Run!
- Argh! - We've left it too late, sir!
I said so!
I know, Bob. I know.
Let's go!
The game's up, I'm afraid, chum.
Fair enough.
You did get them out, though? You're sure of it?
Safe as houses. I swear it.
- Ready, then? - Ready.
- Very good, madam. - Come along, girls.
Come on!
I will not have you showing us up again, Lucian.
Mrs Lisle says the antimacassars still reek of Friar's Balsam.
This is Patricia's day, not yours.
Hell's bells! Get a move on!
Ruddy people. Blasted school.
I don't know why we have to send the child here.
- What's wrong with St Winifred's? - Must we go through it again?
It's the best girls' school in England.
It's certainly the dearest.
So, Lydia, did you enjoy your Hellenic cruise?
- Yes, thanks awfully, Miss Bulstrode. - Are you giving us a lecture?
- Could you park over there, please? - Hello, Miss Rich.
Ah, Pamela Price!
Mr and Mrs Forbes. Good afternoon. And this must be Patricia.
I'm afraid you'll find things rather ordinary here compared with Switzerland, Princess Shaista.
Oh, you do not know how much I've been looking forward to coming to Meadowbank.
The Swiss, they are a very regular people.
I like England.
Things are not so... regular.
- But there are still rules. - Of course.
And may I offer my sincere condolences?
Condolences?
Your fiancè. Prince Ali. I understand he was killed.
Well, we never met, of course.
It was arranged years ago.
I was just a child.
Perhaps I'll find my husband here, in England.
Yes, well, we mustn't run before we can walk, must we?
I was looking for Miss Bulstrode.
Oh, you must be Miss Shapland.
- I'm Lettice Chadwick, Mathematics. - Call me Ann, please.
Everyone knows me. Been here since before the ark.
I only hope I can live up to Meadowbank's standards.
Oh, you'll fit right in, my dear.
Look at that desk. A model of efficiency.
Vera's used to resemble the Ardennes after a heavy German pounding.
- Vera? - You got her job.
All very irritating.
Gave up the post all of a sudden - something to do with a man, apparently.
- We'd better be getting along. - Ah.
Oh!
So sorry. No gouache on the galoshes, I trust?
- Fortunately, non. - Good.
Supplies for my budding Michelangelos.
Can I have a signature, Miss Blake?
Monsieur Poirot!
Ah! The estimable Mademoiselle Bulstrode!
What a pleasure it is to see you again. And the day progresses as hoped?
Speaking to parents is like feeding dogs -
one simply pops soothing platitudes into every waiting mouth.
Platitudes? Surely not, mademoiselle.
For your so wonderful Meadowbank, does not its fame rest
upon how you regard your young ladies?
- As individuals? - You're so kind.
And thank you once again for coming.
De rien.
The mayor is blaming his ulcers, but I suspect foul play.
Comment?
Arsenal vs Sheffield United. Kick-off's at three.
I know where His Worship's loyalties lie.
Impossible! Never, never, never!
- Everyone else seems happy. - I am not everyone else.
I am someone, The Princess Shaista,
and yet you want to imprison me in this mean little hovel.
The window is tiny.
- The bed is hard as diamonds. - Shaista!
- Princess Shaista! - Now, now! No more of that!
All the girls are equal here in Meadowbank.
- But in Switzerland... - Yes!
Well, we're not in Switzerland any more, are we?
Come along. We mustn't be late.
Alison Whelan! Stop being such a silly goose!
Now run along! Ooh!
Steady, Miss.
Thank you.
Good morning, Miss.
I say, Froggy, pop those peepers back in, why don't you?
It's not the done thing over here to ogle the serfs.
How dare you touch me! I'm not used to being treated in this fashion.
Don't worry, this isn't assembly.
Just a few words before our distinguished guest presents the Pemberton Shield.
I'm sure pupils and parents alike will be pleased to welcome back Miss Rich...
...who we trust is feeling tip-top again.
And to say hello to Mademoiselle Blanche, our new French mistress.
It now only remains for me to introduce our guest of honour -
a personality of international renown.
Monsieur Hercule Poirot.
Mesdames, messieurs, but most importantly of all...
...all of you young ladies...
...if Poirot has the renown international...
...then surely he shares this honour with the great Meadowbank.
- Who's he? - A detective.
Oh, you know.
Really, Jennifer, you're an awful wet blanket.
