James Gordon Bentley, you have been tried for murder.
Abigail McGinty was found by the baker on the floor of her sitting room,
extensive wounds to the head.
Her house in Broadhinny evinced no sign of forced entry.
All the police surgeon was able to ascertain
was that she'd been hit with a sharp, heavy implement,
probably some time the night before.
You, Bentley, were suspected from the very beginning.
You knew where she kept her money. You'd recently lost your employment.
And then the investigating officer, Superintendent Spence,
found £60 in legal tender under a stone by the garden path.
So you had the motive, and you had the opportunity.
Will the defendant please rise?
How do you find the defendant?
We find the defendant guilty.
James Gordon Bentley,
for the premeditated murder of Abigail McGinty,
I sentence you to be taken from here to a place of execution,
there to be hanged by the neck until you are dead.
Well done, Superintendent. You brought a first-rate case.
There was never much doubt about the outcome.
But I don't think he did it. He was just a lad from the village.
I daresay, to the jury, Bentley looked like a murderer.
He's a bit unappealing, a bit shifty, but...
...in my experience, your actual murderers tend to look...
well, cocky.
Not this little fellow.
Something in my water says he just isn't the murdering type.
Which is why I've come to you.
I can't shake off this feeling that I've sent an innocent man to the gallows.
Pale ale, sir. Will that be acceptable?
Marvellous. Thanks.
A crème de menthe, sir.
Merci, George.
But this man, he had a trial that was fair?
I'd say so. He had a decent counsel.
So, according to the law, this James Bentley, he has nothing to complain of.
If he's hanged for something he didn't do, he's got something to complain of.
But your job, it is over.
Yes.
They put me on a fraud case.
I'm off to Glasgow.
It's a very fraudulent place, Glasgow.
So, what is it that you suggest?
I wondered if you'd look into it.
You perceive things in... pardon me, a funny kind of way.
You might find something I've missed. It's the devil of an imposition to ask you...
Do you know what is the biggest problem of my life?
- No. - An abundance of leisure.
I will look into this for you, Superintendent, with great joy.
But what if I discover that James Bentley is guilty after all?
I'll put his head in the noose myself.
I lived with my mum.
I looked after her. Until she died.
Then I had to sell up.
- So you became the lodger of Mrs McGinty? - Yeah.
I was taken on at Breather & Scuttle in Kilchester.
It's about four miles from Broadhinny on the train.
Sorry, but I'm not familiar with Breather & Scuttle.
They sell houses.
Well, I never sold no houses, but I showed a few people round.
Most of them never came back, so...
Well, Mr Scuttle let me go.
And I couldn't get another job.
- And so your money, it ran out? - Yeah.
£3 a week she charged me.
And so you became... What is the phrase? En arrière.
...in arrears with your rent.
I was two months behind, yeah.
Ah-Ià.
Well...
So tell to me, if you please, what were you doing on the night Mrs McGinty died?
What's the point?
- I'm for the chop. - No, no, no.
If you have the fresh evidence, you can still lodge an appeal.
- But I haven't got fresh evidence, have I? - I have told you, I am Hercule Poirot.
Perhaps I can discover for you some.
Well, thank you, sir.
Thank you very much.
- Bon. - Good.
Et maintenant, the night of the death of Mrs McGinty?
She had her supper about half six -
bread, kipper and margarine.
I goes out for a walk about seven, came back about nine.
I go straight to bed.
The next morning, there she is.
Dead. That's it.
How did you feel at that moment?
Well, I hadn't had any breakfast, so...
I was starving.
Oh, I'm so sorry, we've just closed.
If you are looking for a property, I'm sure Mr Scuttle can see you tomorrow.
No, no, no. No, Mademoiselle, thank you, but it is not a property that I seek.
Hercule Poirot. I make the further enquiry into a former employee of Breather & Scuttle,
Monsieur James Bentley.
Is there new evidence? Is he going to appeal?
Oh, I'm so glad.
You liked him?
Amy called him a drip, but...
yes, I liked him.
He writes, you know? He's a decent chap really.
It makes me very happy to hear that, Mademoiselle.
Tell to me, if you please, did he ever talk about his landlady Mrs McGinty?
He said she gave him kippers too often.
James doesn't like kippers.
And did he ever mention to you that he knew where she kept her money?
Actually, he did. He said she kept it under a floorboard, because she didn't trust the bank.
He reckoned he could help himself to it any time. Lord, I shouldn't have said that.
No, Mademoiselle, de rien.
Now I must hurry myself to catch my train to Broadhinny.
But tell me, Mademoiselle, how do you call yourself?
Maude Williams.
Mademoiselle Williams, the question, it is this:
If James Bentley did not kill Mrs McGinty,
who did?
I hope you'll be comfortable, Mr Poirot.
If there's anything you'd like to change, please say so.
The only thing I would change, Madame, were it within my power,
would be to provide you with a suitable domestic.
I know, it's a terrible bother.
We had a really good daily, but she was murdered.
Just my luck.
She came every Monday, every Thursday, regular as clockwork.
Why are the bloody geese in the hall, Maureen?
Ah, hello.
Monsieur.
New PG?
I hope you enjoy your stay. It's a decent part of the world.
Our terms are weekly in advance if you don't mind.
Dinner shouldn't be too long now.
Madame...
the window in my room, it does not close properly.
There is the current of the cold air.
I know.
Johnny's father and mother were badly off, poor dears. Never did a thing to the house.
And when we came back from India, Johnny couldn't afford to either.
And now he's writing his memoirs - Highways And Byways Of Hindustan.
That's why the place is falling down and that's why we take in PGs.
PGs?
Paying Guests.
Good boy.
Things are a bit buggered at the minute, financially.
Can't be easy for Johnny in the village. They're all very nice people in Broadhinny.
I say, do you mind me slicing these in here? The smell in the kitchen is unacceptable.
Not at all, Madame.
Perhaps I should tell you a little bit more about myself.
- Uh-huh. - I am a detective.
Are you?
- Mais, oui. - Oh.
Hercule Poirot.
The most famous detective in the world.
And I am here to investigate the murder of Mrs McGinty.
Ouch! Ooh!
Madame, you will forgive me, but I do not think that tonight I will require the dinner.
Take them twice a day, Bessie, and the hot flushes should stop.
Thank you, Doctor. Thank you.
Good day.
Monsieur le Docteur.
S'il vous plaît, Madame.
I says to Auntie, "You oughtn't have a man like that in the house,
wandering around, muttering to himself. He might go off his head. "
And, of course, he did.
Dreadful.
Then he goes and hides the loot under a stone. I mean, what kind of halfwit does that?
If you please, may I ask of you some questions about your auntie?
Oh, she's dead, poor soul.
She was 64.
My uncle died young of pneumonia. So Auntie goes out as a charlady.
