You have no idea who I am,
have you?

I know your name.

It isn't Cole.
It's Litchfield.

- Matthew Litchfield.
- Yes, he was my father.

A wicked man,
Captain Hastings.

He was our jailer until
my sister Margaret...

Yes, I know.
It was in all the papers.

But you don't.

It's inconceivable
she'd murder him.

I know she gave herself up,
but...

I've always felt it wasn't true.

It wasn't Margaret.

It can't have been.

Good morning,
gentlemen.

Good morning,
Mrs. Franklin.

You sound very happy today,
Madame.

I am, I am, Monsieur Poirot.
I'm going on a little outing

with Sir William to Knatton Hall
to advise him on his cretonnes.

Silly me left my handbag in
the studio yesterday

when I was talking to John.

Head like a sieve.

Where is Dr. Franklin?

He and Judith have driven into
Tadminster

for some chemical or other.

I'm so glad I don't have
a scientific mind.

On a day like this it all
seems so puerile.

Do not let the scientists

hear you say that, Madame.

Oh. Oh, you mustn't
think I don't

admire my husband, Monsieur.

The way he lives for his work is
really tremendous,

but it makes me nervous the
lengths to which he might go.

What exactly do you mean,
Madame?

Well, this horrible
Calabar bean thing.

I'm so afraid he's going to
start experimenting on himself.

You see, he can only learn
so much from animals.

He'd take every precaution,
surely.

You don't know John...

absolutely oblivious
of his own safety.

He really is a sort of saint.

You ready, Babs?

Oh. Mustn't keep
the baronet waiting.

Dr. Franklin, the modern saint.

She's a feather
for every wind.

You think she is a fool,
do you not, Hastings?

Well, she's not
the most brilliant intellect.

First her handbag,
now her gloves.

I don't know how that
girl puts up with it.

I...

c-can't help noticing,
Captain,

that you're looking
a little uneasy.

Am I?

And I have to say,
well, I'd f-feel the same way.

Things change all the time,
don't they?

G-girls are more
independent now.

I suppose the w-war had a lot
to do with that.

What are you trying to say,
Norton?

Well, don't let it go further,
but...

when it comes to young w-women,
Allerton has

rather a special t-technique
in that line.

I happen to know something

pretty f-foul about him,
actually.

And what would that be?

Not long ago I heard of a girl
just like Judith...

modern, independent...

falling prey
to the Major's charms.

Once he'd got her
in his clutches,

just when she was at her most
v-vulnerable,

he abandoned her,

leaving her d-desperate.

So d-devastated was she,

she took her own life:

an overdose of V-Veronal.

Poor old woman.
Devilish pain.

Overdose of morphia
finished her off

and her niece, Freda, said it
was a slip-up.

The police had other ideas

but didn't have
enough evidence to prosecute.

You knew her, did you,
Freda Clay?

Yes.

It is just that I have heard
this story before.

So have I, from someone who was
there, actually.

Ah, have you?

It was in all the papers.

Get a bit, um,

fuddled in the
old brain-box sometimes.

Oh, Bill, can't you find
something jollier to talk about?

I'm sure Monsieur Poirot is
fed up to the back teeth

with people killing and dying
and who did what and why.

She certainly keeps us
on our toes, eh, Franklin?

Just the ticket.

They do say, don't they, that
men tend to marry their mothers.

I'm not quite sure
about that.

Better ask Norton.
He's the expert.

A full complement!
What a treat, isn't it, Toby?

Yes, my sweet.

Our little dinners are
not the same without you,

- Monsieur Poirot.
- No, they're not.

I don't like the thought
of your eating alone.

I myself do not like to miss
anything, mon cher.

Never a m-moment's rest
in your line of work.

No, no, Monsieur Norton, there
is always so much more to do.

But the clock, it ticks.

Such is the will of God.

We'll all miss you,
old chap,

but you won't be forgotten.

Mm...

A damned good claret.

But my point is...

- Now, Bill!
- You can see where

Freda was coming from, putting
someone out of their misery.