How many revolutions have you seen up close?
- And Mummy had a burglary last month. - That's nothing. Don't you read the papers?
Mr Poirot has been caught up in some absolutely snorting killings.
...and now, to add lustre to its name...
...after the tournament international which was so thrilling...
He looks a bit like a penguin.
...the winning of the prize most renowned, The Pemberton Lacrosse Shield.
Was it not the great Dr Arnold who said...
God, I'm desperate for a gasper.
Please, Miss Springer! Some of us are actually listening, you know.
Oh, yes, we must all be on our best behaviour, mustn't we?
What has got into you, Miss Springer?
I could ask you the same thing.
...most of all, prayed for.
Everyone smile, please.
Good.
Julia's been dying to know, Monsieur.
Oh, go on, Monsieur, tell us about some of your murders.
Only the juicy ones, mind.
- The juicy ones? Comment? - Well, of course.
Poison's so passè, and anything with firearms is positively vulgar,
but smashing in someone's noggin with a blunt instrument, now...
Oh, go on!
Yes, girls, that will do.
- I am obliged to you. - I suspected a rescue was in order.
She's a bright girl, Julia Upjohn, but she's a little wayward.
And the friend's a bit of a puzzle.
A puzzle? How so?
Jennifer Sutcliffe.
She's deep.
She got caught up in that revolution in Ramat, just recently.
Ah, yes. The Prince Ali Yusuf.
- He was killed, was he not? - Mm, dreadful business.
Jennifer was out there visiting her uncle.
He was killed too, poor man.
She and her mother got out just in time.
Mademoiselle, something... it is troubling you.
No. No.
Come, now, we are old friends.
- Well... - Ah.
The fact is, I've decided to move on.
- Retire. - Retire?
Mademoiselle, you are still so young!
Not because I don't feel up to it physically - quite the reverse.
And the school's never been better.
I comprehend.
The challenge, it has gone.
And remember, you're not to play tennis if it's cold.
I'll be just fine, Mummy. Do stop fretting.
I can't help it! I'm a fretter, Julia.
- Now, you've got everything you need? - Yes.
- Oh, can I get back now? - Of course.
- Now, I must find Miss Bulstrode. - Bye-bye.
Who is to be your successor?
Well, everyone assumes it'll be Miss Chadwick, of course.
We founded the place together.
She's an absolute brick, dear Chaddy, but...
But you think?
Meadowbank works because I've taken risks - it's an unconventional place.
She would preserve Meadowbank in aspic if she could,
and I think that would be a great shame.
And what of the other candidates?
That's the problem - there doesn't seem to be anyone else.
I wonder, Monsieur Poirot, would it be a great imposition
for you to stay at the school,
get the measure of the staff and help me make up my mind?
You're such an excellent judge of character.
And your knowledge of human nature, it's unsurpassed.
- Oh, Lord. - Mademoiselle?
It's Lady Veronica Carlton-Sandways.
- Ah. - She's a delightful person,
except when she's three sheets to the wind.
Oh, so sorry.
- Oh! Excuse me!
Ah, Miss Bulstrode, I'm so glad I caught you. Is there something the matter?
Lady Veronica, Mrs Upjohn - that's what's the matter.
Oh, yes, I remember her.
Imbibed from the wassail cup a mite too freely at the carol concert, didn't she?
Good Lord!
How extraordinary!
But it's not possible.
Dead, surely...
Yes, just a little bubbly.
Now, let's get you...
Dear Chaddy, where would I be without you?
...I mean, we knew all the agents from the files, of course,
but really, the most astonishing resemblance.
But it's not possible.
I'm so sorry, I've been wittering on.
Goodbye. See you at Christmas, I expect.
Yes.
- Would you excuse me? - Yes, of course.
- Monsieur Poirot. - Mademoiselle.
I have nothing on at the present,
and George, my valet, has the time to place a suitcase on the train,
so Poirot, he will be happy to remain here and advise you.
Oh, thank you! I'm so grateful!
Oh! Bugger!
What's up?
Oh, I simply can't play with the beastly thing.
- The balance is all wrong. - It's better than my old thing.
- It's like a sponge. - I'd rather have yours than mine.
You're welcome to it.
Are you all right, Jen?
I was just thinking about poor Uncle Bob.
He had so much going for him.
- You mean working for the Prince? - Well, yes, but there was something else.
