There is very little I can do for him, Mrs. Hill.
- He is very weak. - Oh, dear.
- Is there no hope? - I'm afraid not.
It is more a matter of hours, rather than days, now.
Does Mr.Anthony have relatives?
There's has a brother, Henry,
but they haven't spoken in 20 years. - No-one else?
Well, yes, Mr. George, his nephew in London.
I expect he'd want to know.
♪...first reaching for his hatchet ♪
♪ which is near him, close by, ♪
♪ the noble fireman goes to fight-- ♪
- Have you ever been a fireman? - No, but I've sat next to one.
And what's this jolly laughing cobbler song all about?
It's about this cobbler who is always happy.
I'm sorry to drag you away but there's a call for you.
Can't you take a message?
It's your uncle, old son, I'm affraid he's in a bad way.
I see.
Thanks, Harry. I'll come right away.
♪ Always bright And never grey
You see, sir, when I'm singing this song, I'll be cobbling, and I'll have a boot.
Oh, you'll get the boot, all right!
It was the doctor himself said I should call.
He is very bad, Mr. Lorrimer.
And I am very grateful, Mrs. Hill. This is very distressing,
but I cannot travel to Brighton before Sunday, at the earlierst.
He is at his last breath, Mr. Lorrimer,
Sunday might be too late.
Oh Lord. I'm sorry there's little more I can do.
What about Mr Henry Gascoigne, sir, do you think I should try to reach him?
Uncle Henry? Good God, no. He'd welcome the news.
No, when the time comes, I'll break it to him myself.
As you say, Mr. Lorrimer.
'Til Sunday, then. Goodbye.
Goodbye, Mrs. Hill.
Oh, dear...
... "and follwing the defeat of England in the first play in Trent Bridge,
the selectors made two changes.
R.E.S. Wyatt returns for the Captain side,
Crickets. The english enigma.
I know not of any other game
where even the players are unsure of the rules.
Thank you, Miss Lemon.
The Aussies are one up already,
and you can bet that Don will be looking to three figures at the hallowed ground
Hastings, I have no time for this " Don "
and for his crusade at the "hallowed ground".
-I have a dinner engagement with my dentist. -Your dentist?
Positively morbid.
- But you're always trying to avoid him. - Not at all.
Off duty he is quite charming.
Besides, he likes seeing the end product at work.
Here you will not have any fancy little French cuisine, Poirot.
Just good, well cooked English fare.
Neither would I ask for, Bonnington, my friend.
I place myself in your hands, unreservingly.
- Yes? - Absolument.
Yes, well... Where's Molly?
- Good evening, sir. - Ah, Molly.
What specialty you have for us this evening?
You're in luck today, Mr. Bonnington. There's your favorite,
roast turkey with chestnut stuffing
and fillet of sole to start. - Excellent!
For both of us. Now, here's a girl that knows exactly what I like, Poirot.
I ought to know by now, sir, I'm sure.
- Do people always like the same things? - Mostly, sir,
though I'll tell you something odd.
Do you see old mr. Gascoigne sitting on his own, over there?
I'd say he'd been here since the Queen died.
Henry Gascoigne, painter, or so I was told.
He sits at that table every Wednesday and Saturday evenings. Never misses.
Except last week, he arrived on Monday! Gave me quite a turn.
Interesting deviation from habit. I wonder what the reason was.
Well, he must have forgotten himself.
You know, he can't bare sweet puddings or blackberries,
and I never known him take thick soup, last Monday do you know what he ordered?
Thick tomato soup, steak and kidneys pudding,
and washed all down with blackberry crumble.
Mon Dieu!
He was back on Wednesday, as usual. His old self again.
Anyway, I mustn't stand here gossiping.
She is a good girl and she knows a thing or two about food.
You know, I find him extraordinarily interesting.
- What? - That old man's deviation from habit.
The change of diet, you mean? Doctor's orders, I'd say. It's common, you know.
I think not. Unless of course he thinks the old man would benefit from indigestion.
To my good friend, Hercule Poirot, for whom life without mystery,
it would be like roast beef without the mustard.