Don't you think it should only
be done

with the p-patient's consent?

It can't be left to the patient.

It's the duty of someone
who loves them

to take responsibility.

And end up being charged
with murder?

If you love someone,
you'd take that risk.

Would you?

Yes, I would.

Well, I certainly
wouldn't,

and neither would Toby,
would you, dear?

Sip of water.
That'll shift it.

You can't have people taking
the law into their own hands.

- I quite agree.
- What about you, Franklin?

What?

Euthanasia. You must have
an opinion: you're a doctor.

Hmm, sorry, my mind was
elsewhere.

Most people wouldn't
have the n-nerve.

I don't believe y-you would
if it came to it.

Don't you?

Unless, of course, you had
an axe to grind.

You don't understand, do you?

Of course I couldn't if
the motive was personal.

Even if it weren't, I'm not sure
you would actually

p-pull the trigger, so to speak.

Can't we talk about
something else?

I quite agree.
It's all far too grim.

I don't hold life as sacred
as you people do.

Unfit lives, useless lives...

they should be got out
of the way.

Judith!

Well, they should!
There's so much mess about.

She might have a point.

It's really a question
of c-courage.

Does one have the g-guts,
to put it vulgarly?

And you see, Miss Hastings,

I don't believe you have.

Oh, Judith's got guts,
all right.

More than you think, Mr. Norton.

Excuse me.

Judith!

I do understand, you know.

Your mother was so much better
at this than I am,

but I do understand.

I'm not so sure that you do.

He isn't worth it.
Believe me, he isn't.

I know you care about him,
but it's no good.

Perhaps I know that as well
as you.

It has no future.

He'll break your heart and I
can't bear to see that happen.

He's worth everything
in the world to me.

And I don't want you ever to
speak of him again,

because if you do,
I will hate you even more.

Do you understand that?

Well, I never!

A s-speckled woodpecker.

Such a I-lovely bird!

Oh.

What is it?

F-flown away.

Let me see.

I th-think I might have made
a mistake.

It's gone, Captain Hastings.

What's wrong?

The bird's gone.

Hello, you chaps!

Hello, Sir William.

We've had a perfectly
marvelous morning.

I haven't been able to do a good
shop for simply ages.

Oh, Bill, could you take
that up?

It's very fragile.

Um...

I can bring the rest.

Thanks awfully.

Is anything the matter,
Stephen?

No.

You look as if you've seen
a ghost.

No, no, - no, n-no ghosts.

Jus-just thinking...

Monsieur Poirot.

What is it?

Is anything the matter?

The matter, Monsieur?
What should be the matter?

Do you know, I'm suddenly
terribly tired?

If you could bring those up...

Thank you so much.

Oh, Babs!

Well, I must say, Nurse is very
good at the old palm-reading.

Take these, Craven, and fix me
an egg-flip.

I'm exhausted.

Can I do anything, Babs?

Yes, Bill, you can go away.
I'm dead on my feet.

Has it all been too much
for you?

I don't want to mention it.
I do so hate being tiresome.

I reckon we're in for a storm
tonight, eh, Hastings?

Yes, probably right.

Excuse me.

Care to take a stroll around
the garden.

Not now, Norton.

But, Captain...

Allerton!

- You can't.
- Let go of me!

There's n-nothing
you can do.

The expert parent, eh?

This won't get you anywhere.

That's settled then.

Go up to town tomorrow

and I'll say I'm off to Ipswich
for a night or two.

Wire from London that you can't
make it back

and then we'll have a charming
little dinner at my flat.

You won't
regret it, I promise.

Please, Hastings!

What you need
is a I-large scotch.

The prodigal returns!

Awfully sorry,
old boy,

but I've got a blinder
of a headache.

- Must be the thunder in the air.
- No, no, no, Hastings.

It is because you sit around
in the drafts.

Is it?

Most assuredly.

The drafts will be the death
of us all.

But I have just the thing.

Your hot chocolate.

It nourishes the nerves.