There's plenty of rich people hereabouts who don't know how to mop their own floors.
And your auntie...
did she live in this house for long?
Oh, forever.
And you, Madame Burch?
We were lucky to get this. It's got a garden.
Oh, so your auntie left you this house in her will?
Don't say we wanted her money, the little bit she had.
Don't think we wanted the house either.
But you're not going to say no, are you, if you inherit?
What did Auntie like?
Normal things. You know, knitting... cats and dogs.
She loved her Sunday papers.
All the film stars and that.
Tea?
Merci.
No milk, if you please?
- No milk? - Non.
You foreigners are fussy, aren't you?
Merci, Madame.
Bessie, who's this?
This is Mr... Ooh, I can't pronounce his name. He came to see where poor Auntie was killed.
This is my husband.
- What are you doing in my house? - He's got a letter, Joe, from the police.
It's like I told your superintendent. We was at the cinema in Kilchester.
That's three miles from Drymouth, four miles from here.
- But you travel by the train? - No, mate, can't afford it.
We travel by bike, don't we, Bessie?
Or I don't travel at all.
Mademoiselle.
How can I help you, sir?
I am Hercule Poirot.
And if you please, I would like to buy some writing paper and some envelopes.
This is a nice blue bond.
So, what brings you to Broadhinny, then?
The murder of Mrs McGinty.
Oh, that.
That was a shocking carry on.
You knew her well?
We passed the time of day. Anything else?
Yes. If you please,
12 one-penny stamps.
Tell to me, you know her niece Madame Burch?
I know Bessie Burch.
- And Mrs McGinty, she was fond of her? - Very fond, I think.
And the husband of her niece, Mrs McGinty was fond of him also?
As far as I know.
And when did you last see Mrs McGinty?
Let's think. She died on a Wednesday.
It must have been early on Monday. She came in for a bottle of ink.
- A bottle of ink? - I expect she wanted to write a letter.
Morning, Mrs Carpenter.
Miss Sweetiman.
Oh, sorry.
- Good gracious, it's you, Monsieur Poirot. - Madame Oliver. What are you...
I'm so sorry.
- But what was it? - An apple core. Won't do you any harm.
What are you doing here in the sticks? You don't live here?
Non.
No. You live in that awful modernist place in town.
- So it's a murder? - Oui.
- Not my hostess, I hope? - Who is your hostess?
She lives somewhere around here.
A place called Laburnums.
Any idea where it is?
A chap called Robin Upward. Supposed to be dramatising one of my books.
Oh, fèlicitations, Madame!
To have a work performed on the stage, superbe! Oh!
Turn to the right.
- Who's been killed this time? - An elderly charlady.
Oh.
A young man, he has been sentenced to hang.
But he didn't do it, and you know who did?
- Splendid. - I do not know who did it.
I'm not even convinced that the young man, he is innocent.
Men are so slow.
I'll soon tell you who did it.
A woman's intuition, that's what you need.
Now, if a woman were head of Scotland Yard, well...
Ariadne!
Oh, Lord, it's him. Shakespeare. Don't worry, I'll be discreet.
No, Madame, I do not wish you to be discreet.
- Truly? - Truly.
So pleased you could come. I just had the most fantastic idea for the dènouement.
Have you? Good.
Robin, this is Monsieur Poirot.
- Delighted. - Enchantè, Monsieur.
Come on, let's have a drink.
I'm extremely pleased to meet you, Mrs Oliver. Robin's told me so much about you.
I've read all your books.
This is an old friend of mine, Monsieur Hercule Poirot.
Madame.
We met in the village. Just by chance.
- Robin, get some drinks, get cigarettes. - Yes, of course.
Are you an author, too, Monsieur Poirot?
Je regrette que non.
He's a detective. A real one.
You know, Sherlock Holmes type. Deer stalkers, violins, that sort of thing.
And he's here to solve a murder.
But who has been murdered, Monsieur?
You already know of it, Madame. It occurred last November, the 22nd.
Mrs McGinty?
Oui.
- That's all over, surely? No, no, it's not over at all.
They've arrested the wrong man. What was his name?
Monsieur James Bentley.
But he didn't do it. Poirot's got to find the real murderer before they execute the other one.
I expect his little grey cells are churning.
It's all frightfully exciting.
Ah.
A white lady for you, my darling.
Thank you, my dear.
Mrs Oliver. - Thank you so much.
Monsieur?
Non, merci.
She used to work here. Mrs McGinty.
If you can call it work.
Going through drawers, peering into one's chequebook, the nerve!
Don't get your blood pressure up, Madre. She had her uses.
Robin, of course you're right. She did sweep and scrub.
Robin is as good as a daughter to me, Mrs Oliver.
He thinks of everything.
You're wasting your time snooping in Broadhinny.
We're all very nice people here.
- Good luck with your play. - Good luck with your murder.
Monsieur.
- Au revoir, Monsieur. - Au revoir.
Do you have everything that you need, Madame?
Yes, I'm perfectly well provided for. I have reams of paper, oceans of ink.
And I'm sure Robin has gin. What more does a girl need?
But you have brought your own ink?
Always do.
Who'd be without ink?
Madame.
No, she always went down to the post office and used the telephone.
So she never wrote to you at all?
No. Auntie didn't hold with writing letters.
But if someone wrote to her, she would write back?
I suppose, but who'd write to her, though?
Most of the furniture we sold.
The police kept some things.
But everything else...
Madame, please, allow me to help you.
Ooh... Everything else...
is in here.
Three days before she died.
Aren't you staying for lunch? It's pancakes, if I can get them out of the pan.
No, Madame, it is necessary that I go to London.
But I return tomorrow and then perhaps I shall teach you how to make the omelette. Au revoir.
To the station, if you please.
"The Sunday Comet. November 19th.
Eva Kane.
Her kindly relatives in the New World offered her a home after Craig was sentenced.
Changing her name, the pitiful girl seduced by a cold-blooded murderer,
left these shores forever.
'My daughter shall grow up happy and innocent,' she said.
'Her life shall not be tainted by the past. "'
Your hot chocolate, sir.
Merci, George.
Voilà. Le deuxième photo.
"Lily Gamboll was too young to be tried for murder.
But her conduct during her years at approved school
is said to have been exemplary.
Now, having atoned for her tragic lapse,
Lily Gamboll lives somewhere, a good citizen, a wife, a mother.
'Where', asks the Sunday Comet, 'are these women now?"'
Mademoiselle Horsfall, after writing an article such as this,
do you often receive the letters?
You bet. Some people have nothing more constructive to do than write letters.
- Let's make this snappy, can we? - I will endeavour to be snappy.
Do you remember receiving a letter from a Mrs McGinty of Broadhinny?
McGinty? McGinty? I remember the name.
Conked on the head by the lodger, right?
Not a very noteworthy crime.
Non. A charlady merely.
