All language subtitles for Agatha and the Truth of Murder

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♪ When this bloody
War is over ♪

♪ No more soldiering for me ♪

♪ When I get my
Civvy clothes on ♪

♪ Oh, how happy I shall be ♪

♪ No more church
Parades on Sunday ♪

♪ No more begging for a pass ♪

♪ You can tell the
Sergeant major ♪

♪ To stick his passes
Up his... ♪

Oh, no, don't mind me.

I've heard much worse.

Two years on the front line.

Language.

At first,
I couldn't stomach it.

But then I thought--

They're just words.

Exactly.

They really don't
mean anything.

It's actions that matter,
that's what we're judged on.

Don't you agree?

Not everyone can be saved.

We can industrialize
the murder of half

the civilized world, but try
making a decent golf ball.

It's more complicated
than murder.

Hmm.

That's rich coming
from you, Mrs. Christie.

The reason I'm here--

I hate talking
shop on the fairway.

Let's play a few holes.

I hate golf.

Then what are you
doing at a golf course?

Trying to talk
to you, Sir Arthur.

I need help, with my writing.

Well, I'm not going
to talk unless you play.

Assuming you can,
of course.

Yes.

My husband loves golf.

That detective,
your Flemish dandy.

You learn to despise him.

Likewise, your readers.

They'll think your
creation is theirs.

If I can't write anymore,
none of that will matter.

Well, it's probably
for the best.

I'd be far happier if
I never started again.

You'd be much poorer.

Yes.

And everyone would hate you.

That's true.

What if Sherlock
Holmes had never existed?

Hmm.

Good riddance to
an intolerable dick.

Ah!

But it's not a character
I'm talking about, it's me.

All right.

What's the problem?

Why can't you write?

People are solving my murders.

Yes?

They're assuming it's
the most unlikely candidate

and guessing correctly.

And?

Well, what would be the
point in reading 300 pages

of clever insight and
deduction if the audience

knew who the killer
was in the first five?

Ah!

Clever
bastards, aren't they,

your readers.

I'm not sure that
guesswork is clever.

You spend months and months
plotting and sub-plotting.

Layering subterfuge
and sowing misdirection

and the buggers find a shortcut

and chop you off
at the knees, hmm?

Exactly!

But what do I do?

I'd stop writing.

I've only just started.

I've never told anyone.

But I dared to
start writing again.

If you tell anyone,
I'll deny it

and I'll make sure your name is
thoroughly dragged through the mud.

I understand.

You're not gonna like it.

At this stage,
I'd do anything.

Design a golf course.

That's what I did.

It was like channeling
the hand of God.

You said an hour,
it's been two.

The writing's
gonna have to wait.

How can I make
this fly properly?

I must have an answer.
I can't wait any longer.

Can we talk
about this later?

There's nothing
to talk about.

I want a divorce.

I just need you to agree.

Well, I won't.

Nancy and I...

You know how sorry we are.

But the quicker this is done,
the less pain for everyone.

Nancy is suffering too.

Yes, Carlo,
everything all right?

There's a lady to see you.

Who is it?
I've no appointments.

A Miss Rogers.

She says it's important.

Since when did I
receive fans at home?

She's a nurse.

She can come
back another time.

It's okay, Carlo,
it's not your fault.

Why don't you see
what she wants?

If it's anything that can
wait, I'll send her on her way.

God, I hate you.

Then give me a bloody divorce.

- No!
- Why not?

Because I love you.

But I don't love you.

I know.

This is Miss Rogers.

Hello, Mrs. Christie.

Is this a professional visit?

I don't remember any
medical appointments.

No, no, nothing like that.

Then why are you here?

I need your assistance.

How so?

I want you to help
me solve a murder.

What?

Six years ago, my friend was
bludgeoned to death on a train.

They never caught the killer

and I've been
investigating ever since.

I'm sure you know
the case. It was famous.

She was called Florence.

She was Nurse
Nightingale's god-daughter.

I'm sorry, Miss Rogers,
but whatever fantasy

you've been indulging, I'm
a writer, not a detective.

Let me just
outline the details.

It's a mystery, like
one of your books.

No doubt, Miss
Rogers, but still,

there are a hundred
reasons why I can't.

Please could you
see Miss Rogers out,

I must return to my work.

Please! I've nowhere else to turn.
She deserves justice.

Miss Rogers insisted
on leaving this.

I tried to...

Thank you.

You'll
find a way through.

I'm not sure that I will.

Shall I type the manuscript?

Seeing it printed
always helps you.

No, not this time.

A read through perhaps?

A field trip?

I'll do anything to help.

I know and I'm very grateful.

But I think I need to
see a professional.

Mrs. Christie?

Sir Hugh will see you know.

Thank you.

Mrs. Christie.

I am flattered you should turn
to me for research purposes.

So many writers ride roughshod
over their source material.

I'm very keen to understand

the emotional dynamics
of course design.

- You mean--
- Thank you.

How one would go about murdering
someone on a golf course.

No, what makes one enjoy
playing a round of golf?

As an alibi.

How could one be playing
golf, but not playing golf.

No, this has nothing
to do with my writing.

I want to design a golf course.

I see.

- Really?
- Yes.

Well, in that case,

I'm afraid my
answer's quite short.

You can't.

Excuse me?

There isn't a golf club I know

that would commission
a design from a woman.

I understand there has
been a trend of late

for ladies to golf.

But really, the sheer
complexity of a designer's task

is beyond the
capabilities of a woman,

no matter how capable
that woman is.

I see.

I hadn't realized.

But thinking about it. How
could I have been so stupid?

Imagine a woman being
able to design the preamble

to putting something
small in a hole.

A woman might just present the
hole and have done,

and where would be the
fun in that.

There'd be nothing
to groom for a start.

But thank you for your time.

It's been pointless.

Mommy, will you
play hide-and-seek?