You comprehend?

Drink, drink.

Do you not already
feel much improved?

Drink it all, cher ami,
every last drop.

My God, Poirot,
what was I thinking of?

What indeed!

Why did you not
tell it to me last night?

I was afraid you'd stop me.

Most assuredly I would.

Do you think I wish to see you
hanged all on account of

a scoundrel so unpleasant
called Allerton?

They wouldn't have caught me.

I'd wiped my fingerprints
off the bottle.

Yes, and also those of
Allerton's.

And then when he is found dead,

they establish he
died of an overdose,

and whether by accident or
by design, he would have had

no reason to wipe off
his own fingerprints.

Arrgh!

And then...

they find the aspirin.

Well, everyone
has aspirin.

Not mixed with
their sleeping pills.

And not everyone has
a daughter whom Allerton

is pursuing with the intentions
so dishonorable.

You see it would not have looked
too good for you, Hastings.

And then it is possible
that someone may have seen you.

Oh, I can assure you,
they didn't.

But someone might have been
peeping through the keyhole.

People do not spend their time
peeping through keyholes.

It's simply not done.

Anyway, it didn't come off
and thank heavens for that.

But there's still the problem
of my Judith

and that wretched Allerton.

She's gone up to London with him
today... to his flat!

Straight into the lion's den.

Hastings, you are not clever
enough to deal with those two.

I would advise you to trust her.

Oh, Judith!

The poison works...
and must be stopped!

God help us.

God help me.

Are the Luttrells
joining us?

They're s-setting up the cards.

Miss Hastings, you look
s-splendid this evening.

Like your namesake might have
appeared before

c-cutting off the head
of Holofernes.

That's a bit grim, old boy.

Oh, no, she did it

for strictly moral reasons,
to s-save others.

""Jealousy is
a green-eyed monster,""

this person said."

Shakespeare.

Oh, now was that
Othello or Emilia?

Iago.

- Look! A shooting star!
- Where?

And another one!

Oh, you must come and see,
Uncle Hercule.

No, no, no, merci.

I insist.

You're supposed to make a wish,
Captain.

Babs, come on over,
why don't you?

Oh, I'm too tired.

Nonsense.

It's too good to miss.

BARBARA, GIGGLING:
Put me down!

What are you doing?

I was just seeing if
there was a copy of...

I remember mother telling me how
you once carried her out

onto a balcony to look
at the stars.

Ah, here we are.

Life's quite hard at times,
isn't it?

Othello.

Now, where is it?

"O beware, my lord, of jealousy.

It is a green eyed monster."

You were right, Poirot.
It was Iago.

But of course.

Did I miss anything?

I do not know, Hastings.
Did you?

Oh, but you did,
Captain Hastings.

I've never seen so many
shooting stars.

- Where's Craven?
- Not sure.

- I need my drops.
- Where are they?

In the bathroom cabinet.

Oh, thank you, dear.

Think I'll take a stroll.

You seem pleased with yourself,
Doctor.

I am.

Oh, there you are!
Open my drops, would you?

It is established that
Barbara Franklin died

as a result of poisoning
by physostigmine sulphate

and other alkaloids
of the Calabar bean.

Monsieur Poirot,
could you tell the court

how Mrs. Franklin seemed to you
in the hours before her death?

On the day before her death,

I had a conversation
with Madame Franklin.

She appeared very depressed...

and several times
expressed the desire to be,

how do you say...

"out of it all."

Her health and fits of
melancholy

made her life seem not to be
worth living.

On the morning of October 10th,

you were sitting outside
the laboratory?

Oui.

Did you see Mrs. Franklin
come out of the laboratory?

Yes, I did.

And did she have
anything

in her hand, Monsieur Poirot?

She had a small bottle clasped
in her right hand.

You are quite sure
of that?

Yes, quite sure.

Did you not see it also?

The question is,
did you?

You think I would lie?

That would be perjury.

No, I was not on oath.

So it was a lie?

You yourself heard her speak
of suicide.