I mean, no sex appeal.
OK, now I do remember, McGinty from Broadway. Practically illiterate.
- No, Broadhinny. - Broadway.
Atrocious handwriting.
So you may have mistaken it?
I didn't mistake it. She wrote from Broadway.
Something about a photograph. She knew where there was a photograph like in the paper.
Would we pay her anything for it and how much?
- And how did you respond? - I sent back the standard reply.
- To Broadway. - Broadhinny.
So she never received it.
But she did recognise a photograph and that is most interesting.
Mademoiselle Horsfall, I thank you very, very much indeed.
Pardon me, just one other thing,
this article that you wrote on the individual cases, the tragic women,
is it accurate?
Accurate? Heck, who knows?
No. What I mean to say is that the characters of your heroines
may not be quite as you represent them?
Look. It's romantic fiction for a Sunday paper.
Now, I've no doubt Eva Kane was a thorough bitch.
As for little Lily Gamboll,
well, I wouldn't let her anywhere near my cutlery.
Eva Kane went abroad, you know, to the New World, to the Dominions, to start a new life.
And there is nothing to suggest is there, Mademoiselle, that...
she did not return to this country?
Not a goddamn thing.
Au revoir.
The incomparable Hercule Poirot.
Monsieur le Docteur.
Well, this is an honour.
Have we crime in our midst? My wife will want to know.
No. I seek fresh evidence in the McGinty case
and I understand that she was employed here.
Would you say that she was a person who was truthful?
Truthful?
What do you mean, "truthful"?
I mean truthful in the way most people mean truthful.
If she were to tell you something, was she likely to be telling the truth?
Well, I really couldn't say. You'd have to ask Mrs Scott the housekeeper.
- You employ a housekeeper as well? - Yes.
Mrs Scott's knees aren't very good.
We just had McGinty for scrubbing the kitchen floor, that sort of thing, blacking the grates.
She was an excellent worker.
There's little doubt that Bentley did it, you know.
- Did you know him? - Yes, he consulted me once or twice.
Should have been more, but he couldn't afford it. Nervous type.
Coddled by his mother when she was alive. One sees that so often.
We've another case in point right here.
- Oui? - Yes.
Mrs Upward.
Laura Upward. She keeps that son of hers tied to her apron strings.
Oh, he's a clever enough fellow, Robin.
Not quite as clever as he thinks he is, mind you.
And she, to my way of thinking, insulates him...
from real life.
- Have they been here long? - In Broadhinny? Only three or four years.
- And you yourselves, Doctor? - We've been here about eight.
I gather you're staying at Longmeadows.
- Oui. - Poor devil.
It's coming to something when the best family in the county has to take in lodgers.
Ah, this is my wife, Mrs Rendell.
- Madame. - Do you know who this is, Shelagh?
This is the great detective Hercule Poirot.
Don't mind her.
She does that.
We're both very crime-minded. Read a lot about it.
Oh, really? What, the criminology?
Or the fiction? Or the Sunday papers?
All three.
And do you descend as low as to the Sunday Comet?
Where would Sunday be without it?
Let me fetch you a drink.
You do see, don't you, Ariadne, darling?
Here we have your fantastic young man, your Sven Hjerson.
He's arriving dripping with sweat, having skied the ten miles from the village.
- He's 60. - No, no, no.
I um...
I see him more as... 35.
But I've been writing books about him for 30 years. He was at least 35...
Ariadne, darling, if he's 60,
then how can we have any sexual tension between him and your young girl?
Your Ingrid? That would just make him a dirty old man.
Well, then he can't be 60. He must be 35.
All the people who have read my books know how old he is.
Ariadne, darling, I have explained this several times now.
It's not a book, it's a play. We must have some sexual tension between Sven and Ingrid.
You know how it is. They're antagonistic at first, but secretly they like each other.
- Until finally... - Sven Hjerson never cared for women.
What?
Oh, no, no, Ariadne, you can't make him a pansy.
I mean, he's an outdoors sort of chap.
- He skis. - He does not ski.
He's 60!
I have to go for a walk.
What the hell do you want?
Excusez-moi.
- Madame Carpenter. - I don't require any cleaning fluids, go away.
If you please.
Hercule Poirot.
And I have a few questions to ask you about the death of Mrs McGinty last November.
- I don't know who you mean. - You do not remember the McGinty?
No, I don't. Now, be off.
But you surely remember her murder.
Or is the murder of servants so common in this place that you do not even notice it?
Oh, the murder. Yes, of course, I'd forgotten the old woman's name.
Even though she worked for you here in this house?
She didn't. I wasn't living here then.
Mr Carpenter and I were only married three months ago.
But she did work for you on Fridays.
When you were Mrs Selkirk and lived in Rose Cottage.
If you know the answers to everything,
I don't see why you bother asking questions.
She was only a stupid old charwoman. Kept her money under the floorboards, for pity's sake.
And somebody murdered her for it.
- Like an item in the Sunday papers. - Ah, the Sunday papers. Oui.
Like the Sunday Comet.
Do you take the Sunday Comet, Madame?
We take The Observer and The Sunday Times.
I recommend the Sunday Comet for the photographs if for nothing else.
Guy!
Foreigner. I think he's press.
He's been asking questions about that horrid murder last year, some old char.
I hate things like that. Really.
Look here, have you been annoying my wife?
No, Monsieur,
simply I make the fresh inquiry into the circumstances of the death of Mrs McGinty.
God.
Quiet, Eve.
Monsieur, she came to you on Wednesdays. Wednesday was the day of her death.
So she was here on that day?
I'm spectacularly busy. I'm running for Parliament.
I really don't have time for all this.
Monsieur, all I want to know is if she said something to you on that day
that caught your attention.
Did she talk very much?
She talked all the time. That class of person always does.
One doesn't exactly listen.
Anyway, she didn't know she was going to be murdered, so what does it matter?
Such a brutal crime.
Meat chopper.
The police never found the murder weapon.
Oh, we all know it was a meat chopper. Bentley must have hidden it somewhere.
In the same way as he has hidden her money under a stone?
I don't quite see what you're driving at. She was just an old biddy.
- A frightful liar, too. - That is interesting.
- Eve. - What lies did she tell, Madame?
Stupid things. About people. Things that aren't true.
Eve! Be quiet.
- You're not really a journalist, are you? - Monsieur, I...
Croft!
The date of execution has been set for Monday fortnight.
Have you any ideas?
Anything at all?
Here are the photographs.
The ones the Sunday Comet used.
You'll never make an identification from them.
You recall the Craig case, Poirot?
Oui, d'accord. Alfred Craig, the town clerk of Parminster.
And Eva Kane, 19 years of age.
She it is who falls in love with Craig.
And Craig with her.
And one day, the neighbours, they hear that the wife has been ordered abroad for her health.
But... her health it declines and in time she dies.