He only hinted at it, but you could tell from his smile.
- A girlfriend? - I think so.
Ooh, a pash!
Oh, how sad.
- What's the score? - Love. Love all.
And arms first... to second.
And close.
And turn.
And begin this side.
Pliè down, relevè up, and turn.
Grand battement front...
...tendue and close.
Bonjour, Mademoiselle Shapland.
Hello, there. Are you staying with us, then?
Oui, just for a little while. Poirot is here to observe.
Ah! A spy!
Oui.
For my so good friend, His Majesty King Leopold llI of the Belgians.
There is the possibility of the Royal Princess coming here to the school.
- Oh, quite an honour! - Oui, bien sûr.
- And you, you are new here, huh? - Mm.
So how do you find it?
- A bit bewildering, actually. - Oh.
I suppose starting school's no different whether you're five or 35.
Plus, well...
I... I used to be Private Secretary to Sir Mervyn Todhunter.
Oh.
Before that, I was personal assistant to an oil magnate.
- Before that, a cabinet minister. - I comprehend.
- You have worked only for the men. - Yes.
Come on, Forbes!
Put some gumption into it, for Pete's sake!
If you weren't stuffing your phizog with buns all day,
you wouldn't be so disgustingly lardy!
Do it again! Health and discipline, Forbes, health and discipline!
Do it again!
Entrer, venir,
rester,
naître...
...arriver. - Uh-uh! Mourir.
You forgot mourir.
Mourir!
To die.
Cor! Where did he pitch up from? What a dish!
Adam Goodman, he's called.
- I wonder if he is. - Hm?
A good man. I hope not.
- Julia! - I hope he's thoroughly bad.
He certainly looks it.
Adam, eh?
Maybe he's got some forbidden fruit knocking around.
Oh, no, Forbes!
Not on the floor! Go and get a mop and clean it up.
- Go on, go and get a mop! - I'll get a mop, Miss Springer.
"Look, Lizzie! Look, Lizzie!
Down the glen tramp little men.
One hauls a basket, one bears a plate.
One lugs a golden dish of many pounds' weight. "
"No," said Lizzie, "No, no, no, their offers should not charm us.
Their evil gifts...
...Their evil gifts would harm us. "
That's all for now, girls.
Thank you, Miss Rich. That was lovely, I really enjoyed it.
See you tomorrow, Miss Rich.
Yes?
I merely wish to look over the Pavilion.
You had plenty of chance for that at the prize-giving.
This place isn't for all and sundry to go and traipse about in, Froggy.
Please don't call me that. It offends me.
- Pardonnez-moi! - Is everything all right?
Fine!
Ah, good afternoon, ladies.
Nice place, isn't it?
Must have cost a packet.
They get the best of everything here, don't they, the young madams?
- They pay for it. - Through the nose, I hear.
- Don't you have something to do? - I dare say.
Miss Shapland.
It's a sort of wired and boned arrangement.
Pushes her up. Quite unnecessarily.
I see what you mean. You would have someone's eye out with that!
But you see, my breasts are not very big.
Not nearly big enough.
I don't think your breasts are a proper subject for conversation.
It is all too much - all this running and jumping!
And I do not like Miss Springer!
- She sweats like a pig! - That will do, Shaista.
- Princess... - Don't!
Oh, there's Miss Chadwick.
- Chaddy? - Yes, Honoria?
Where are you off to?
The infirmary, to look in on Patricia Forbes.
Oh, Miss Springer made her ill. I had to have words.
Oh, dear - Miss Springer.
- Not a success, I fear. - Hmph!
I should never have given her a second chance after that incident last term.
I haven't been keeping my eye on the ball, have I?
How's the first week going, do you think?
Oh, quite all right, I suppose.
Oh, it's nothing I can put my finger on, Honoria, just a...
just a feeling something's not quite right.
The girls seem a pleasant lot.
I don't care for Mademoiselle Blanche, though.
Sly.
Oh, I'm sure she'll settle in.
You never like the French mistresses, Chaddy.
Whereabouts in France are you from?
Crècy.
- Oh, topper! As in the battle? - Yes.
You're looking awfully well, Eileen.
- Lost a few pounds, haven't you? - Oh... illness, I suppose.
- Bloody woman! - Comment?
Chadwick! She thinks she owns the place.
Well, not yet, she doesn't.
She had the temerity to take a pupil out of my class.