C'est la verité, mon ami.
Ah, I see that bi-cuspid is still sensitive, Poirot.
We must take a look at that.
- Non, non, non. - It must be the heat.
- What is it, Molly? - Mr. Gascoigne, he's at it again.
He's taking kidney pudding and blackberry crumble.
Hello?
- What's with all the noise? - It's his milk.
- It's been out here for three days. - Dirty old devil!
Hasn't had a bath since last Carnival,either.
Not a sound from inside. He might have taken ill.
Cold as ice.
Poor luv, must have taken a fall.
Here's a funny thing, Poirot.
Remember that old fellow we saw at Bishop's the other night?
The one Molly remarked on how he had changed his diet?
Try not to talk.
Well, I'm affraid he's eaten his last blackberry crumble.
The poor old chap has kicked the bucket..
Seems when he got home that night he fell down the stairs of his lodgings.
Yes, he has lived here here as long as anybody can remember.
- Kept himself to himself. - You never spoke?
Oh, he passed me in the street in the evening and said hello.
Except last week. I might have been a ghost.
He walked right past me and never said a word, he did.
Excuse me, madame. Do you remember which day last week?
Who are you, anyway, asking all these questions?
Who is he? He is not English, is he? Begging your pardon.
He's Hercule Poirot. A private detective.
- Madame. - They all say that, don't they?
You tell him that it was Saturday that old Gascoigne passed me by in the street.
It was the last time I saw him alive. Saturday!
He was lying just here in his dressing gown and slippers,
Shabby old thing, he was.
It wouldn't surprised me if he hadn't tripped by over the cord, or something.
- Tripped over the cord! - Yes, thank you, Madame.
- And then you called the police? - Yes.
They just wrapped his body up in a blanket and carried it out.
Didn't pay much attention to anything else. Poor old devil.
Did Monsieur Gascoigne receive many visitors, Madame?
Only his model.
He was an artist, you see. She is up there now.
Thank you, Madame.
- Excusez, mademoiselle... - Who are you?
I am Hercule Poirot, a private investigator.
- And my associate, Captain Hastings. - Good morning!
Is there something here that requires an investigation?
No, no. It is more a matter of professional curiosity, that is all.
A small idea. Perhaps you can help us, mademoiselle...
- Is there any reason why I should? - Is there any reason why you should not?
My name is Dulcie Lane. I was Henry Gascoigne's model.
- What else do you want from me? - But that is most helpful.
The bond between the artist and his model is legendary.
- Really? - Oh,yes.
But you would have noticed, if anything in his behaviour would be unusual?
I doubt it. Painters behaviour are always unusual.
They never make up their mind wether to commit suicide or give a party.
- So, nothing out of the way about him? - No. No worse than any of them.
Some odd arragements with his agent, I believe... Peter Makison,
but you'd have to ask him about that.
An agent? So he was successful?
Don't you be misled for all this. Henry wasn't a poor man,
just mean. - Did he have a family?
There'a nephew that he mentioned from time to time,
a musical man. There was a brother too, somewhere out there.
Anthony... Yes, Anthony, but there'd been a falling out between them,
he certainly never spoke of him like brother. Here.
Remarcable likeness. They could have been twins.
Yes. "Two pins in a pot".
This " small idea " of yours...
... what is it?
Oh.. simply a notion.
I saw monsieur Gascoigne in the evening of his death.
I was told that his behaviour had recently been...
... how do you say... uncharacteristic.
But, more than that...
... the mantle of life should fit like a well taylored suit of clothes,
but it did not had so well on that old man in the restaurant.
You see, mademoiselle, I cannot accept,
that the fall of Mr. Gascoigne was accidental.
Hardly the kind of woman to push an old man to his death, Poirot!
The auburn hair, mon ami. Always the auburn hair.
I find it hard to believe, that's all.
She did not seem unduly upset by Monsieur Gascoigne's untimely demise.
And why should she?
- What about that brother? Anthony? - Yes.
We need to find the brother,
but also the artist agent, Peter Makinson.
Thank you, driver.