Yes, dear.

What are you doing?

Working.

That's not work.

Where's Carlo?

She's hiding.

Shouldn't you find her?

How long will she hide for?

I imagine
until you find her.

But what if I don't find her?

She'll starve.

Really?

Carlo.

Rosalind.

I'm coming.

Ready or not.

"And who is to
blame for all this?

Nobody is to blame
except the robots.

No, we are to blame,
for our own selfish ends

for profit, for progress.

We have destroyed mankind."

Miss Rogers.

Thank you.

You don't know how much this means.
Come in.

I haven't done anything yet.

But you're here.

You're going to help.

I have some questions.

Oh, of course, anything.

Come through.

I think her cousin killed her.

He's called Randolph.

He inherited the trust fund.

At first, I thought it
might be her brother,

but he was in
America at the time.

He took back the pendant
Florence gave me.

Randolph hates me.

Florence says so in her diaries.
I'll show you.

You have her diaries?

Of course.

He'd never even met me.

Um...

Zaki Hanachi, one of
Florence's waifs and strays.

He came to see her two weeks
before she was murdered.

He wouldn't leave her alone.

He wanted money, I'm sure.

- Florence had money?
- Oh, yes.

The police thought it
was a robbery gone wrong.

There was a boxer,
but really he's a thief.

Travis Pickford.

Nasty piece of work.

He was arrested, but they
said he didn't do it.

His gun was covered in blood.

And then there's
the nurse, Daphne.

Florence's report would have
seen her barred from nursing.

That boy would have died.

It has to be one of them.

I just
don't know which one.

Mabel.

Yes.

Is that Florence?

Yes.

Yes, it is.

Look, I know
how this must look.

You were right, what you
said when I came to see you.

This is a fantasy.

But you've got to believe me.

Florence wasn't
killed by a stranger,

she was murdered for a reason.

Let's start at the beginning.

Florence always
took a corner seat

in the last carriage
facing forwards.

She didn't like trains.

A friend of hers died in
Italy, suffocated in a tunnel.

Bad coal, I think.

The day she was attacked,
I found her a seat

in the compartment next
door, but a woman told us

it was taken, so
we came in here.

What woman?

I don't remember.

And the man in the brown suit?

He got on just
before the train left.

But I don't remember his face.

The police were convinced
he was the killer.

If only I could give
them a description.

You're sure it was a man?

Yes.

I mean,
he looked like a man.

Did Florence recognize him?

God, I can't remember.

You must try.

Murdering someone is easier
if you know their routine.

Who knew about
Florence's train habits?

Oh, everyone.

I mean, she wasn't
embarrassed about her fears.

She'd always make a
point of explaining it.

Florence didn't believe in pretending
to be something she wasn't.

This is the tunnel
where it happened.

That's what the
police thought.

Seems harder to kill someone

when you can't see
them very well.

It took her four days to die.

Bits of skull
stuck in her brain.

Everyone saying it was all right
that she didn't feel anything.

But I'd seen it too many times
before with the soldiers.

The mind finds a way through.

She knew that she was broken,
she knew that she was dying,

but she also knew
that I was there.

And that I loved her.

How long were you together?

Twenty-six years.

That's 15 more
than Archie and I.

I'm very sorry.

This is where the
person in her carriage got off.

The man in the brown suit?

Yes, but witnesses
described someone else.

Heavier built and
different clothes.

And the man you saw
getting in the compartment

with Florence had
nothing with him.

He couldn't have been
concealing a disguise?

It was a cold day, but
he had no coat or bag.

I remember that.

So, one man got in the
compartment with Florence

and another man got out.

Yes, that's right.

Impossible.

Who was Florence visiting?

Mrs. Pamela Rose.

Her son James died in France

and Florence tended to him.

What happened?

Ah, he was shot after
armistice by some madman

who should've been in
front of a firing squad.

Could she have blamed
Florence for not saving him?

Oh, no, he was dying by
the time he got to Florence.

All she could do was
make him comfortable.

Had you met Mrs. Rose?

This would've been
their first meeting.

She'd only just discovered that
Florence had helped her son.

She wanted to hear
about his last few days.

So she knew the
train Florence was on.

Oh, she was to collect
her from the station.

But you can't think--

She's a suspect.

Same is true for anyone who
knew what train she was on.

So, that makes five.

Well, unless you count me.

Don't worry, I'm not
going to berate you.

I think it's time for a truce.

You do?

This is a course
I'd like to play.

Where did you get this?

I made it.

Bollocks!
You hate golf.

I hate playing it.

I don't understand.

I enjoyed
the challenge.

You made this for me.

No, I didn't.

You're a terrible liar.

But look, I was supposed to be
going to a Suicide Club reunion.

Why don't I forego an evening

of exaggerated flying
heroics and stay here?

We can look at this together.

I've already seen a couple
of small improvements.

With a bit of work, we could
make this something special.

You really like it?

Yes, it's fabulous.

That means a lot.

But I really must be
getting back to my work.

Anything else, Mrs. Christie?

No, thank you, that's lovely.

I haven't seen
Florence in years.

How is she?

She died, I'm afraid.

Oh, that's terrible.

I'm surprised Mr. and Mrs.
Williams didn't tell me about it.

But then again,
maybe they did.

My memory's not what it was.

I'm borrowing the house
for a sort of memorial.

They were very
fond of Florence.

Florence was the only
good person I ever met.

Mmm-hmm.

It's been a while
since the family

have been in the country.

I'm afraid I'm finding it
harder to keep on top of it.

Hmm.

I hope your guests don't
mind a bit of mess.

Oh, dear.

I must have forgotten
to get this cleared.

Don't you worry, miss,
I'll get right on it.

You won't forget to collect
our guests from the station.

All the important
things gets written down.

Rosalind, dear.

Rosalind?

I'm going away
for a little bit.

I need to solve a murder.