But she does not die on the French Riviera.
Non.
She dies in the cellar in Parminster.
Poisoned.
Enfin, Craig, he is executed and Eva Kane, who is expecting a child,
flees from the country.
Yes, she went to Australia and I can tell you the name she took.
It was Hope. Evelyn Hope.
Colleagues of mine think that Eva Kane was a clever little actress.
That she did the murder and Craig swung for it.
But if it is true...
- There's no evidence... - No, but if it is true that Eva Kane is a killer,
then peut-être she may kill again.
Then there's Lily Gamboll.
Lily Gamboll.
She is rescued from a tenement that was overcrowded in the East End of London.
She was placed in the care of her aunt in the suburbs.
Wimbledon.
And one evening, Lily Gamboll wished to go to the pictures,
but her aunt, she said, "Non. "
So Lily Gamboll picks up the meat chopper from the table, swings it at the head of her protector,
and because her aunt, she is weak and small...
the blow it killed her.
Lily Gamboll used a chopper on her aunt
and McGinty was dispatched with a similar instrument.
If Mrs McGinty saw the photograph, it was in one of her regular houses.
And if Eva Kane is still alive,
she must have more than 60 years and her daughter would be in her 30s.
We have only met one person in Broadhinny
who has the right age to be Eva Kane.
And that is Madame Upward.
But she suffers from the arthritis, she is confined to the wheelchair.
Also she does not have a daughter, only a son.
Whom she adores.
But if Mrs Upward was Eva Kane,
mightn't her son kill Mrs McGinty for the sake of his mother's reputation?
Non. I think he might use it for publicity for one of his plays.
But there are three women who have the right age to be the daughter of Eva Kane.
Shelagh Rendell, the wife of the doctor.
Maureen Summerhayes from Longmeadows.
And Eve Carpenter.
Let us first consider the daughter of Eva Kane.
Maureen Summerhayes, she does not strike me as a "clever little actress",
even though she has been away for many years in India.
Shelagh Rendell, she is afraid of something, but of what I cannot discover.
But Eve Carpenter,
a woman who wears... what is the word, maquillage... the make-up most expensive.
Married to a man with the ambitions political.
Who has a great sense of his own importance.
And there is also something else about Eve Carpenter.
She is so vain that she will not wear the spectacles
or only those that have a tint.
And without the spectacles, she cannot even see to cross the room.
But, you know, from the point of view of age,
- any one of these three women could also be... ... Lily Gamboll.
At the time of the death of Mrs McGinty, Madame Carpenter was not Madame Carpenter.
She was a young widow.
Very badly off.
Living in the cottage of a labourer.
Engaged to the rich man of the neighbourhood.
If only Guy Carpenter had discovered he was about to marry a woman of low origin,
who had bludgeoned to death her aunt with a meat chopper...
You do think it's Eve Carpenter, don't you?
I do not know.
Peut-être she has the skeletons in the armoire.
Mais, certain, there must be some reason that she tells to me that Mrs McGinty was a liar.
The whole thing is damned thin.
Does anyone really commit murder for the reasons we've been considering?
Ah.
The passion for respectability, it is very strong, Superintendent.
These are not artists or bohemians.
No, very nice people live in Broadhinny.
They tell to me so themselves.
I think that you do not originate from Kilchester.
No.
Moved here about a year ago. I was in London before that.
Tired of it.
Tired of London? May I ask what was your employment?
I worked in publicity.
And now you work for Breather & Scuttle?
I fancied a change.
But do you make progress, that's what I want to know?
Mademoiselle, we do not have any suspects. We do not have the murder weapon.
And we do not have any evidence that James Bentley did not do it.
So to speak truly, non, we do not make the progress.
But there are only two weeks until they hang him.
Argh!
Thank you. Thank you very much.
My pleasure.
Superintendent Spence, if you please.
Superintendent! I have some very good news for you.
Non, non, non, non.
It is that someone has attempted to kill me.
The golfer turns to his caddy and says, "Why do you keep looking at your watch?"
It's him.
I've had a look at everybody, and it's him.
It's always the doctor.
Thank you so much for coming to my little soirèe, Monsieur Poirot.
Madame.
I wish I could have found some more intellectual company for you both.
But...
She's not as bad as she makes out, in my opinion.
If only she'd make a little more effort, she'd be up on her pins in no time.
She lets young Robin do everything.
I hear she gets about when she wants to.
You know, yesterday somebody tried to push me under a train in Kilchester.
- Good gracious. - I think they intended to kill me.
That Dr Rendell had a surgery in Kilchester yesterday. So that settles it.
No, no, no, not quite. Monsieur and Madame Carpenter, they were also there.
He was speaking at the meeting political. She was doing... the shopping.
Major Summerhayes, he was there also.
Buying the pig feet.
Robin Upward's in the clear. He and I were at work all day on that wretched dramatisation.
Now he wants Sven having sex in a sauna.
Sven's never had sex in his life.
You don't know how I suffer.
For I too suffer.
The cooking of Madame Summerhayes, it is beyond description.
It is not cooking at all.
And the currents of the cold air, the long hairs of the dogs,
the chairs, the terrible, terrible bed in which I try to sleep.
And the coffee?
Words cannot describe to you the fluid they serve to you as coffee.
I do like parties. Such lots of lovely gin.
And it's all thanks to you, Mrs Oliver.
I wish I could write books. I can't do anything really.
There was a woman writing in the paper the other day, the Sunday Comet.
A very, very silly woman. Horsfall or something.
She was asking whether it's better to let your child be adopted and have every advantage -
every advantage - or whether you should keep it, whatever your circs.
Idiot.
I was adopted. I had every advantage.
It's always hurt.
Really sodding hurt. To know that my mother didn't want me.
I was so cruelly abandoned.
Just be thankful someone took you in, darling. It's cold out there.
Well, I wouldn't give up my children, if I had any...
for all the advantages in the world.
- Come along, old girl. - I feel so alone.
- Let's get you home, dear.
No.
So er... Monsieur Poi... Poi... Poirot,
I suppose you have reason for thinking James Bentley didn't do it.
- Oh, tell us, please. - If he didn't kill her, who did?
- Haven't you got any clues, Poirot? - That's it, clues.
Clues that mean everything to the detective and nothing to you
- until at the end you kick yourself. - I usually kick myself at the beginning.
Come on, Poirot, give us a glimpse of the workings of your colossal brain.
You wish for clues?
Voilà.
- What frightful frumps. - Who are they?
Who's that awful child?
My dear, that hat.
But why are they clues?
Who are they?
You do not recognise these photographs?
Recognise?
You do not, shall I say, remember having seen one of these photographs before?
No.
Madame Carpenter?
Madame Rendell?
- Madame Rendell, you perhaps? - Oh, I...
Ah, yes. Madame Upward.
You recognise one of these photographs, do you not?