This is where the the future of criminal investigation lies,
our new Forensic Division. The most advanced of the world.
Won't be long before the lives of you and me will be gone forever,
cast onto the scrap heap of life, like so much ...
... scrap.
And you think that there is nothing to save us?
Not even those "little grey cells" of yours.
Gascoigne, H. We will all be extinct, Poirot. Dinosaurs.
Henry Gascoigne. 68 years of age. Artist by profession.
What's your interest in this, Poirot?
He was an acquaitance of a friend of mine and I merely wish to put his mind at rest.
" Died from broken neck, caused by a fall down the stairs. "
Apparently he was a recluse, bit of an eccentric.
None of the neighbors remember seeing visitors that evening,
or the following morning. - That evening?
The estimated time of death was at or around 09:30PM, on Saturday,
June the 16th. - Remarcable.
Your forensic division is very precise, uh?
Well, no ... there was a letter in the old boy's dressing gown pocket.
It was posted that morning in West One
and arrived in the 09:30 deliver that evening.
He must have gone down to collect it and fallen, on his way back upstairs.
I see.
May I see this letter?
The pathologist still got it, with all Gascoigne's clothes.
-Perhaps you remember who might have sent it? - No, I don't,
it was harmless, you know. - Of course.
- Who was the pathologist did you say? - I didn't.
You take it for me, Poirot. This case is closed.
Yes. Well, let us hope, Chief-Inspector,
the Forensic Sciences, of which you are so proud,
will not replace all the aspects of the detective work.
Let's hope that camaraderie will still play a significant role, non?
His name's Cutter. I better telephone him to make sure
he knows wthat to expect.
You see, Chief-Inspector, we still are very far from beeing the species extinct.
Au revoir, mon ami.
Strong looking fellow. He aged well, we might day.
Still got his own teeth.
Gascoigne?
And the cause of death was a broken neck?
Yes.
Second and third vertebrae... here and here.
You can also notice extensive bruises in the rib cage,
arms and legs, consistent with a steep tumbling fall.
Down the stairs, yes.
Is it possible that Mr. Gascoigne might have suffered a seizure of the heart,
or perhaps that of the brain?
- No. He simply slipped and fell. - I see.
I believe you're able to determine the time of death with some accuracy.
It's never an easy task to ascertain the precise time of the death.
But this letter confirms your medical evidence. uh?
Yes. Gascoigne had been seen in a restaurant,
about 19:30 of the night. - Yes. I was there myself.
And this letter arrived with the 09:30 evening post?
Yes.
The examination of the contents of Gaccoigne's stomach contents reveal
that he had eaten a light supper,
2 to 3 hours before his death. - So it all fits together nicely, non?
May I please borrow this letter, monsieur?
I'm sure you can be entrusted to be a safe keeper, Mr. Poirot.
Of course.
- Are you sitting down, Hastings? - Yes. Yes, I am.
Very good.
- I am coming! - Oh, fine! Fine!
Now...
Hastings, this is a recipe of my mother.
Rabbit.
Cooked in the style of Liege.
I bet it is better than rabbit cooked in the style of Hastings.
Yes. That is quite funny, Hastings.
However, when you are grown-up,
you will find that food is not really the subject suitable for the humour.
- There. - Smells delicious.
Bon. The aroma is the most important ingredient in any dish.
Non, non non, Hastings. Use your spoon. That is the Liege way.
To use the knife is an insult to the cook.
It implies the meat is tough.
- You are not eating? - Unfortunately no.
My left bi-cuspid is still causing me considerable discomfort.
Is it good, Hastings? Please, do not be stinted with your praises.
Oh, it's wonderful!
Tastes more...
... well, rabbity than any rabbit I've ever tasted.
That is the juniper berries.
- Shall I give you some more sauce? - No, not yet.
What was in that envelope they found in old Gascoigne's pocket?
"You are invited to a preview of contemporary European paintings,
recently acquired by the Farringdon Gallery. "
This may be both informative and pleasurable, Hastings.
And is tomorrow.
" Man throwing a stone at a bird. "
Really? Which it which?