I have to pretend
to be someone else.

What color is a bunker?

Yellow.

Carlo will take you
to see your father.

Will Nancy be there?

I expect so.

Nancy's pretty.

My great-aunt told me

it's better to be
pretty than clever.

Was she pretty?

She was clever.

Can I meet her?

She died.

Long time ago.

It's better to be
alive, than dead.

That's right.

Do you have a
disguise, can I see it?

When I get back.

Are you going somewhere?

When I finish this, I'm
going to draw a picture of me

so you always know where I am.

Here you go,
Mrs. Westmacott.

Thank you.

Is there anything else?

Some stamps perhaps?

Is it true there's a writer of
detective novels who lives nearby?

Yes, Mrs. Christie.

She's famous.

Are her novels any good?

Not as good as Stevenson,
but better than Conan-Doyle.

Thank you.

Florence here
will look after ya.

I was beginning to think
you changed your mind.

What a terrible journey!

The car broke,
the train got stuck.

I spent last night in what
I think was a brothel.

Are they here?

Yes, and they started
to talk to one another.

I'm terrified they'll
make a connection.

Well then, better get to it.
Any surprises?

Miss Miller has brought
her father with her,

or should I say,
he's decided to come.

I don't think his
motivation is paternal.

Mrs. Rose is with
her son Franklin.

I get the impression he's not
completely taken in by our lies.

Mr. Hanachi is so nervous,
I'm wondering if it's an act.

And Mr. Pickford looks capable
of just about anything.

Any other surprises?

Their luggage is missing.

- Oh, and...
- What?

What is it?

Oh, God.

I'm not missing, I've
only been gone 48 hours.

We'll have to try and keep our
suspects away from the newspapers.

At least there
isn't a picture.

Mrs. Westmacott?

Assuming you are
Mrs. Westmacott.

Yes, that's correct.

I must apologize for the delay.

I'm sure you all have
a lot of questions.

Why are we
being kept in the dark?

Are you the secretary?

- When do we get our money?
- Who's in charge?

Where's the lawyer?

Good morning.

My name is Mary Westmacott.

I am the representative of
Messieurs Kant, Hope, Delaney.

We thought you might
want to change that

to "Can't Help Delay
Me."

Firstly, I would like to reinforce what
was stated in the letters you were sent.

No one is under any
compulsion to stay.

Our firm has no legal
power or responsibility

other than that conferred on us

as executors of
Mr. Dower's will.

Mr. Dower's legacy is
valued at £186,000.

This total, minus our
fees, is to be distributed

proportionately amongst
you, his relatives.

Tracing Mr. Dower's bloodline
has been very difficult.

The purpose of calling
you here is twofold.

To check our findings
regarding your lineage,

and to satisfy a couple of
specific conditions of the will.

We weren't told
about any conditions.

No, these are matters
to be discussed privately.

There is a good deal of work
to be done and I have no wish

to increase your fees
through wasted time.

If anyone is unhappy
with these arrangements

or feels they no longer wish
to engage in this process,

now is the time to let me know.

Given my late arrival,

I won't start formal
interviews until the morning.

Prior to that, are
there any questions

which require an
immediate answer?

Yes?

Do you know where
my suitcase is?

No, Mr. Hanachi, luggage
is not my responsibility.

It's like Christmas
with the family.

Only without anything to drink.

Entrapped in a festive morgue.

You know what? You're
absolutely right, we are family.

We're related.

Yeah, well, go
back far enough,

I'm related to the king.

Or a shoe shiner.

Mr. Hanachi, would
I be right in thinking

you served in the war?

How did you know?

My other son fought at Verdun.

Are you Algerian
or perhaps Moroccan?

I'm French.

Born in Constantine.

Your English is excellent.

I was a translator.

Oh.

As I remember it,
howitzer sounds

the same in English as in French.

You fought?

No, I was a chaplain.

Ha! I knew it.

I had the feeling we were
in the presence of God

ever since I got here.

How funny to think
we're all related.

I hardly know anyone
on my mother's side.

When she died, there was
just her half-sister.

Imagine all this family
I never knew I had.

How did you track us all down?

It was done by
a specialist firm.

With a pin in a toy phone
book by the looks of it.

Do feel free
to take your leave.

A quarter share is preferable.

My daughter will get hers.

Your letter stated that Mr. Dower
spent most of his life in America.

What was his line of work?

He sold cars.

All that money from cars.

I'm in the wrong business.

What is your
business, Mr. Pickford?

Removals.

Little like you, Reverend.

I no longer serve.

- God or country?
- Both.

Shame, I could've
used your help.

What happened to
change your mind?

I stopped believing in either.

Surely you don't mean that?

What did you do
during the war?

Administration.

Mmm-hmm.

You never saw the trenches.

I read a great
deal concerning them.

A million crimes
enabled by my country

unpunished by my God.

Ah, any sign of our trunks?

Yes, sir, I'm afraid they
went back to the station,

but they'll be with you
again in the morning.

Well, I suppose I should
thank God for that.

What time do the
interviews start in the morning?

10:00 a.m.

Perhaps you and your daughter
would like to go first?

Yes.

How much of our inheritance
is locked in this pile?

None of it.

Mr. Dower's gift to his
relatives is a cash asset.

And a good job too.

This castle's built of paper.

Spent last night listening
to the Frenchman snore.

So, we're not inheriting
the whole estate.

No. The bulk of it
is being handled

by Mr. Dower's American
representatives.

I thought that
might be the case.

There's a great deal
more at stake here

than a couple of hundred
thousand, isn't there?

When all's said and done, we
might be due a bigger share.

A much bigger share.

We're safe, they're
in their rooms.

Oh, that greedy bastard.

He's already got the trust
he inherited from Florence.

Imagine being offered
all that money

and his first thought
is to want more.

It doesn't make him a killer.

He's watching us.