But she was a woman of many
moods;

you didn't clarify that.

Perhaps I did not wish to.

You mean you wanted the verdict
to be suicide?

You think she was murdered,
don't you?

She was.

But this verdict stops all
further inquiry.

What are you
playing at, Poirot?

This is not a game, mon ami,
I assure you.

No, no.

I must say, old man, you really
should see a doctor.

Doctors, doctors!

You are looking pretty ropey.

They have done all they
can for me.

I do wish you would.

Very well, very well.

I will see Dr. Franklin.

Franklin?

Hastings, just do as
I tell you for once!

How is he?

He's for it, I'm afraid.

Does he know?

Oh, yes.

I gather he's worried about
getting something finished.

- That's right.
- Then I hope he does.

Isn't there any treatment?

Nothing doing.

Just his ampoules
of amyl nitrite

when he feels angina coming on.

A remarkable man.

He has a great respect
for human life, hasn't he?

Yes, absolutely.

Unlike me.

Since death comes anyway,
what's it matter?

- Oh, well, ten days and I'm off.
- Where to?

Africa.
The job's still open.

Isn't that rather soon?

What's to stop me?

It's no good pretending that
Barbara's death

wasn't the greatest relief.

It doesn't worry you that
she's just committed suicide?

But I don't really believe
she did.

Then what do you think happened?

I don't know...
and I don't want to know.

Understand?

Norton, what's the matter?

Well...

when a thing's r-right
or wrong,

it should be awfully s-simple
to say so, shouldn't it?

Do you see what I mean?

No.

What I'm t-trying to say is...

say, for example,
you happened to...

open a letter that wasn't
y-yours...

by mistake, of course...
or s-saw something

through a k-keyhole, say?

- A keyhole?
- Yes.

Why on earth would you be
looking through a keyhole?

The key might have got s-stuck?

Norton, stop beating about
the bush:

did you see something
through a keyhole?

No.

But you did see something

through those glasses of yours,
didn't you?

That day we went out
rambling with Miss Cole,

there was something you didn't
want me to see, wasn't there?

Yes... w-well, n-no.

What was it?

I d-don't know if I ought
to say.

I didn't m-mean to see it.

There really was a s-speckled
woodpecker... lovely fellow...

and then I saw the other thing.

Is it something to do
with Mrs. Franklin's death?

Oh, damn it all.

I don't know what to d-do!

He saw something that he will
not tell to you?

That's right.

Has he told anyone else?

I don't think so.

Ask him to come up and see me
after dinner,

just a friendly little visit...

And be careful, Hastings.

Be very careful.

I'm moving back
to the old pile tomorrow.

Don't mind telling you...
I'll be glad

to be shut of this place,
it gives me the creeps.

Poor Babs, for instance.

If she killed herself,
I'm a monkey's uncle.

Know what I think?

It was that husband of hers.

You don't mean that.

And I'm not the only one.

Had the tip from someone who
ought to know.

Talk of the devil.

I thought she'd left
after the funeral.

She's back for the night,
between engagements.

Monsieur Poirot?

Poirot?

POIROT, WEAKLY:
Entrez.

How are you, old chap?

Not dead yet.

Did you have a good chat
with Norton?

Oui.

And he told you what he saw?

Oui.

Well... what was it?

You might misunderstand.

Of course I won't.

He tells to me that he saw
two people.

Judith and Allerton!
I knew it!

You see?

No, not Judith and Allerton!

You have lard for a brain.

That's a bit harsh.

Drink.

No, thanks.

For me!

Oh, sorry.

Now, if anything
should happen...

Nothing will happen
to you, Poirot.

You will find in here
all the clues you need.

With this.

What kind of clues?

Indications that will lead you
to the truth.

Why do you make things
so difficult?

I'm completely in the dark
as it is!

Rest assured, mon ami,
when you see the light,

you may wish you had not.

And now I need to think.

But, Poirot...

Go down to breakfast, mon ami.

The case, it is ended.

Is it?