Yes.
I think so.
Which one?
So you have seen this photograph before? When?
Oh, I can't...
Shh, Madre.
Quite recently.
I can't remember where.
But I'm sure I've seen that photograph before.
Mrs McGinty also recognised the photograph.
And now Mrs McGinty, she is dead.
You must tell me anything you know, Madame. Anything at all.
You are a woman who is secretive, Madame.
When I come to a decision,
I act.
Knowledge is power. Power must only be used for the right ends.
You'll excuse my suggesting that you don't perhaps appreciate...
...the pattern of our English country life.
In other words,
you say to me, that you are only a damn foreigner, huh?
Be careful, Madame.
There is danger.
Where is it, Joe, where's the money?
Woman, mind your business, all right?
You're doing it again.
Just like before.
We don't pay rent now, so they can't kick us out.
We own the bloody place!
I think I'll smoke.
Good night.
All right.
Shh.
I've never been so humiliated.
You embarrassed me in public, you stupid woman!
You embarrassed me! You lost all our money!
At least I had something to inherit which is more than you did!
For God's sake, shut up!
Don't speak to me like that! I'll kill you!
I'll kill you with my own bare hands!
It's the telephone for you.
Merci, Madame.
Madame! There is also a new current of cold air in my room.
Hercule Poirot.
I've got a another theory. Joe Burch.
Married to that niece of McGinty.
They had money troubles. Joe fritters it. They can't pay the rent.
Joe leaves the cinema in Kilchester,
cycles the four miles to Broadhinny,
clobbers the old girl, then pedals back just in time for the credits.
Then they inherit the cottage.
Got it? See you later.
Here, boy! Come on!
Where have you got to? Come on!
S'il vous plaît, Madame.
What is this utensil?
- Oh, you've found that, have you? - Oui.
It's a sugar cutter or sugar hammer or something.
For chopping up sugar. It's rather fun, isn't it?
- Oh, my head. - You brought it back perhaps from India?
Oh, no.
We bought this at the jumble sale at Christmas.
It came from Baghdad.
At least that's what Shelagh Rendell said.
In one of her more loquacious moments.
Merci, Madame.
Come on, boy.
A sugar hammer?
Oui, Madame, it is an instrument of brass with a handle of wood.
And there is on it a bird. And there is also inlaid the stones blue and red.
Oh, yes.
Oh.
Madame?
Oh, um...
Yes, we bought it in a bazaar.
On holiday last year.
But it looked out of place, so I took it to the jumble sale.
So you kept it here in this house until Christmas and then you took it to the jumble sale?
No, it wasn't the Christmas sale, it was the one before that, harvest festival.
The harvest festival? So when is that?
- September, October? - It's the end of September.
Are you sure you took it to the jumble sale in September
- and not at Christmas? - Yes.
Why... why are you really here in Broadhinny?
- To enquire into the death of Mrs McGinty. - Nonsense.
It's absurd! No-one believes that for a moment. She was a char.
I know what you're actually after.
And it's not true.
None of it's true. He wouldn't.
- I just know he woul... - Madame.
And you, you a professional! A so-called professional.
I'd have thought it beneath your dignity to come down here
and hound a man, to harry him like a dog, like a beagle.
- It's the most... - Madame.
Those letters were written by cowards.
Cowards and liars.
Traitors.
Filth.
Don't you believe a word!
Madame?
It is not glamorous, it is not fashionable. It's cheap.
Sven Hjerson is a vegetarian. Sven Hjerson has always been a vegetarian.
- He's got a little machine for chopping carrots. - Yes, yes, Ariadne, precious, yes. But why?
I don't know. Why, the thought of the revolting man!
I must have been mad. These things just happen.
You try something and people seem to like it, and then you go on,
and before you know where you are,
you've got someone like that maddening Sven Hjerson tied to you for life.
Shouldn't you spend some time on casting, Robin?
- Hm? - Didn't you think Cecil Leech was a good idea?
Oh, that is very shrewd, Madre.
You know, Cecil Leech could do it.
Now...
Why don't we motor over to Kilchester tonight?
He's in my touring production at the rep.
To London, if you please. Express.
- Ooh, Scotland Yard. - Oui.
Fancy.
Mademoiselle Sweetiman, from your accent, I suspect you are not from these parts.
No, I'm a blow-in.
May I ask where the wind, it has blown you from?
I grew up abroad.
Never mind where.
Hello, Joe.
Monsieur.
Oh, Madre, I'm so sorry, I just don't want you to feel lonely. We can cancel it.
You'll do no such thing. Go out and have a lovely time.
You'll enjoy it, Mrs Oliver.
If I'm lonely,
I'll ring up one of the neighbours.
- Well, if you're sure. - Of course, I'm sure.
- Good night, sweetheart. - Good night.
Oh, damn, hang on a minute.
Sorry, darling.
Almost forgot your coffee.
Now, are you sure you're going to be all right, precious?
I'll be fine.
I've something for you. Something that might help the investigation.
Mrs Carpenter, Eve Carpenter, used to be an exotic dancer at The Cactus Club in Soho.
How do you know this?
I've been scouting around.
And?
She's still got the publicity stills. Pretty audacious, actually.
Mademoiselle, are you telling to me that you have broken and entered?
Certainly not!
I was conducting a survey for the Estate Agents Guild.
I simply asked the burghers of Broadhinny if I might peep inside their lovely homes.
They invariably give me a tour.
I also noticed something at Dr Rendell's house. His wife was...
Dinner!
Well, that was incredibly well received, wasn't it?
I think that Cecil is going to be just perfect for us.
Look, let me sign your programme.
Oh, so kind of you.
- A pleasure. - Thank you.
- There you are. - Marvellous.
- I'll just put the car away. - Jolly good.
We're home, Mrs Upward.
It was terribly sad.
But he's ever so talented, I suppose.
Well, I'm going to bed.
Mrs Upward?
Neat, quick, efficient. The Thuggees did it that way in India.
Victim doesn't cry out or struggle.
Pressure on the carotid artery.
I'd wager it was someone she knew.
They had a coffee together.
There are no prints on the cup, but there's lipstick, look.
And there was a strong smell of scent. A very expensive scent.
You say Mrs Upward recognised one of your photographs?
So many think of murder as a game.
It is not a game. I told this to her, but she would not listen.
There's a woman outside to see you. Mrs Summerhayes. She says it's important.
Come in, Mrs Summerhayes. I think you know these people.
Yes.
So...
I was here last night.
At what time?
I don't know.
She telephoned me. She was lonely.
She spoke to Johnny actually.
Hello.
Come and have coffee, she said.
Well, Johnny was working as usual.
And their coffee is a lot better than ours, so...
- So you had coffee with her? - I rang the bell.
Mrs Upward! Hello.
But nobody answered.
I called out, but there was no answer.