- I know.
- He's no fool.

Money makes most
people foolish.

Wade's a bastard too.

Mr. Hanachi
certainly thinks so.

His poor daughter.

Imagine living
with such a brute.

His poor daughter is
one of our suspects.

Pamela seems nice.

Maybe she did it.

How you going to
conduct the interviews?

By keeping their minds
on the inheritance.

What did you find
in their luggage?

Hmm, come with me.

So, um, Wade has a cleaning kit
for a pistol, but no pistol.

Daphne has enough
make-up to put on a show.

Uh, Pamela and Franklin's
cases are unremarkable.

Couple of books,
copy of the Bible.

Zaki's case has a few
clothes and a tin of coffee.

Uh, Travis has a doctor's
case which is empty.

And Randolph?

Smut.

And not the artistic kind.

Could Florence really
have ended Daphne's career?

Oh, yes. Her report would have
seen Daphne barred from nursing,

but she was killed before
she could write it.

But that girl's scared
of her own shadow.

Imagine Daphne
killing in cold blood.

- Will this take long?
- I hope not.

Your mother's maiden
name was Stone.

She died on June 24th, 1922.

You already know that.

Do you have
the death certificate?

Everything is exactly as
stated in my daughter's letter.

Your mother's father, Joshua
Stone, lived in Richmond.

Her grandfather, William
Stone, died in Aberdeen.

I don't see how
this is going--

The man found in our
searches was James Stone,

not William Stone.
It's a different person.

Well, clearly there's
been a mistake.

William was probably
a middle name.

It was definitely William.

My mother used to tell
me stories about him.

He was a cavalry trooper,
he fought at Waterloo.

Well, you can't take
my wife's word for it.

She was a drunk.

If I remember correctly, his
name was James William Stone.

Yes, that's it.

Well, that would
be unfortunate.

Why?

Because I've
discovered a mistake.

James Stone was the half-brother of
Mr. Dower's great uncle, Andrew Dower.

William Stone was
a second cousin.

If Daphne is correct that
her great-grandfather

is William Stone, she is the only
surviving direct descendant of Mr. Dower.

I'll have to check no similar mistake has
been made in regards his other relatives,

but if I might, Daphne
would inherit the majority

of Mr. Dower's estate with
a much smaller proportion

going to his
other antecedents.

Daphne's bound to be right.

She always is.

I'm no good with these things.

Once removed, twice removed.

It's all Greek to me.

However, before
we can progress,

there's something
I need to establish.

Of course. Anything.

You finished your nurses
training in February 1920.

Yes.

Shortly after completing it,

you went in front of the
regional superintendent.

They were looking into a
complaint serious enough

to have you removed
as a Queen's nurse.

What in God's name has
that got to do with this?

As I said yesterday, there are certain
conditions of the will that must be met.

She was exonerated.

No evidence against her.

Just unfounded allegations
by a bull dagger,

who got what she deserved.

Look, I don't mean to
fly off the handle.

It's just, it was a very
unpleasant time for my daughter.

That woman almost
ruined her life.

Miss Miller?

I was cleared.

And the
allegations were incorrect?

Yes.

Then I have everything
I need to proceed.

I'll explain the
situation to the others.

Thank you.

Come on, darling.

Is there
something else?

There's a line
of people outside

who'll be none too pleased
about the turn of events.

Let's not waste
any more of their time.

Mrs. Westmacott, who do
you want to talk to next?

I'm afraid there's been
a change of circumstances.

What does that mean?

And why are you grinning
like a Cheshire cat?

What does that man got
to be so happy about?

As I understand it,
he's not even a relative.

Not of yours, thank God.

We're related where it counts.

What's he talking about?

You told them most of the
money's going to Daphne!

What if they just leave?

They were angry, but some
money is better than no money.

But I don't understand.
I mean, why take such a risk?

Because Wade killed Florence.

You think he killed her to
save his daughter's career?

But there's no evidence.

We'll find it.

It's ironic. I can't
write at the moment

because I'm so worried about
always making my murderer

the most unlikely suspect.

Talk about unlikely, Wade
wasn't even supposed to be here.

But there's no connection to
any other aspect of the murder.

We just need to keep digging.

There must be something here
that links him to the crime.

See if you can find it.

I'm going to talk to him again.

He'll help us if he thinks
it's going to make him rich.

What if you're wrong?

I'm not.

But we have to find the proof
before we can set a trap.

You looking for someone?

Mr. Miller.

Last I saw,
he was on the terrace.

Uh, who represents Mr. Dower
in the United States?

Was that a gunshot?

Gunshots don't
sound like that.

Travis probably
found some champagne.

I'm afraid I have some
rather pressing business.

It's Wade.

Someone tried to kill Daphne.

How?

Daphne said she
was in her room.

The door opened and a
pistol was pointed at her.

Wade jumped in
front of the bullet,

stumbled backwards and
fell through the window.

Turns out that deeply unpleasant
man was a bit of a hero.

Has anyone checked
for signs of life?

He looks like all the
other dead people I've seen.

Are you a nurse?

Oh, no, I used to
work in a hospital.

You're right, he's dead.

I think.

It must have been a big gun.

I'll call the police.

Where's Travis?

I wouldn't put it past
him to kill someone

for a bigger share of the pot.

Mabel, when you get back,
could you help Daphne?

She has a nasty
cut from the glass.

Yeah.

Poor man was trying
to get dressed.

Bit of food will do you good.

Believe me, I know.

Thank you.

I couldn't bear
to be on my own.

Never talk to the police
on an empty stomach.

Is that so?

Not really.

Never talk to the
police, full stop.

You take that woman writer
that's topped herself.

If everyone in her books
had kept their mouth shut,

that Poirot couldn't
catch a cold.

You mean Agatha Christie.

Golden rule,
like my cousin says.

Says what?

Keep your fucking mouth shut.