Only loose ends to be tied.

You're late up this morning.

I didn't get much sleep.
Have you seen Norton?

He wasn't at breakfast.

He locked the door.
I heard him.

He shot himself?

Well, that's what
they're saying.

The door was locked, the key was
in his pocket,

the gun was in his hand...
I suppose he must have done.

It is like a conjuring trick,
n'est-ce pas?

Hastings, sometimes you are like
a little child,

so innocent, so trusting.

Poirot, you're looking
pretty awful.

Don't you think I should call
a doctor?

What good would that do?

What will be will be.

I have always
tried to do my best, you know.

You do believe that, Hastings?

How could I not?

Do you think God
will forgive me?

Of course he'll forgive you.

You're a good man, the best
a fellow could know.

My heart bleeds for you...

my poor, lonely Hastings.

Poirot...

Go now, cher ami.
Let me rest.

It was not suicide.

It was murder.

Ah...

Cher ami.

Forgive me...

Forgive...

Captain Hastings?

It was bound to happen.

That doesn't make it any easier.

No.

No, of course it doesn't.

Natural causes.
I wonder.

You're not suggesting foul play,
I hope?

It doesn't seem very likely,
does it?

Father, he had a heart attack.

All the same...

Anything could have
triggered it...

or perhaps nothing.

Perhaps his time had come.

And it surely wasn't suicide,
like poor Mr. Norton.

Bad investments, so they say.

The coroner did think it strange
that he would shoot himself

in the center of his forehead.

What a suspicious soul you are!

All those years with Poirot,
I expect.

He was my dearest friend,
you know.

He was always there,
keeping an eye on me,

ticking me off...

like a father, really.

I'm not quite sure how
I'll cope without him...

Father, I have something
to tell you.

Oh, dear.

I don't like the sound of that.

I haven't told you before,
what with one thing and another,

but the fact is,
I'm going to Africa.

Africa?

- Yes, with Dr. Franklin.
- You can't do that!

What would people say?

I don't care what people say.
The fact is, I'm going.

It's one thing to be his
assistant here

with his wife alive,

but shooting off to Africa
with him now she's dead!

I'm not going as his assistant;
I'm going as his wife.

But... what about Allerton?

There was never anything
in that.

I'd have told you if you
hadn't made me so angry.

But I saw him kiss you.

These things happen.

You can't marry Franklin...
not yet! It's so soon.

I can and I will.

- But, Judith...
- We've nothing to wait for now.

When you see the light,
you may wish you had not.

I believe Monsieur Poirot
left you some sort of message.

- Message, sir?
- Yes, for me.

No, sir, not that I'm aware of.

Are you quite sure?

Yes, sir, I'd remember that.

Well...

My mistake, I suppose.

How is your father?

My father?
He's very well, thank you, sir.

He's better, then?

Better than what, sir?

But that's why you had to leave
Monsieur Poirot, wasn't it,

to look after him?

I didn't want to leave, sir.
Monsieur Poirot sent me away.

Why would he do that?

I can only suggest that he
discharged me

because he wanted to engage
Curtiss.

But why?

I really couldn't say, sir.

Not the brightest specimen,

although he was strong,
of course.

But I'd hardly have thought
he was quite the class

Monsieur Poirot
would have liked.

He'd been an assistant
in a mental home.

A mental home?

It wouldn't surprise me if he'd
started off there as a patient.

I have instructed
my lawyers

to deliver this manuscript
to you

four months after my death,

by which time you will no doubt

have evolved the most
preposterous theories.

But really, mon ami, you should
by now have been able

to work out who killed Norton.

As to who killed
Barbara Franklin,

that may come as more
of a shock.

When you asked if I knew
who was the killer,

I did not quite tell
to you the truth.

I knew, but had to make sure.

You see, I had never met
this person before

and had never seen this person
in action.

It did not take me long.

At last, at the end
of my career,

I had come across the perfect
criminal...

well, nearly perfect.

A pair of n-nesting b-blackcaps
down by the sycamore.