Jean Miro, Hastings, an exponent of the surrealist vision.
A work inspired by the dream, non?
Yes, a man with the most individual imagination.
Is there some way I can help you, gentlemen? My name is Makinson.
Peter Makinson? The agent of Henry Gascoigne?
Yes. What a tragic loss!
I understand that your contractual agreement
with Henry Gascoigne was an unusual one, Monsieur?
Unusual!
Have you ever heard of an artist who wouldn't sell his paintings?
-Wouldn't sell? You mean, not at all? -That must have made your work impossible.
I could manage to sell some lesser works... sketches and water colors,
but the oils were never to fall into the hands of the "Philistines",
his name for all collectors and leaders.
So no one actually owns a Gascoigne painting?
He made gifts of some...
... gestures of friendship. I have a small collection,
and Dulcie Lane, his model, has several works,
but he was a man of few friends.
And now, of course, after his death, his paintings can be sold?
- I imagine that would be, sir. - And you monsieur?
You are free to sell your own collection, yes?
But what is all this about? You are not a collector, are you?
Non, monsieur.
I am Hercule Poirot, a private detective.
And I am investigating the circumstances around the death of Henry Gascoigne.
I see.
Perhaps we'd better talk about this in my office.
- Gentlemen. - Thank you.
Ah, that is a picture by Mr. Gascoigne, is it not?
But not his usual model?
No. That was painted years before he met Dulcie Lane.
She is Charlotte Gascoigne. A rare beauty.
- His wife? - No.
Charlotte was married to Anthony Gascoigne, his brother.
There was, I understand, some ill-feeling between them?
Yes.
Henry arrived here one day with this painting
and it asked me to take it into safe-keeping.
- For what reason? - I don't think brother Anthony was keen
on the idea of his wife's naked body being displayed in public.
You know, the way I see it, Poirot,everyone stands to benefit with the old boy's death
Indeed, mon ami. His work was in demand, but unattainable.
His death will create much attention.
-Probably puts the prices through the roof. -Yes.
Whoever is fortunate enough to own an original Gascoigne,
can expect to feather the nest.
- Including Makinson and M.lle Dulcie Lane. - Unbelievable!
Non,non, mon ami. Even the closest acquaintances could be tempted.
- They could have played for launch. - Lunch?
England won the toss, and went to the bat.
Suthcliffe and Hammond returned to the pavillion before lunch.
78-2 at the end of the opening session.
- Chipperfield trapped them both. - Lunch!
Of course, Hastings! Lunch!
- Don't you see? - See what, old m---?
"Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a crumble.
I think you mean "pie", don't you?
- Miss Lemon? - Mr. Poirot.
Raffles, Mr. Poirot.
Such a dashing figure.
Miss Lemon? How did you get on with the musicals?
George Lorrimer is the manager of The Carlton Theatre, Bethnal Green.
Excellent work, Miss Lemon.
Hastings, tonight we must visit the theater.
What's all this about blackbirds, Poirot?
That Saturday evening, Henry Gascoigne finished his meal,
with a blackbird, or rather the blackberry crumble
Now,the juice of the blackberry leaves a dark stain
and yet, the teeth of Henry Gascoigne were not discolored.
- I looked most paticularly. - The waitress must have been mistaken.
It is easily done, you know.
According to the pathologist,
Henry Gascoigne died two hours after eating the light meal.
I do not consider soup, followed by the steak,kidney pudding, to be a light meal,
but suppose that meal was not dinner, but lunch?
But the old boy was seen at the restaurant át 19:30. You saw him.
Yes, but that was not Henry Gascoigne.
That Saturday night, mon ami, I dined, not with Henry Gascoigne,
but with his murderer.
Henry Gascoigne was already lying dead at the foot of the stairs.
And the killer disguised as the old man, was able to leave the scene of the crime,
without rising suspicion. - Not quite.
He walked past the neighbor, mrs. Mullen, without so much as a " Good day ".
But why take the the old boy's place at the restaurant?
To make it appear that Gascoigne was still alive.
So, the question is, who could imitate Henry Gascoigne?
I vote for the brother.