She's a very good writer.

But rather predictable.

I read the
Murder of Peter Ackroyd,

guessed the end
within a few pages.

It's easy when you know how.

Roger.

Excuse me.

Roger Ackroyd.

I'm pretty sure
it was Peter.

So, how we gonna guess
who knocked off Wade?

No offense, but none of you lot
look like the killing type.

That's how it is
in her books.

The last person
you'd ever suspect.

If Mrs. Christie
were writing this,

Mrs. Westmacott
would be guilty.

More like that
caretaker, Mr. Todd.

Police can talk to him all they like.
He'll have forgotten he did it.

Murder isn't like
a detective novel.

Of course.

Sorry.

Your father was a brave man.

He had his faults.

But after my mother died, he
came home to look after me.

He was abroad.

In New York, left in June '16.

I didn't see him for six years.

So many of my friends lost
their fathers in the war,

I suppose
I should be grateful

for the years that I had.

Someone tried
to kill Miss Miller.

Until the police get here,

I will keep watch
outside her room.

Oh, very brave.

You sure you're French?

It's very kind, Mr. Hanachi.

Our room is next door.

Franklin and I will be
sure to look after you.

It will be reassuring

to have a man who
served to keep watch.

I served my country.

Served them sugar,
meat, cigarettes.

Much more of a
service than donating

my bollocks to
French agriculture.

The police will
be here shortly.

I've been asked to request
that no one leaves.

Even if I did kill him,

I'm not leaving
till I get my money.

I said I was cleaning.
We don't have long.

It couldn't have been Wade.
He was in New York.

We got an innocent man killed.

I don't think he was innocent.

That's hardly the point.
They were our lies.

But someone else's bullet.

That doesn't make
any difference.

I know what it's
like to kill by proxy.

This isn't it.

During the war, Florence and I
worked at the clearing stations.

It's where the
wounded are assessed.

Who can wait, who is critical,
who it was pointless to help.

I was good at it.

I never dwelled on the hundreds
of people I sent to die.

Florence wanted
to save everyone.

She was a remarkable
woman, wasn't she?

Mmm.

Towards the end of the war,
a German called Keller

came in with a treatable wound.

I was told he'd done something
awful and should be left to rot.

When Florence found out,
she threatened to contact

headquarters and then
treated him herself.

She was better than me.

We can't give up.

The police are coming.

They'll see through this
charade in a few hours.

Then we don't have long.

I was wrong about Wade.

That doesn't mean we're
wrong about everything.

I was thinking about my
writing, not the evidence.

Well, what evidence?

We've got to continue
the interviews.

Whilst they still believe in the
inheritance, we've still got a chance.

How?

I... I think I know
who killed Wade.

Who?

I'm not making the
same mistake twice.

But if I'm right about Wade,

Florence's killer can be
found in the same way.

We can still solve this.

What are you doing?

I had some work for Miss Rogers.
What are you doing?

The police are here.

So you all received the same
invitation from Miss Westmacott?

Yes, she's the
one in the glasses.

And you all arrived
at the house at the same time?

Yes.

You certain about that?

Now that you're all here,
I will introduce myself.

My name is Detective
Inspector Dicks.

This is PC Spencer.

I'd rather not shout.

As you may know, the author
Agatha Christie has gone missing.

There are currently 5,000 police
personnel searching for her,

and as a consequence, my usual
compliment of 13 officers

is running at three, myself
and PC Spencer included.

So because of Mrs. Christie,

I do not have enough officers
to take you to the station,

so I'm forced to
question you here.

We'll start with your
personal details.

These will be
thoroughly checked.

Any false information
will get you arrested,

which, to be honest, will
make my job a little easier.

Accommodating you in the
cells is not a problem.

Although, I would
rather be here

than searching for
authors in bushes,

I do not like working with
one hand tied behind my back.

This process will
take some time,

but please do not keep
asking me how long.

The more annoying you are,
the more of a bastard I'll be.

And please, do not even
think of asking to leave.

Now, Mrs. Westmacott,

I've been told that you
are the person responsible

for bringing everybody here,
so I'll start with you.

Follow me please.

Now, if you don't mind.

Name?

Mary Westmacott.

Date of birth?

September 1st, 1890.

Occupation?

Legal representative.

Employer?

Kant, Hope, Delaney,
26 York Street, W1.

Telephone number?

Mine or theirs?

What would be the point
in having your number?

I'm trying to verify this ridiculous
story I've just been told.

You always this rude?

Yes.

I'm fully aware of my rights.

Well, that makes one of us.

Are you going to
answer the question?

My office number is London
7-7-3-4.

The secretary's name
is Miss Fisher.

She'll confirm everything.

That'll do?

Am I allowed to
continue my work?

Does your work involve
undermining my investigation?

- Course not.
- Then do what you like.

Thank you, I will.

DI Dicks, what a charmer.

Do hope you're gonna
be a bit more gentle.

Do you have the documents?

Lawyer, goes to the dentist.

When he comes round from
the ether, it's dark.

He asks the nurse,
"What's going on?"

She says, "There's a fire across
the road, so we drew the blinds.

Didn't want you to wake
up, think you'd died."

That's very good.

Ah, maybe you're not
such a scratch after all.

You were arrested for
murder in January 1920.

Is that true?

You don't have to
answer my questions,

but it means I can't
do my job,

which means you
won't get your money.

I don't know what
you're talking about.

A nurse called Florence.

She was beaten to death. It
was a highly publicized case.

You've made a mistake.

"No benefit of any kind

can be transferred to an individual
charged with a capital offense."

Well, in that case,
there's no problem.

I was never charged.

But you were arrested.

Sure.

They tried to pin it on me.

You just said you didn't
know anything about it.

Well, what do you expect?

I expect to be told the truth.

As well as the requirements
to confirm identity,

Mr. Dower gave his executors
a discretionary power

with regards to the moral
suitability of his heirs.