You've hit the bull's-eye with that sugar hammer thing.
People don't realise that even a microscopic amount of blood
will show up under analysis nowadays.
And it fits the head wound rather snugly.
Please to have a look at this, Superintendent.
Marine Life Of The Great Barrier Reef.
It has some illustrations that are splendid, but please to take a look at the flyleaf.
- Evelyn Hope. - Eva Kane.
But how did you...
The Great Barrier Reef, mon ami, it is situated where?
Australia.
Mrs Upward.
You have not told to me, Madame, about your visit to Kilchester.
It was like going to see his family. He's more at home in the theatre than at home.
And yet he has feelings so strong for his mother. And cares for her so diligently.
So perhaps he made to her a telephone call that evening.
- Oh, yes, absolutely. - Indeed. At what time?
About 7:15, I suppose. Just before we got to the theatre.
And how was Madame Upward?
She was fine.
You know, it's not very nice to discover a body.
Non.
I shall have to write a lot less screaming in future.
They'll hang me eventually.
They're keen.
Your friends work hard for you.
What friends?
- Maude Williams. - What's it got to do with her?
She's convinced that you are not guilty.
Ma foi! Is it a crime to like a pretty girl?
Tell to me.
We went for a walk together once.
It was nice.
She's nice.
I liked her hair.
She had lovely dark hair.
And her clothes.
Mother's were old-fashioned, but hers were nice.
And she's kind.
- So she came to Broadhinny? - Yes, on estate agent business.
And you what, you took her to the pictures or perhaps a meal?
No.
No, sir, I didn't have any money.
We just walked.
- Bumped into that writer chap. - Mr Upward.
Maude said I should talk to him about my poems.
- Your poems? - Yeah.
I write these little poems.
She asked for his autograph. She said he was famous.
- Robin Upward. - That's him, yeah.
Maude said I could be famous one day if I stick at it.
And this was just a little while before Mrs McGinty was killed?
Yeah, it was on a Monday. She died on Wednesday.
I wish to ask you something else, Monsieur Bentley.
Mrs McGinty, she took the Sunday Comet?
- That's right. - Did you ever read her Sunday Comet?
No. I...
I was brought up to believe it was trash.
- So you did not see it that week? - No.
And Mrs McGinty, did she speak of anything that she read that Sunday?
She did, yeah. Yeah, she was full of it. She went on and on.
All right, now, this is very important, so please to be careful.
What did she say?
It was about some ancient murder case.
Craig. Maybe not.
Conway?
No, I can't recall.
She said someone connected with it is living in Broadhinny now.
- Did she say who? - Well...
It was his mother, wasn't it?
Whose?
The chap we were just talking about. The writer chap.
Madame Upward?
Yeah, yeah, I think so.
Or was it someone else?
I wasn't really listening to her.
It is disheartening to reflect, Monsieur, that if you are hanged,
it is because you do not pay the proper attention to the people with whom you converse!
I... I don't want to be hanged, sir.
I haven't done anything.
It's my mind, it wanders, all right?
Just... just do what you can.
Please.
Why, Superintendent, should a woman keep a photograph of herself when she is young?
Vanity.
Oui.
She has been a pretty girl, so she keeps a photograph of herself
to remind her what a pretty girl she used to be,
when the mirror, it says to her things most distressing.
If Eve Carpenter or Shelagh Rendell,
both women who are most attractive,
had a photograph such as this,
they would tear it into pieces very quickly for fear someone should see it. Non.
Your reason of vanity we may discount.
Let us take another reason.
Sentiment. The memory of someone you love.
Did anybody love Lily Gamboll at that age?
Surely the whole point about Lily Gamboll is that she was a child that was not loved.
This child of the slums.
So I conclude it was not sentiment either.
Look here, Poirot, what you're saying is that nobody would have kept that photo?
Exactement, mon ami.
But someone did. Mrs Upward admitted she'd seen it.
- But had she? - Dash it all, Poirot, you said she had.
Yes, but I believe that she was lying.
She knows the photograph, yes, but she pointed to the other one.
For to create a screen of smoke.
Why? Was she being blackmailed?
- She was a wealthy woman. - Madame Upward had seen something.
She intends contacting the person concerned at the first opportunity.
And the first opportunity was when Robin Upward went to the theatre.
Hercule Poirot.
I shall be there first thing tomorrow.
I know I shouldn't,
but I do.
He's just too persuasive. He asks me and I can't say no.
Mademoiselle Sweetiman,
it is vital that you tell to Poirot who "he" is.
Joe. Joe Burch.
The husband of the niece of Mrs McGinty?
And you have met him on the night of the murder?
I saw someone going into Laburnums. I think it was a woman.
Sorry I'm late, sweetheart.
The Major said I had to tell you.
Monsieur Upward. Your play, it goes well?
Er, well, no, to be honest.
I was just having a little break.
Well, I must persist.
I feel it's what poor old Madre would have wanted.
By the way, I hope my typing is not too noisy for you.
- Pardon? - My typing!
- I hope it's not too noisy. - Non, non.
It's just I can't stay at Laburnums on my own.
Where is it?
What is it you look for, Madame?
It's the Ministry of Agriculture form about the bloody pig.
Got it.
Madame Rendell.
S'il vous plaît, Madame.
May I ask of you something?
Did Madame Upward telephone to you on the day of her death?
Yeah.
At what time?
Mrs Scott, the housekeeper, took the message.
Ask her.
And what was the message? Was it perhaps to ask you to go there that evening?
Yes.
But I'm ashamed to say, I...
I took my medication and I fell asleep after dinner.
Um...
When I woke, it was too late.
It was dark.
I should have gone.
Merci, Madame.
Doesn't this take the pressure off James? He can't have killed Mrs Upward. He's in prison.
What is it that you want, Mademoiselle?
I believe in James Bentley.
He's a troubled soul, but I believe he can do great things. I want to clear his name.
Tell to me what you discovered at the house of Dr Rendell.
On reflection, it may have been nothing, but... his wife was burning letters.
There was a pile of letters in the grate in her sitting room, still smouldering.
Now, what might she be up to?
She hardly looks the type to be having an affair.
Does the name Evelyn Hope mean anything to you?
Evelyn Hope?
I see you know the name.
Yes.
It was the name Eva what's-her-name took when she went to Australia.
It was in that paper, the Sunday Comet.
The Sunday Comet said many things. It did not say that.
Evelyn Hope is a name that I discovered in a book at the house of Madame Upward.
What?
Why did you want the autograph of Robin Upward?
Why did you come to this part of the world in the first place?
How do you know Eva Kane went to Australia?
Sorry. I've got to go.
- Where to, Mademoiselle? - I've got to go, I'm sorry.
- Goodbye. - Mademoiselle.
I'll pay you whatever you want. You're a private investigator, aren't you?
I'll pay you whatever you ask.