No one gets the better of
Hercule Poirot.

Not even Stephen Norton.

Well, I'll be...

Oh, yes, Norton was our man.

He had been a sickly boy
with a domineering mother,

he had had
a hard time at school

and disliked blood
and violence,

a trait most un-English.

But he had a sympathetic
character

and soon discovered how easy
it was to make use of it.

By understanding people,

he could penetrate
their innermost thoughts.

He's very perceptive, you know:

quiet people often are.

And then make them do things
they did not want to,

compensation for a lifetime
of derision.

This sense of power gradually
developed into a morbid taste

for violence at secondhand,

which soon turned into
an obsession.

Our gentle Norton was, in fact,
a sadist

addicted to
pain and mental torture.

Remember the remarks he made

that first evening you
played bridge?

It gets my back up to see him
b-bullied like that.

Keep it down.

Norton meant him to hear.

Couldn't assert himself
if he tried.

Sometimes successful,
sometimes not...

It was a drug he constantly
craved.

No motive, no evidence,
no proof.

Simply evil for the sake of it,

a criminal who could never be
convicted of his crimes.

You will have realized by now
that Franklin

was in love with Judith
and she with him.

But with Madame Franklin alive,

life was very difficult
for Judith, and Norton knew

exactly
how the wind lay.

He played most cleverly on
the theme of useless lives.

I don't hold life as sacred as
you people do.

Unfit lives, useless lives...

they should be got
out of the way.

And gently ridiculed the idea
that she would ever

have the nerve to take
decisive action.

Does one have the g-guts,
to put it vulgarly?

And you see, Miss Hastings,
I d-don't believe you have.

But with a murder addict,
one iron in the fire,

it is not enough.

He sees opportunities for
pleasure everywhere

and found one in you, mon ami.

He discovered
every weak spot to exacerbate

your profound dislike
of Major Allerton.

When it comes
to young w-women,

Allerton has rather a special
t-technique in that line.

Then you saw Allerton
and Judith kiss.

You can't!

Norton hauled you away so that
you did not

see what followed.

You went to the glass house

and thought you heard Allerton
talking to Judith.

Wire from London that you can't
make it back

and then we'll have a charming
little dinner at my flat.

Yet you did not see her or even
hear her speak...

Norton made sure of that,
for if you had,

you'd have discovered there had
never been any question

of Judith going to London
that day.

It was Nurse Craven with whom
he was having the affair,

but you fell headlong
into the trap of Norton

and made up your mind to
murder.

I heard you come up
that evening

and was already exercised
about your state of mind.

So when I heard you in
the corridor...

and go into the bathroom
of Allerton,

I slipped out of my room.

Slipped out of your room?
But...

"How?"
I hear you say.

You see, Hastings,
I was not helpless at all.

What?!

Why do you think I sent
George away?

Because I could not have fooled
him into believing

that I had suddenly lost
the use of my limbs.

I heard you in the bathroom
of Allerton

and promptly, in the
manner you so much deplore,

dropped to my knees.

I realized what you were
up to,

made my preparations,
and sent Curtiss to fetch you.

I'm awfully sorry, old boy,
got a blinder of a headache.

So I gave to you
the hot chocolate.

It nourishes the nerves,
you comprehend?

Drink, drink.

But I also, mon ami,
have sleeping pills.

No, no, no, every last drop.

When you awoke
the next morning,

you were your own self again,

horrified at what you had
nearly done.

But it decided me, Hastings.

You are not a murderer,

but might have been hanged
for one.

I knew that I must act and
could put it off no longer,

but before I was able to,
Barbara Franklin died,

and I do not think that you
have once suspected the truth.

For you see, Hastings,
you killed her.

I killed her?!

Oui, mon ami, you did.

There was, you see,
yet another angle

to the triangle,

one that I had not fully
taken into account.

Did it ever enter your mind why

Madame Franklin was willing
to come to Styles?

She enjoys the good life,

yet insisted on staying in
a guest house,

and I have no doubt
that Norton knew why.