I'm suitable, just careful.

But now I don't know if you
are who you say you are.

You've got my papers.

Papers can be forged.

Given the sums
of money involved,

I'm sure you can appreciate
the need for thoroughness.

Fair enough.

Does your firm have any
dealings with Scotland Yard?

Of course.

Ask them why they let me off.

For what purpose?

They'll tell you something
they never told the papers.

The killer left a
footprint in the blood.

And?

And there's no way I could
know this if I wasn't arrested.

Took me all of five
seconds to point out

me feet were three
sizes too big.

They even tried to squeeze
me into an old trench boot

like I was fucking Cinderella.

A trench boot?

Yeah, another thing they
never told the public.

Doesn't look good when
our boys come home

and start murdering civilians.

Well...

Guess that means, I've passed.

I'll need to confirm this.

Hmm, confirm away.

The longer we wait,
the more chance

another member of my
family has an accident.

Say what you like
about the Germans,

they know how to make coffee.

Thank you.

That's the first time I've heard
a Frenchman compliment a German.

After you got over the fact
they were trying to kill you,

most of them are pretty
decent, in my experience.

Your experience
doesn't amount to much.

I lied before.

I'm not really French.

No, you're a bloody traitor.

Come now, dear, we all
have different experiences.

Clearly.

I did not mean to offend.

Mr. Hanachi, could we
speak in private?

I have nothing to hide.

No, but some of the details
of your case are personal.

It does not take
a great detective

to work out my connection
to Mr. Dower is illegitimate.

Unfortunately, my notes
are upstairs.

Okay, I'll come.

But only if Miss Miller
promises to stay here.

I promise.

Don't say another word!

She is a fraud.

Her and that sorry
excuse for a maid.

We've been set up.

What, there's no inheritance?

Ha, that's the least of it.

This whole charade is--

A murder investigation.

Oh, God help me!

- You admit it?
- Of course, I do.

I'm amazed it took you
so long to work it out.

I'm a private detective
hired by Miss Rogers.

You are all suspects in the murder
of Florence Nightingale Shore.

Florence, but--

How dare you!

My beautiful cousin.

What possible reason
could I have for killing her?

The same reason
that brought you here.

Money.

Well!

I suppose that makes
sense of things.

No, it doesn't.

What has this got
to do with me?

She was killed by someone
wearing service boots.

That's ridiculous.

Florence was the only nurse

who looked after us.

She didn't care who we
were or what we'd done.

She was perfect.

- I would never--
- You killed her.

Now then.

Now then.

Murderer or not, Mr. Hanachi
is right about one thing.

This is ridiculous.

And a monumental
waste of my time.

Spencer.

I've already got one
murder to deal with.

I couldn't give a rat's
ass about another one.

When this bloody author's
found, I'm taking you all in.

In the meantime,
you'll stay in your rooms.

Anyone ignoring this will be
considered a suspect and arrested.

That is
completely unacceptable.

My mother and I have nothing
to do with this absurd game.

Daphne can attest to our
whereabouts when Wade was killed

and we never met
that bloody nurse.

I insist that we be
allowed to leave.

I'm happy to put you in handcuffs
right now if that's what you want.

You've had it from the
inspector's point of view.

This is an
intolerable situation.

Well, we can agree on that.

Travis and the fake maid,
Miss Rogers, have gone missing.

PC Spencer will escort
you to your room

whilst I will amuse myself
playing hide-and-seek.

I advise you to use
your confinement wisely.

If any of you has
any information

about the only murder
that I'm interested in,

do yourself a favor
and come forward.

Now is a good time to remember

that there is a difference
between a cell and the gallows.

All right.

Are you really trying
to find Florence's killer?

I'm sorry I got so heated.

It was a great shock
seeing...

material.

I was never shown
the pictures of

what was done to her.

How well do you know Mabel?

I'll bet she told you
how awful I was.

How the family hated her
relationship with Florence.

Truth is I couldn't care less
that my cousin preferred women.

I just didn't like the fact
that the woman she preferred

was such a controlling,
malign influence.

You have strong feelings
for a woman you never met.

Because Mabel always refused.

It was easier
to keep her distance

and pour poison
into my cousin's ear.

For all her experience,
Florence was very naive.

She had strong convictions,
but was blind to manipulation.

You didn't know her.

Mabel hates me because
she was always jealous

of anyone Florence cared for.

Keep up!

Do you know what always struck
me about Florence's murder?

The police never questioned

the last person
to see her alive.

Mabel Rogers.

PC Spencer?

Mr. Pickford is in the garden
talking to Mr. Todd.

I can see Mr. Todd,
but not Mr. Pickford.

It was only a minute ago.

I'm sure Mr. Todd can
tell you where he's gone.

Or should we wait
for Inspector Dicks?

You'd better not be lying.

Why are you out of your room?

I could ask you
the same thing.

What are you doing?

What does it look like?
I'm crying.

Is there something
I can do to help?

Find me somewhere to sleep
where my father wasn't killed.

You lied about
your job, didn't you?

Leave me alone.

You almost
killed a young boy,

then Florence was murdered
and your career was saved.

What's wrong with you?

It's a good motive for murder.

I couldn't murder
anyone. I'm...

I'm weak, and I'm stupid.

I'm a pathetic little girl.

Zaki was right,

Florence was better
than all of us.

That maid is responsible
for all of this.

She deserves
everything she gets,

and so do you.

I didn't do it!

What are you doing in there?

- Hiding.
- From whom?

The police.

Where did you get that?

Found it under my pillow.

- Is it loaded?
- Yes.

Oh, for God's sake, unload it.

Soldiers used to love
showing me their guns.

Where have you been?

I saw Randolph
with our folder.

I panicked and hid in here,
then someone came into the room,

and when they'd gone,
I found this.

I'm being set up.

It seems so.