It wasn't like this in my last school, I can tell you.
- Non? - No. I turned the place around.
Even so, I expect your ideas haven't always been accepted
in the way they should have been.
It's scandalous!
Miss Bulstrode is in complete agreement, Miss Springer!
It's not how we do things at Meadowbank.
They're our girls - here to be nurtured, not tortured!
You see, you must always prepare for ingratitude.
The trouble is, people are so cowardly they won't face facts.
They prefer not to see what's going on under their noses.
Well, I'm not like that. I get straight to the point.
More than once, I've unearthed a nasty scandal.
Oh?
Well, I never give up.
Not until I've pinned my quarry down.
Amontillado? No, not for me, merci, mademoiselle.
The Spanish wine and the digestion of Poirot are not on the terms most friendly.
I hope you're enjoying your little sojourn with us, Monsieur.
I'd hate to think you were bored.
Bored?
Pas de tout, mademoiselle!
There does not need to be present a crime for the investigator to thrive.
Hah! This school...
...it is like the world in miniature.
It is like the... What is the word?
- Microcosm. - Just so.
Just as in the outside world.
Hopes, dreams...
...fears, secrets.
This place - so full of the promise of youth.
The future of the nation.
And yet, how lonely and silent are its corridors at night.
Lonely and silent as the chambers of the heart.
The daily struggle of human life.
As fascinating as the bloodstain... or the fingerprint.
Pardon, Mademoiselle,
Poirot, he drifts... and digresses.
Alors, I think it is time... that I said good night.
- Miss Chadwick! Miss Chadwick! - What is it, Matron?
- What's wrong? - Christina Breen has earache.
Oh, really, Miss Johnson, what has that got to...
No, you don't understand.
I was just putting her to bed when I noticed someone out in the sports pavilion.
I saw light when I was closing the curtains.
- You're right. It looks like a flashlight. - Burglars, do you think?
More likely a girl meeting a wastrel boy.
Come on.
Un moment! Un moment, s'il vous plaît!
Moment!
Mademoiselle Bulstrode!
- What is the matter? - It's Miss Springer.
- Follow me inside. - Yes, sir.
Bad business, this.
We shall weather it, no doubt - as we've weathered many storms.
Death of a games mistress in the sports pavilion -
sounds like a highly athletic crime.
Discretion, Inspector, is the key, don't you think?
Which is where our continental friend comes in?
Monsieur Poirot has an international reputation.
Hm. So does Mussolini.
We haven't been properly introduced. Detective Inspector Kelsey.
Je vous en prie, Inspector.
Hercule Poirot.
I hear Miss Bulstrode has requested your involvement.
Yes, but I do not wish to step on the toes, Inspector.
Thank you. Seen anything useful, have you?
One or two points, I think.
- So, how do you think we should... - First, I think perhaps we should view the body.
Hm.
Such disarrangement.
Lock forced, so there's no mystery about how they got in.
Javelin went right through her.
Death must have been pretty well instantaneous.
Dead a couple of hours.
You came here with Miss Johnson and discovered the body, Miss Chadwick?
What time was that?
I looked at my watch when Miss Johnson roused me.
- It was ten minutes to one. - Right. Good.
Dead woman's prints on the torch.
She came out here with it. Why?
No idea at all. I... She might have forgotten something and come to fetch it.
It seems rather unlikely in the middle of the night.
But perhaps she saw the light on, as did Mademoiselle Johnson.
She came out here to investigate.
And whoever was here was surprised.
There was a struggle, Miss Springer was a game 'un, hey presto -
stabbed through the chest.
- Seem right to you? - I suppose so.
But it does not seem right to Poirot.
That Mademoiselle Springer should see the light and be intrigued, bon.
But that the person she disturbed should kill her?
And in a manner so brutal? Non.
No, it is all wrong.
- Right through her, apparently. - No!
Gosh, that's awful! Who'd want to do something like that?
Oh, who wouldn't, more like?
Fatty Forbes could have squashed her to death!
But I don't think she could even pick up a javelin.
I'm getting the screaming meemies.
I swear someone's been rooting around in my room.
Ssh!
I've just heard! It is terrible!
Yes. Poor Miss Springer.
I did not mean that!
Don't you see? They meant to kill me!
I am so sorry you feel this way, Mrs Forbes.
I'm sorry, too, but you must understand,
the very idea of my little Patricia in the same school where a murderer...