Get the police off my back.
- They think I killed the Upward woman. - And did you, Madame?
No, I was at home listening to the radio. Guy was at a meeting.
Croft took the message from Mrs Upward asking me to go down and see her.
- Did you go? - Why the hell should I?
Damn, dreary old woman.
Thought she was a bloody movie star.
Why do you not wear your spectacles, Madame?
Oh, I do sometimes.
I had to as a child.
- Also the plate for the teeth? - Yes.
I was a sad little thing.
I'm sure your mother, she did not think so.
I couldn't tell you. She left pretty sharpish.
What the hell are we talking about, anyway? Will you take the job?
Je regrette que non, Madame.
A question of money, is it?
How much?
That is your great mistake, Madame.
To think always in terms of the question of money.
Ooh, scissors.
I've been making enquiries in Dublin.
There's a woman called Lily Brogan
serving life in Mountjoy Gaol for chopping up her spouse with a meat cleaver.
She's the right age.
She wears thick glasses.
Has a vile temper.
And is said to have originally come from Wimbledon.
Hardly conclusive.
Fixed.
So, this woman in Dublin, she could be Lily Gamboll?
Yes. Which leaves us with Evelyn Hope.
Formerly Eva Kane.
Who reportedly died in Australia 20 years ago.
Eva Kane was the governess to the Craig family, n'est-ce pas?
Yes.
And where there is a governess, il y a des enfants. Were there children?
Yes, two. They went to live with relatives when the mother was killed.
Wait one little minute.
Confirm for me this, mon cher Spence.
Eva Kane leaves the country before Craig is executed?
Yes.
- And at this time she is expecting a child? - Yes, like it said in the paper.
Mon Dieu.
How stupid is Poirot!
Do you know, mon ami, what is a secret de Polichinelle?
I don't speak foreign, Poirot.
Ah. Then quickly, Superintendent, into the car! Vite!
Mesdames et Messieurs,
I will not make for you the history that is long and complicated.
But it is necessary that I should start at the very beginning.
Mrs Abigail McGinty.
A woman who is simple, hardworking,
down on her knees scrubbing your floors.
Alas, Mrs McGinty, she is killed.
And a young man, James Bentley, he is tried and convicted.
But my dear friend Superintendent Spence from Scotland Yard
had doubts that Bentley was truly guilty.
And so he approached me,
Hercule Poirot,
to confirm his suspicions or not...
as the case may be.
And so the first question for Poirot to ask, it is this.
Why did Mrs McGinty die?
By now you know about the photograph that was published in the Sunday Comet.
Mrs McGinty has recognised one of those photographs.
In fact, James Bentley told me so himself
that she saw this photograph at the house of Madame Upward.
But when I produced my two photographs at her house that night,
Madame Upward pointed to the photograph of the child killer
Lily Gamboll.
But Madame Upward pointed to the wrong photograph quite deliberately.
To shake me from the scent.
But one person was not deceived.
The murderer.
And here I will not beat around the shrubbery.
The photograph that Madame Upward recognised was the other one.
That of Eva Kane, the accomplice in the Craig murder case.
And the following evening, Madame Upward, she is killed.
But before she died,
three women received a telephone call.
Madame Eve Carpenter, Madame Shelagh Rendell,
Madame Maureen Summerhayes.
We must now look to them.
Madame Upward made this call herself,
asking each of these women to come and see her that evening.
Had these women anything in common? Nothing it would seem except their age.
Each has the right age
to be the daughter of Eva Kane.
But when these summonses were received, what actually occurred?
Madame Summerhayes went to the Laburnums.
Mrs Upward!
She could not make herself heard and so she departed.
Madame Carpenter and Madame Rendell for different reasons, they did not go.
And yet...
there were traces of lipstick on the cup on the table.
There is also another witness... who shall remain incognito,
who saw a woman walking up to Laburnums.
Et aussi we have the evidence of a scent.
A scent that is strong,
exotique, expensive.
And exactly the same...
...as is used by you, Madame Carpenter.
I never went near the place. Guy, do something.
We already know certain things about your wife's past, things she'd rather keep hidden.
- You bastard! - Perhaps she has further secrets.
Let me inform you, Poirot, we have laws of slander in this country.
Is it a slander to say that your wife wears a certain lipstick or perfume?
You utter bastard! This is ridiculous.
- Anyone can go splashing my perfume about. - Exactement.
Anyone could and someone did.
Clumsy and crude.
But it made me to think,
scent, lipstick on a cup.
But surely lipstick can be removed very easily, every trace, but it was not. Why not?
And it seemed to me that there was an emphasis most deliberate on femininity.
An underlining of the fact that it was a woman who committed the murder.
And so Poirot, of course, he begins to suspect that it was not.
The telephone calls that these women received, they were only messages.
None of them spoke to Madame Upward herself.
She communicated with Monsieur Croft, your butler.
Madame Scott, your housekeeper.
Hmm.
And, of course,
with you, sir.
Major Summerhayes. What did she say to you, in fact?
Hello.
She said, ask Maureen to pop round for coffee, if you would.
- Just so? - Just so. What are you implying?
No, no, nothing, Monsieur. Did she sound to you normal? Or was she under any stress?
Well, I wasn't really listening, damn it.
I put the receiver down and called for my wife. I was hard at work on my book.
Well, I suppose her voice sounded strained. Do you think someone forced her to do it?
I only know, Monsieur, that someone was most anxious to involve a woman.
Any woman. I asked myself, why?
And the only answer it seemed to me could be this.
That it was not a woman who killed Madame Upward, but a man.
And so we arrive to here, a man killed Madame Upward.
And from the evidence that we now have,
it is conclusive that this same man killed Mrs McGinty.
What kind of man?
A man they knew?
A man to whom they would open the door?
A man who would, how do you say, pop around by foot?
By car?
By bicycle?
Both of these murders hinge on a photograph.
And after the second murder...
I'm sure you'll all agree with me
that the very presence of this photograph for the murderer, it is very dangerous.
It should be destroyed, eh? But it was not.
How do I know this?
I discovered this photograph only yesterday in a drawer in this room.
Eva Kane.
And on the reverse...
"My mother. "
I don't understand, I never saw th...
You told to us that you were adopted. You never knew your parents, but someone did.
Someone knew, someone discovered.
Someone has all the ancestral pride of the family
and someone who rather than let the world know his wife was the daughter of Eva Kane,
would rather die or in this case, would rather kill!
Now, look here, you filthy swine, I've just about had enough.
Anyone can put a photo in a drawer!
You're quite potty.
I've never seen that picture before in my life. Except at the Upwards'.
Who's that awful child?
You're fortunate that Poirot knows he is telling the truth.
Because this photograph was only placed in the drawer only a little while before I found it.
How do I know this? Because I replaced the contents of this drawer earlier.