But by whom?

Daphne.

She killed her father.

Uh, why?

He beat her. She broke.

The belt.

Oh, the make-up.

His work will be under it.

She was terrified of him.

So, this is Wade's gun.

Yes.

But why blame me?

The person who benefits most from
your arrest is Florence's killer.

But surely Daphne
didn't kill Florence.

It doesn't make sense.

It does, we're just
missing something.

I need Florence's diaries.
Did Randolph take them?

Uh...

No.

I've looked through
them a hundred times.

Keller.

That's it!

He killed Florence!

Oh!

This isn't what it looks like!

Well, that's good
because what it looks like

is a murder suspect pointing
a gun at two police officers.

It's not loaded.

Don't worry, you haven't
done anything wrong.

Everything will be all right.

Get her to the station
and bring some bloody help.

You can't make it up.

I can explain.

- No, I mean it.
- So do I.

No, you couldn't make it up,
could you, Mrs. Christie?

How did you know?

I spoke to Miss Fisher.

Oh, she was very convincing,
but the name rang a bell.

Carlo Fisher,

interviewed in connection with the
disappearance of Mrs. Christie.

And your disguise, I mean,

it's good,
but it's not that good.

You know they've got
aircraft out looking for you.

Parliament practically
demanded it.

Parliament!

You've no idea, have you?

No.

If it was up to me,
I'd make you pay for it.

I'd have you writing till the end
of your days to settle the accounts.

Policemen don't get paid much,
but 5,000 of us soon adds up.

I don't even know what
to charge you with.

I mean, a ten-pound fine
for wasting police time

hardly seems to cover it.

Daphne killed her father.

I'll give you that.

You knew?

Of course, she was the only one
in the room when he got shot.

Doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to
work out she was the most likely.

Speaking of which, there's another
person you need to make reparations to.

Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle
held a seance to try

and track you down, used one
of your gloves apparently.

Was the cut to her
hand from the recoil?

Probably.

Gun this size shouldn't
be shot from the hip.

She killed him because
of what he did to her.

That's a defense.

The jury will understand
if she'll talk,

but I doubt she will.

If I was right about Daphne, don't you think
I might be right about the other murder?

No.

No more playing detectives.

Don't you want
to know what's going on?

That's why
I arrested Miss Rogers.

Have you ever been obsessed
with something, Inspector?

Just the law, Mrs. Christie.

A while ago, I realized that's
what I write about, obsession.

The inability to clear
something from one's mind.

I'm not in the mood
for philosophizing.

There's no philosophy
in obsession,

just feeling, usually pain.

I mean it, let's go.

Mabel is obsessed with finding the
killer of the person she loved.

I dare say she's been obsessed with
Florence since the day they met.

That's what it's like in my experience.

My husband is leaving me.

He's been having an
affair with a 24-year-old.

They consummated their
relationship on a golf course.

But I didn't come
here to escape him.

If I could, I'd spend
every minute by his side.

I recognized that
obsession in Mabel.

I came here to help
the both of us.

When I came back
from the war,

my wife gave me the clap.

In my experience,

obsession's like getting
caught in no-man's land.

You'd get out if you could,
but you don't know where

the bullets are
coming from,

so you're better off sitting in the
shell hole and covering your ears.

You never know,
you might get lucky.

Do you really know
who killed Florence?

I have a plan,
but I need your help.

Well,

it's the first time
I've eaten with a pig.

No offense.

This is a first
time I've eaten

with a group of
people gotten together

under false pretenses with
the promise of an inheritance.

When can we leave?

When PC Spencer gets back,

he'll start ferrying
you to the station.

Short statement, then
you're none of my concern.

Unless, of course,
your impatience

is the sign
of a guilty conscience.

Don't worry, I have my killer.

I still do not understand why Miss
Rogers tried to murder Daphne.

I wouldn't normally discuss a
case, but under the circumstances,

Miss Rogers thought
that Miss Miller

had killed her friend Florence.

This whole debacle was
an elaborate act of revenge.

Unbelievable!

What is it they
say about revenge?

Dig two graves.

She'll hang for sure.

I want to apologize,

when I take jobs, I tend not to
think about the consequences.

In my experience, the greatest
harm is done by people

who pursue a course of action,

despite being told of
the damage it will do.

When I was in Verdun--

Oh, not the bloody war again.

Here's to the
family that never was.

Where's Daphne?

She's not feeling very well,

said she was going
to stay in her room.

I'll check on her,

given what I've put
that poor girl through.

For the record...

I think you should look again
at the murder of my cousin.

It's quite possible
this Rogers woman

is some sort of
homicidal maniac.

Yes, it's true.

Some people do get
a taste for murder.

Inspector Dicks said
you'd be coming to see me.

What's going on?

Pamela said Miss Rogers
has been arrested.

Yes.

She was found with the gun
you used to kill your father.

I can't imagine what
you've been through.

I should have used
that gun on myself.

All that matters now is
that we find the people

who blackmailed
you to frame Mabel.

None of this is your fault.

Did your father leave England
to escape conscription?

He beat my mother
and I our whole life,

and then he ran
away from the fight.

If you tell the truth,
they'll understand.

The truth is,

I wish I'd shot
that bastard years ago.

I killed him.

I know.

But you didn't plan it.

You're not a murderer.

We'll help you.

Someone else knew it was me.

Yes.

Why did you say "people"?

How is Daphne?

As good
as can be expected.

Perhaps you might take
her something to eat.

Not very subtle, is he?

I still have some of
Miss Rogers' material.

Given that most of it
relates to your cousin

perhaps you would
like to take it,

assuming the inspector
doesn't mind.

That would be kind.

That awful women kept so much
that was personal to the family.

It would be very
gratifying to get it back.

Oh, I wouldn't worry
about the inspector.

He has other things
on his mind.

He's with Travis

who seems to have forgotten
his cousin's golden rule.