I quite understand.
Goodbye, Patricia.
I do hope we'll see you next term.
- St Winifred's, then? - Yes, Harry, St Winifred's.
This is very serious. The most serious thing Meadowbank's ever faced.
Just a moment.
The Emir Ibrahim is in London, Miss Bulstrode.
He wants to take the Princess Shaista out tomorrow.
- To take her out of the school? - No, no, just out for lunch.
Oh! Yes, by all means. But she must be back by eight o'clock.
Hello? Yes, that's quite all right.
Goodbye.
Hello. Meadowbank School.
The psychology, Inspector...
...it is fascinating, is it not?
A pupil with a loathing most deep for Mademoiselle Springer,
a colleague who was jealous, or a lover thwarted.
Well, even games mistresses have their love lives.
We shall see.
Nobody's got an alibi except the two who found her -
Miss Johnson and Miss Chadwick.
Theoretically, everyone else was asleep in bed.
But there's no-one to vouch for that.
The girls and the staff have separate rooms -
any one of them could have gone out to the gymnasium
and met Miss Springer, or could have followed her there.
Then, having done her in,
they could dodge back quietly through the bushes to the side door
and be nicely back in bed when the alarm was given.
- Sir. - Well, let's get on, then.
Miss Blake first.
Arts and Dance.
Oh. I'm sorry about this.
One of the girls - she insists on seeing you.
There have been people watching this place.
Oh, they do not show themselves clearly, but they are there.
And why should they do that?
Because of me. They want to assassinate me.
Miss Springer - she must have found out about them.
Perhaps they promised to pay her money if she said nothing,
so she goes to the sports pavilion, where they say they will pay her
and they kill her.
Now look, I don't have time for this nonsense.
It is not nonsense.
My cousin was the Prince Ali Yusuf of Ramat.
I am next in line to the throne.
These butchers, they do not want me to be the focus of rebellion.
Perhaps there is something in what she says, Inspector.
Oh, I am so sorry.
Forgive my clumsiness.
Everything you've told me so far points to Miss Springer being very sure of herself.
Too sure. She hinted at people being not what they seemed.
- Did she, now? - She mentioned that at her last school
she had unmasked someone, but that the staff had been against her.
Well, you see what that means.
The beginnings of a persecution complex.
Naturellement.
More psychology, eh?
Well, someone certainly had it in for Miss Springer with a vengeance!
And a javelin.
I can't say I cared for her.
Brusque.
As for her treatment of the girls - sadistic.
Of course, I know this is a horrible business.
I say, could I have a glass of water, please?
Thank you.
I have my own sitting room and don't see much of the staff.
- The whole thing's unbelievable. - How so, mademoiselle?
Well, first that Miss Springer should get killed at all.
Say someone broke into the gymnasium and she went out to see who it was.
That's all right, I suppose. But who'd want to break into there?
Local children who wanted to take the sports equipment?
If so, I can't help feeling Miss Springer would have given them a clip around the ear,
not get herself stabbed to death.
And you noticed nothing unusual recently?
- Well... - Yes, miss? Out with it.
It's nothing, really, but one of the gardeners, the young one...
- Which young one? - His name is Adam Goodman, Inspector.
He arrived only this term.
Well, he seemed very interested in the pavilion.
Probably just curious or slacking off work, but...
But?
His manner was a little odd.
Defiant. He sneered at all the money that was spent on the girls.
I see.
My first term, yes. I do not think I wish to remain for another.
Oh?
It is not nice to be in a school where people are murdered.
The Mademoiselle Springer - did you know her well?
Practically not at all.
A rude and ugly woman, like a caricature of an English woman.
She was rude to me. She didn't like me going to her sports pavilion.
Her sports pavilion.
But forgive me, Mademoiselle...
...what reason did you have for entering in there?
I was interested in the building. That is all.
Last term, Mademoiselle, you were unwell?
Yes.
Alors, and the nature of this illness?
Well, that's private.
Mademoiselle, we are here to investigate a murder.
Everything, it must be brought out into the light.
- Really? - Mm-hm.
- And what about you? - Moi?
Well, all that guff about looking round the school on behalf of the King of Belgium!
Ah.
So you penetrated the little deception of Poirot, huh?
Not too hard. No offence.
Anyway, I'm not surprised something like this has happened.