Well, Hastings. it would certainly take a long stretch of imagination,
to see miss Dulcie Lane with the white wig and the whiskers.
Stare down, Poirot!
The detectives with the " small idea. "
Please, mademoiselle, forgive this intrusion.
Not at all, gentlemen.
As you've already seen for yourselves, I have nothing to hide.
No, no, we were up in the gallery...
Miss Lane, I am now completly convinced
that the death of Henry Gascoigne was deliberatly arranged,
by someone he knew well. - Am I a suspect?
I understand that Henry Gascoigne gave you a number of paintings?
He has. Four live studies.
So you are aware no doubt of their value?
Yes, I've had a number of generous offers.
You could be a wealthy woman, miss Lane.
You think I'd part with them? At any price?
Miss Lane, one final question.
Henry Gascoigne's twin brother, Anthony, you know where he can be found?
No, I don't. Perhaps you should ask the nephew.
Thank you, miss Lane.
And now, Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me a great pleasure
to introduce mr. Tommy Pinner!
Who better to masquerade as the old man,
than his twin brother? - Yes, the idea seems most attractive, mon ami.
"I'll give just one more chance. What else can you do"?
"To sing a song".
It's called " Dinah, Come and hold my hand ".
- " Dinah, Come and Hold your Hand"? - Yes, sir.
- It sounds pathetic. - And when it's over,
Dinah comes out and holds me end. - Do you get it?
- And that's the end. - It certainly is.
- It is awful. Atrocious. - Atrocious, sir?
Yes.
- And the fireman, sir? - Oh, that! Worse still.
- But, sir... - Well? What now?
- Do you want the sword swallower? - No!
Come in.
Monsieur George Lorrimer?
No, I am Henry Clarke, George's assistant.
He's not here tonight.
Can you tell me where I might find him this evening, monsieur?
I'm affraid not. He is out of town.
In Brighton, attending to his uncle funeral arrangements
- In Brighton? - Yes, is there something wrong?
Non, non, c'est difficile, monsieur. The fact is, you see,
we were led to believe that Henry Gascoigne would not be buried until next week
and here in London. - Henry?
You've got the wrong chappy. George's talking about his uncle Anthony.
- Died last week. - Anthony?
Yes. The funeral is tomorrow.
«...We therefore commit this body to the ground,
earth to earth, ashes to ashes,
dust to dust.»
A quiet affair, is it not, Hastings?
With both brothers dead,
there aren't Gascoignes left to pay their respects.
Not many suspects left,either.
I'm Lorrimer. George Lorrimer. Anthony's nephew.
- Captain Hastings. - Hercule Poirot, monsieur.
Poirot? The name is familiar. Should I know you?
Perhaps Henry Gascoigne might have mentioned me, in passing.
- You knew Uncle Henry? - I was an acquaintance,
but many years ago.
I only heard of the double tragedy last evening.
and I felt the need to express my condolences to Mrs. Gascoigne
and to yourself in person, monsieur.
- I'm sorry, Mrs. Gascoigne? - Yes, the wife of Anthony.
Oh. you mean Mrs. Hill, the housekeeper. She looked after him for years.
- Then madame Gascoigne... - Dead, yes.
Ten years, now. Marked the beginning of the end for the old Anthony.
He became a virtual recluse.
But listen, I am being terribly impolite. Why don't you both come back to the house?
There is no wake, you understand.
but I'm sure mrs . Hill will provide us with some refreshments
An offer that is most generous, monsieur. We accept.
The least I can do.
Thank you.
Anyway, I'd like to hear about you and Henry.
Henry's passion for painting once led a small thaws on my own imagination
but alas!
My talent as painter it was not as great as my ambition.
May I be of some assistance, Mrs. Hill?
I can manage very well. Thank you, sir.
Thank you.
And the two brothers, they were twins?
Yes, not identical, but they bore a great resemblance.
And also they had together a great rapport, non?
Rapport? No, not at all. They hadn't spoken in 20 years.
Sacre! What could have caused such disharmony?
Well, years ago, Charlotte was Henry's model,
that's too light a word, she was more his inspiration.