And it was not there then. So it must have been placed there during that interval.
And so...
both crimes were committed by a man.
And for the simplest of reasons.
Money.
In a flyleaf of a book that I discovered at Madame Upward's
is the name written "Evelyn Hope".
Now, Hope was the name given to Eva Kane when she left England to go to Australia.
But if her real name was Evelyn,
then it is quite natural to suspect that she would give this name to her child.
After all, Evelyn is a name that can be given to a man as well as to a woman.
But why did we suspect that the child of Eva Kane was a girl?
Because the Sunday Comet, it told us so.
In an article written by Mademoiselle Pamela Horsfall.
But, mes amis, this article was a work of fiction.
How could Pamela Horsfall possibly know the sex of a child that was unborn?
Accurate? Heck, who knows?
Non!
Evelyn Hope...
...was the son...
of Eva Kane.
He left Australia, came to England, found work.
He attracts the attention of a widow who is rich, lonely.
And little by little, she grows to adore him.
He changes his name to hers by deed poll and they come to Broadhinny.
But your real name, Monsieur,
it is Evelyn Hope.
N'est-ce pas?
What are you talking about?
The name "Evelyn Hope" that I discovered in the flyleaf of the book is in your handwriting.
As are the words...
..."My mother"...
...on the back of this photograph.
And it was this photograph that Mrs McGinty found when she was tidying your room.
She assumed that it was the photograph of Laura Upward when she was young.
She could have no idea that Madame Upward was not your real mother.
But your real mother, Monsieur, it was Eva Kane!
And you know that if your Madre, she knows, she would throw you out, out on your own,
to fend for yourself.
It is not easy to make a living as a playwright without the help of a generous banker.
So Mrs McGinty, she is silenced.
You ridiculous little man.
Where do you get these absurd ideas from?
Ah, I will tell it to you. From the beginning,
I thought there was something unnatural at the Laburnums.
Your attitude to Laura Upward, it was not the attitude of a son to a mother.
It was rather the attitude of a protègè to a patron.
And Laura Upward, even though she adores you, she treats you as an object of luxury,
for which she has bought and paid.
But all goes well, eh?
For Robin Upward.
Soudainement he is the successful playwright.
Until comes along... the McGinty.
What are you to do? You steal the sugar hammer from the Summerhayes.
You can steal anything from the Summerhayes.
You drive your car to her cottage.
Mrs McGinty, she is expecting... le petit cadeau, eh?
A little present.
Perhaps even the pay-off.
Instead you smash in her skull.
Next you fake a burglary.
You mean Monsieur James Bentley to be fingered.
You met him only a few days before. You found him to be a man of little intelligence.
So he will discover the body, he will panic, he will incriminate himself.
Et voilà, he does.
He is tried and convicted.
And all goes well...
...until I produce my two photographs at the house that night.
And at that very moment,
you know that your mother, she knows.
And so you prepare your mise-en-scène.
Damn, hang on a minute.
You leave Madame Oliver sitting in the car.
Almost forgot your coffee.
Now, are you sure you're going to be all right, precious?
I'll be fine.
And you kill her.
And the murder, it takes... a matter of seconds.
And now to make it look as though a woman committed the crime,
you smear the cup with lipstick, lipstick you had taken from the handbag of Madame Carpenter.
You even brought along a bottle of her scent most favourite.
Now for the final act of incriminating a woman,
you make a telephone call... to your mother.
On your way to the theatre with Madame Oliver.
From Kilchester. Is that not right, Monsieur?
Yes!
Yes, I did, and she was fine.
Now, that is enough!
I shall certainly be contacting my lawyers immediately.
This lawyer had better be an expert, Monsieur!
Because you did not telephone to your mother.
Because at that time, Laura Upward, she was already dead.
You made the telephone call to three women.
Madame Eve Carpenter, Madame Shelagh Rendell and Madame Maureen Summerhayes.
You employed all the skills of the actor that you once were.
Hello. This is Laura Upward.
I wonder, would you please give Mrs Rendell a message?
And now you wanted to place any one of these three women at the scene of the crime.
And once you had discovered that Maureen Summerhayes, she had been there,
it was then that you conceived the idea
of placing this photograph amongst her possessions.
After all, the sugar hammer was hers.
And because she had been adopted, she would find it very difficult
to prove that she was not the child of Eva Kane.
But you forgot to observe one little fact, Monsieur.
The fact that Madame Maureen Summerhayes never at any time wears the lipstick.
Is that not so, Madame?
No.
I never wear lipstick.
Non.
See, Monsieur,
when I tidied the drawer,
I knew that the person who had placed this photograph there...
...was typing above my head.
And then I remembered what you said to Maureen Summerhayes,
when she admitted to being adopted, that night.
Just be thankful someone took you in, darling. It's cold out there.
And then I remembered the title of your play as told to me by Madame Oliver.
Abandoned.
And then I knew that you...
- Please... - Monsieur Robin Upward...
Or rather, Monsieur Evelyn Hope,
you were also adopted, is that not so?
Is that not so?
Yeah.
Don't look at me.
Please!
Don't look at me.
Hello, there.
- Not late, am I? We said four o'clock, didn't we? - I believe we said three.
Oh, well, never mind.
So, it was Robin Upward.
Whilst I was sitting in the car.
I must confess I'm astonished. I was certain it was the doctor or Joe Burch.
I am afraid, Madame, that your female intuition, it has taken the day off.
Nonsense. My mind was on other things, that's all.
I am so sorry that your play will not now be written.
You can be sorry if you like, Poirot. Personally, I'm overjoyed.
Now, hop in. I'll take you back to London.
I'll just move these. Give you some room.
So, who was it who tried to push you under a train? Robin Upward?
Non, non, non, non. Let me explain it to you.
Over a period of years, in the town of Stoke-on-Trent,
a number of people who were terminally ill
are assisted in their suicides by taking drugs that are prescribed by a local doctor.
A crime,
mercy killing.
- Dr Rendell? - Oui, d'accord.
Enfin, the gossips, they begin to write letters of malice.
But I could not find any evidence that the doctor benefited financially.
But the tongues, they will flap, n'est-ce pas?
The doctor has a wife with a neurosis.
So they have begun a new life in Broadhinny.
Tout va bien.
Until comes along the meddling little Belgian.
Oui. C'est moi.
But Poirot, you know he is immortal.
And what is more, he knows everything.
Par exemple,
he knows it was you that night at Laburnums.
You were the girl.
And Poirot, he also knows your real name.
It is Craig, n'est-ce pas?
And Eva Kane was your governess.
She killed my mother.
I went there that night to take my revenge.
I was going to kill her.
But...
she was already dead.
And now I know it wasn't her after all.
Thank God I didn't pull the trigger.
So,
do you intend to charge me or something?
It is time to go.
So go.
Bonne chance.
Whitehaven Mansions, if you please.