Hello, you chaps!

Boyd Carrington.

Madame Franklin was
a disappointed woman.

She had expected Dr. Franklin
to have a brilliant career...

There was something we had
to... do... excuse me.

...not shut himself away in
esoteric research,

and here is
Boyd Carrington,

rich and aristocratic,

who had nearly asked to marry
her when she was a girl,

still paying court.

So the only way was for
her husband to die

and Norton had found her
only too ready a tool.

These scientist chaps
can get

quite obsessive
about their work.

It was so obvious...

her protestations
of admiration,

then her fears for her husband.

But it makes me nervous the
lengths to which he might go.

What exactly do you mean,
Madame?

Well, this horrible
Calabar bean thing...

I'm so afraid he's going to
start experimenting on himself.

But when she saw Nurse Craven
reading the palm

of Boyd Carrington,
she had a fright.

She knew he would be
susceptible to the charms

of an attractive woman
and perhaps Nurse Craven

might end up
as Lady Boyd Carrington

instead of her.

So she decided to act quickly.

She invites us all up to her
room for coffee.

Her cup is beside her
and that of her husband's

is on the other side.

Look, a shooting star!

Then everyone goes to watch
the shooting stars except you,

mon ami,
left with your crossword

and your memories.

What are you doing?

You hide your emotion by
swinging round the bookcase

as if looking for a book.

And so when we all return,
Madame Franklin

drinks the poisoned coffee
meant for her husband,

and he drinks the coffee
meant for her.

I realized what must have
happened,

that she had poisoned
the coffee

and you had unwittingly
turned the table,

but you see, Hastings,
I could not prove it.

If the death of Madame Franklin

was thought to be
anything but suicide,

suspicion would inevitably fall
on either Franklin or Judith.

That is why I was so insistent
that Madame Franklin

had killed herself,
and I knew

that my statement would be
accepted because

I am Hercule Poirot.

You were not pleased,
but mercifully

you did not suspect
the true danger.

Will it come into your mind
after I am gone

like some dark serpent that now
and then raises its head

and says, "Suppose,
just suppose,

it was my Judith?"

And therefore you must know
the truth.

There was one person

Norton.

He was deprived, you see,
of his pound of flesh.

Madame Franklin had died, yes.
But not how he desired.

The murder he had arranged
had gone awry, so what to do?

Norton, what's the matter?

He began to throw out hints
about what he saw that day

with you and Mademoiselle Cole.

What is it?

He had never said anything
definite,

so if he could convey
the impression

that it was
Franklin and Judith he saw,

not Allerton and Judith,
then that could open up

an interesting new angle
on the suicide case,

perhaps even throw doubts
on the verdict.

And I realized that what
I had planned all along

had to be done at once,

the moment I had dreaded...

the most difficult
decision of my life.

That is why I invited Norton to
my room that night

and told him all that I knew.

Madame Constance Etherington

tried for the poisoning of
her husband,

a man who is very sadistic,
addicted to drugs,

and with whom you were on terms
most intimate.

Norah Sharples poisoned
by her niece Freda Clay.

I hope you're not s-suggesting

I was on intimate terms
with her.

You and Mademoiselle Clay taking
a walk together.

You see I do my homework,
Mr. Norton.

And Matthew Litchfield.

Now you visited him,
did you not,

on the night he was killed by
his daughter Margaret.

What is your p-point,
Monsieur Poirot?

My point is this,
Monsieur Norton.

That in none of these murders
was there any real doubt...

there was one clear suspect
and no other...

but you, Monsieur Norton...

are the one factor malevolent
common to all.

Oh, d-dear, Monsieur Poirot,

is that the b-best your
I-little grey cells

can come up with?

Your proximity to three murders
was too much of a coincidence

and I smelt, as you say,
the rat.

That is why I came to Styles,

to observe you function, and you
have not disappointed, Monsieur.

No! You are a man who
is very clever,

but not clever enough for...

Hercule Poirot.

So what are you going
to d-do about it?