Ah! The Muse...
And along came Anthony, and stole the girl's heart.
He whisked her away, leaving his brother a broken man.
The wounds from such a battle run deep.
Well, their differences are well and truly buried now.
Both had good innings.
"Ups stumps and back to the pavillion.
- If you'll excuse the expression. - Oh, yes.
A most distressing time to you, madame.
Nurse, maid and companion, I was.
I cooked and cleaned all those years.
And he goes, just like that.
Not a thank you for all my trouble. Not a penny by way of rememberance.
Not even a small legacy in the will for your services?
There was no will.
I expect it all goes to him. The next of kin.
His right, I suppose. But he doesn't deserve any of it.
He wouldn't come to see his uncle, when he was at his last breath
Mrs. Hill, could you please tell me exactly
when mr. Anthony Gascoigne pass away?
One in the afternoon, last Friday.
It was just me and him, at the end.
I told Mr. George, Mr. Lorrimer, that is,
that there wasn't much time, but it was the Sunday before he arrived.
" By tea on the second day, the Aussies are 63 points without loss,
chasing England first in its total of 440 ...
Leyland made 109 and Ames 120 ".
You know, that's the first time the King has made century in a test.
I wonder if the weather will hold.
Hastings, the cricket...
... it occupies too many of your little grey cells .
Mrs. Hill, thank you so much for giving us of your time.
Would you like us now to walk you back to the house?
No, thank you, sir.
I just want to seat and listen to the band for a bit.
Well that was quite a yarn you were spinning back there, old man.
The fires of the artistic endeavior. I nearly blushed.
Ah! Hastings, you do not understand the finer feelings.
- But you were lying! - Non, non, non, Hastings.
I did not want to cause mr. Lorrimer further grief,
with the revelation that one of his uncles had been murdered.
And by posing as an acquaintance of Henry Gascoigne,
my inquiries appeared no more than innocent curiosity.
Well, certainly puts a point in my theory.
Ah, yes! You expected more of this brotherly intrigue.
"La crime passionelle", hmm?
Non, non, mon ami. We have been running up the wrong tree.
Twice every week,
Henry Gascoigne walked from his house here to the Bishop's Chophouse.
He was a man of routine, there would be no variation.
Now, that Saturday evening,
after the impostor had pushed Henry Gascoigne to his death,
he would have followed this route, as a matter of course.
Hastings, where do you think can a man enter a place as one character
and emerge as another completely different character?
Well, there's a boarding house or a hotel.
Without arousing the slighter suspicion?
After the masquerade at the restaurant he'd need to abandon his disguise.
He would want to change back to his own clothes in a hurry and secure his alibi.
Discretion would be the problem.
I think I have seen the answer, mon ami.
If you expect a shower or some'ing, you've come to the wrong shop.
I can assure you, monsieur that I am in the right shop.
Don't you come all dancy with me, squab.
- I'm sorry ...? - I met your sort before.
Non, non, non, I do not think so.
And if I mistake not,
that barret you are wearing, would've suited better on a man of an artistic calling.
But what's goin'on?
Are you aware, or are you not
that the witholding of evidence that might lead to conviction of a known criminal
is a most serious offense? - What evidence?
The yellow neckerchief worn by a man wanted for questioning,
in connection with the murder of Henry Gascoigne!
There will also be the corduroy jacket with the trousers,
a vest coat with the barret,
and a cane in a dark wood.
They were lying right there, why not? I wasn't going to throw them out.
I might make a few bob 'ere on the line.
You have been diligent and honest, sir.
I trust that this will compensate for the few bob you might have made.
Well, Dulcie Lane was sitting for a live class from 1
until 5 on the Saturday afternoon, so, we can eliminate her.
Oh, yes. Miss Lane is innocent.
... Verity marks. He's running now.
1, 2, 3, 4 and his arm goes--.
Darling is out. He stretches...
Makinson too, I'm affraid. He was in Paris.
That brings us back to square one. - Non, mon ami, far from it.
We are about to make our final move.
Kindly ask miss Lemon to get me Chief-Inspector Japp on the telephone.