Daphne asked if you would
check in on her after dinner.

Where's Daphne?
We're starting to worry.

When you beat Florence to
death, what did you think about?

I've always wondered.

During the act of murder, is
there anything but the act itself?

Does the brain reject
what the body is doing,

or is there gratification?

Did you enjoy it?

Did Florence even understand
why you were doing it?

That she was being killed
for saving a man's life.

I don't know what
you're talking about.

Your son James would be
alive were it not for Florence.

She saved the man who murdered
him, Captain Dieter Keller.

A man everyone told her should
be left to die, a monster.

But, as Mr. Hanachi said,
Florence helped everyone

regardless of who they
were or what they'd done.

- We're leaving. -Was it you in
the compartment next to Florence

making sure she was
alone with your son?

This is as insulting
as it is stupid.

Not as stupid as leaving a bloody
footprint at the scene of the crime.

If you'd had the stomach
to kill her yourself,

I doubt such a mistake
would have been made.

You planned everything
so carefully.

Florence told you which
train she was traveling on,

which carriage she'd be in.

You hid a coat and cap
underneath the bench seat

for Franklin to wear
when he escaped.

If I were you, I'd stop.

You left evidence
in the compartment.

Evidence the police still have.

Evidence that will send you
and your mother to the gallows.

The footprint?

There's a million servicemen
it could have come from.

And a million crimes
left unpunished.

How did you feel when you found
out that Florence wasn't dead?

That despite all your
mother's plans, you'd failed.

I didn't want to kill her.

Franklin!

I bashed her skull just
enough to get her attention.

I wanted her to understand
why it was happening.

I explained that her death was the
result of her sanctimonious morality.

And I bashed her
skull a bit more.

As an ex-priest, I'm
compelled to offer confession

and absolution to someone
approaching death.

But as I told Florence before
I beat her into a coma...

not everyone can be saved.

Something else I didn't
learn in the army.

We were in the next room.
We heard every word.

Who'd have thought that the walls
in this place would be so thin?

But you knew that,
didn't ya?

I don't know what
you're talking about.

You and your son listened to
what happened to Mr. Miller.

And then you blackmailed Daphne
into framing Miss Rogers.

- Really?
- Yes!

And you've implicated yourself
in a premeditated murder.

The only thing that's happened here
is a vicious assault on my son.

Whatever you
think you've heard,

I'd like to know what
evidence you have

to back up these
scandalous accusations.

A murder weapon perhaps?

Maybe an item of clothing?

I heard something about
a pair of bloody boots.

That sounds incriminating.

You have them, I assume.

I didn't think so.

Nothing that was said
here can be used in court.

This pathetic attempt
at entrapment is over.

You failed.

Pamela Rose,
you are under arrest

for the murder of Wade Miller.

You do not have to say anything,
but if you do say anything,

it will be taken down and
may be used in evidence.

You wouldn't?

Zaki?

I saw Mrs. Rose take the
gun from Wade's luggage.

That's a lie.

It was Mabel, she deserves it.

You know that.

Mrs. Rose left this note
in Daphne's room.

There's been a horrible
misunderstanding.

Whatever they've told you,
it isn't true.

I caught a glimpse of the
killer through the door.

It was him.

You can't do this.

Let me know if his
balls don't recover.

I'll say a prayer, or two.

No.

No!

All right?

Will you be all right?

I hope so.

I'm sorry.

About Mabel?

I was wrong about her.

She surprised you.

Yes.

People don't often
surprise in a good way.

No, no, I suppose not.

Would you do me a favor?

I'd like to ask Mabel to tea.

Tea?

That's what he said.

Her family have spent 20 years
pretending I didn't exist.

Inspector Dicks says
if I'm not found

in the next 24 hours,
they'll call out the army.

Will you go home?

What will you say?

Can't remember.

One minute I was driving
my car, the next...

Amnesia!

Really!

It's like something
from a bad novel.

Dicks told me
to keep it simple.

He's going to help.

What will you do?

Finding Florence's killer is all
I've thought about for six years.

How do I stop?

I have no idea.

You have your family.

The police questioned
Archie about my disappearance.

They probably think he knocked
me off in order to marry Nancy.

And get an inheritance.

I better change my will.

I'll agree to a divorce.

And I'll stop living my
life through Florence's death.

I don't want to.

Me neither.

Now then.

Bloody hell, should I put
you two on suicide watch?

We're discussing the future.

Bad, is it?

Worse than being hung for
a crime you didn't commit?

Or being caught up in
a scandal so spectacular,

you'd want to settle down
with a nice big nightcap?

Knowing that
things could be worse

is not much comfort,
in my experience.

Well, that's true.

Still, be good
for your writing.

The novel I'm working on is terrible.
It won't help that.

With the sensation you've
caused, you could publish

a book on concrete ratios and
it'd still be a bestseller.

Just have to have
the right title.

Make it simple.

Murder on the Building Site.

I don't think my
publishers would agree.

Well, as we sat here talking, they're busy
getting everything together they've got

just in case you turn up dead.

Oh, thanks, I feel much better.

Did we do the right thing?

Well, I am glad
I'll join this conversation.

They'll hang.

They murdered in cold
blood, that's what it's for.

Does it feel like justice?

Yes, but...

It's a funny
kind of justice

that's carried out by
a group of strangers.

If she were alive, Florence
would be helping strangers.

You never told me
why you suspected

Franklin and Pamela
in the first place.

Apart from you,
they were the only people

who knew which train and
carriage Florence was in.

Once I stopped
indulging fantasies,

they were the most
likely suspects.

Hmm.

It's a shame
the truth of murder

doesn't lend itself
to detective stories.

Well, it won't be much good
if the person most likely

to have done it,
actually did it.

No,

that would never work.

Time to go.

I just got comfy.
Was it something I said?

No, Inspector.

Something I thought.

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