Execute you.

Execute me!

Oui.

Then d-do get on with it.

I p-promised myself
an early night.

Justice is no joking matter,
Monsieur.

I do what I can to
serve it, but if I fail,

there is a justice that is
higher, believe me.

You p-pathetic, self-important
little man.

Murder me?

There's a mortal sin
if ever there was.

And then what?

Suicide to escape the ignominy
of hanging?

Ah!

Your G-God will give you a hell
of a time.

All those years of piety up
in smoke because of me.

Uh-uh, Monsieur,
you c-can't go yet.

You don't think I'd let you
d-die on me,

d-d-deprive me of
my ultimate t-triumph?

Please... please...

You see, if you
d-don't succeed,

I am a free man,
and even if you d-do,

it will be a victory of sorts,

because in the eyes of
the law, I would be innocent,

whereas you and your reputation,

your p-precious reputation -
b-blown to bits.

Je vous en prie...

NORTON, MIMICKING:
Je vous en prie!

"Went off his rocker.

You can never trust
a foreigner."

See how g-good I am to you,
old man?

There you go.

Take your t-time,

and see how it all p-pans out,
shall we?

I pity you, Norton.

How very sad to find that
this great and beautiful world

is so foul and disappointing.

And your mother
I pity even more.

My m-mother?

You pity my mother?

To endure the agony of bringing
you forth only to discover

that she had nurtured
in her loins such wickedness...

is that not
worthy of pity?

It is you who is not worthy.

She m-m-meant the w-world to me.

And you to her?

She I-loved me... I-loved me
more than... m-m-more than...

Did she ever hold you, Norton,

as mothers do,

stroke your hair...
kiss your cheek?

She... She... She...

Scared you, did she not?

She pushed you away,
starved you

of what we all desire,

because she knew everything
about you.

My m-mother knew nothing!

Oh, Monsieur Norton,
mothers know.

They always know.

Shots in the dark, Poirot.

Shots in the dark.

Bon.

Chocolate?

Would you mind awfully
if I d-drank yours instead?

Not at all.

It was quite immaterial.

I take the sleeping tablets
and have acquired

a certain tolerance.

The dose that would send Norton
to sleep

would have little effect on me.

With the greatest difficulty,
I put him in my wheelchair,

then, when the coast was clear,
I wheeled him to his room.

You will not have realized,
Hastings,

that recently I have taken
to wearing a false moustache.

Even George does not
know that.

I put on the dressing gown of
Norton...

tapped on your door...

then went into
his bathroom.

Presently I heard you open
your door.

I left the bathroom
and returned

to the room of Norton,

locking the door behind me.

I put the dressing gown
on Norton

and lay him on his bed.

I had a pistol
which on two occasions

I had placed
ostentatiously

on the dressing table of Norton
when he was out so the maid

would have seen it.

I put the key into the pocket
of his dressing gown

and locked the door from
the outside

with a
duplicate I had made.

Then returned to my room
and began writing this.

I played the game,
as you English say.

I gave you the clues and every
chance to discover the truth,

pointing you towards Iago,
the original Stephen Norton.

My only weakness was
to shoot him

in the center of his
forehead and not in his temple,

but I could not bring myself to
produce an effect so lopsided.

That, mon ami, is my nature and
should have told you the truth.

Take my advice
for the last time:

tell to Mademoiselle Cole all
that I have said,

that you also might have done
what her sister did

had there been no watchful
Poirot to stop you.

Take the nightmare away
and show how Norton,

not her sister, was responsible
for the death of her father.

Captain Hastings?

I have no more to say.

Am I justified in
what I have done?

I do not know.

I do not believe that a man
should take the law

into his own hands...

but by taking the life
of Norton,

have I not saved others?

I have always been so sure,
but now...

When the moment comes, I will
not try to save myself,

but humbly offer my soul to God
and pray for his mercy.

It is for Him to decide.

Ah, Hastings, my dear friend,
they were good days!

Yes, they have been good days.

Hercule Poirot.