... a quicker ball this time and Darling miss,
the ball's in the air and Sutcliffe takes it,
that gets a simple cut. Darling does goes back for more
That's Verity's third "wicket" of the morning.
Australia out now, 204-4.
- Good afternoon, Teddy. - Hello, sir.
Ah, Monsieur Lorrimer, I'm so glad. Please, do come up here.
Poirot, what's going on?
- Who are your friends? - Captain Hastings, of course you know
and this is Chief-Inspector Japp, from Scotland Yard.
We have reason to believe, mr. Lorrimer that your uncle's death was not an accident.
- Not an accident? - Please.
This clothing was part of the assassin disguise.
It was discarded close to the Bishop's Chop House,
after he had masqueraded as your uncle, following the murder.
The threads of white hair are from the wig, sir.
The darker hairs will be the guilty party, they should be an easy match.
Wigs? Masquerade?
Yes, a devious finale to a sinister plot, monsieur.
You see, that Saturday evening, after he had pushed Henry Gascoigne to his death,
the assassin searched though the correspondence on his desk.
He retrieved this envelope,
which he had sent the day before.
What could be more innocent than an invitation to an Art Gallery?
However, he had one last artistic task to perform.
But he was not a skilled craftsman.
He changed the postmark from the 15th
to the 16th
and smudged the mark on the blotter to further conceal the forgery.
He placed the envelope in your uncle's dressing gown pocket,
and then disguised as the old man,
he took his place at the Bishop's Chop House,
and so it appeared that Henry Gascoigne had fallen to his death,
that Saturday evening, but after the 9,30 evening post had been delivered.
Whoever could do such a thing?
At first, I suspected hid colleagues, but they all had solid alibis.
And then, naturally I turned my attention towards his family,
but Anthony was dead. It appeared that you were the only living relative.
And of course you were...
And where were you when your uncle was murdered, monsieur?
Where was I?
Well... I'd be in here, at the theater, for the second performance.
- Of course. - Uh,yes.But that'd be Saturday evening,Mr. Lorrimer.
Neither the staff, nor the artists say they remember seeing you on the Saturday afternoon.
At which time, I would say, you'd be attending some business, yes...
... the murder of your uncle!
Do you think that I killed Henry?
This is madness! I had no quarrel with him...
After Anthony's death, Henry was the only living relative
to stand between you and Gascoigne estate.
This is a lie, a damned lie!
We have acquired a sample of the typeface,
from the typewriter in your office, monsieur.
It am certain that it will be the perfect match with the address on the envelope.
The signature of the murderer.
So, it was the Music Hall act that made you suspect Lorrimer?
Well, it was an very good impression of an old man,
and Lorrimer must have seen it many times.
Indeed. And Lorrimer had been ready for many weeks.
When Mrs. Hill, the housekeeper, telephoned,
with word Anthony's imminent death,
Lorrimer knew that all of Anthony's money would go to Henry Gascoigne,
because there was no will.
But why'n earth would Lorrimer masquerade as ol' Gascoigne in the previous Monday night?
Dress reharsal. Had to be sure of the the disguise on the night.
And nearly got away with it!
You cannot play Othelo simply by blacking a face.
You had to think like him more in general!
Lorrimer performance was fatally flawed.
Hastings, suddenly you look very pale. Are you unwell?
The test, Poirot. Extraordinary.
Listen. " Verity takes 14 "wickets" for 70 runs,
" on a day when England ball out Australia twice,
to win the second Test "
Six "wickets" in the last hour!
And after the weekend rains you are surprised, mon ami?
Australians are used to hard Pitches.
Lord's "wickets" would be decidedly sticky,non?.
So, it is not the day for the stroke play,
no, it is the day for the art of spin balling
and Hedley Verity is the biggest exponent alive.
Balling the left arm, the leg branded to the right handed.
He would have them marching to the Long Room in no time.
He has flight variation, the "China man",
and the most deadly quicker ball that deep skin to a Yorker.
Yes, on such a day, Monsieur Verity would consider what, 14-70? A fair Room.