Original subtitles

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.