Ever since I've come back,
it's as though there was someone among us who didn't belong -
a cat among the pigeons.
- Well, hello, there. - Hello.
- Do you mind if I join you? - It's a free country.
I hope you've brought your own hard-boiled egg.
- I'm afraid I've only enough for me. - That's OK.
- How appropriate. - Hm?
Adam, isn't it?
Yes.
Ann?
Hm.
Excuse me, Miss Shapland...
Just doesn't seem like your thing, that's all - shut away in a girls' school.
How would you know what my thing was?
You just don't seem the type.
- I like variety. - Ah!
- Anyway, I could say the same thing about you. - Yes?
- Good-looking young man... - Ah! Good-looking, eh?
Mm. Spending his days planting chrysanthemums in a girls' school.
Angelicas.
Chrysanths won't take. It's the soil.
In case you hadn't noticed, there's a depression on. I get work wherever I can.
I'm sorry if I've given offence.
None taken.
I don't mind. Honestly, you can have it back.
No, no. We swapped fair and square.
I'll just have to ask Mummy for a new one.
It is funny, isn't it?
Now they've searched the pavilion, your racquet...
Well, your racquet, really.
...is the only thing to go missing.
Oh, to think that's all the killer got away with!
I don't think anyone would kill poor old Springer for a tennis racquet.
I don't know anything about any murder! I told you!
All right, all right! Thank you, Constable.
Now, then, Mr Goodman...
Um...
Before we go any further... sir.
Blimey!
Monsieur Goodman, perhaps you would be good enough to tell us
what an agent in His Majesty's Secret Service... is doing here at the Meadowbank School.
No sense dwelling on it, Chaddy. We'll be all right if we keep our heads.
There's er...
...there's something you should know.
You are here because of the death of Prince Ali Yusuf of Ramat,
- are you not, Monsieur Goodman? - Yes, sir.
He was killed... attempting to flee his country.
Damn shame, really. Prince Ali would have made an enlightened ruler.
He was a democrat, which is probably what did the poor chap in.
Anyway, just before all hell broke loose out there,
we'd been picking up some interesting bits of chatter.
It seems someone was trying to get close to the Prince
through an English friend of his - name of Bob Rawlinson.
To get close to him with what purpose?
To destabilise the regime, we supposed. There was actually very little to go on.
Just a name. Angel.
And now, the um...
the next in line to the throne is here at Meadowbank.
The Princess?
Bloody hell, she said she was being watched! Maybe she was right.
Maybe that's why Miss Springer was murdered.
But that is not the only reason you are here at Meadowbank School.
Jennifer Sutcliffe, non?
The niece of Bob Rawlinson.
You're very well informed, sir.
Ah, Mademoiselle!
You depart?
- I'm going for lunch with my uncle, at Claridge's. - Ah.
At least there I will not die a horrible death.
Well, that rather depends, I think, Mademoiselle, on the quality of the cuisine.
George? C'est moi - Poirot.
I have for you the little task.
Is he going to continue to be my gardener?
Well, if you don't object. It puts him right in the centre of things.
- I hope you're not expecting more murders. - I'm sure not.
Good!
Because I doubt if the school could survive two homicides in one week.
Now, Miss Rich has told us... Thank you.
...she felt that there's been a strange sort of atmosphere.
Yes, I'd concur.
Miss Chadwick said the same thing.
Er... No, thank you.
And you, mademoiselle?
Have you noticed anyone behaving in a way bizarre?
No, it's just a feeling, really.
- Unless... - Yes?
Something happened on the first day of term, when you presented the Pemberton Shield.
It was when that dreadful creature Lady Veronica rolled up.
I'm so sorry.
Excuse me, excuse me.
Oh, Miss Bulstrode, so glad I've caught you.
Is there something the matter?
I wasn't really listening. One develops a method of tuning out,
like a wireless, you see.
And I was far too concerned with what Lady Veronica was up to.
But when Mrs Upjohn left me,
I couldn't shake off the feeling that I'd missed something very important.
She'd seen someone. Someone she thought was dead.
Gosh, that really takes me back.
I mean, we knew all the agents from the files, of course.
Really, the most extraordinary resemblance.
It was espionage she was talking about. Had to be. But it seemed so absurd.
I suppose the Secret Service recruits from all walks of life -
it's quite possible that Mrs Upjohn worked for them,
without being some sort of female Bulldog Drummond.
I'll get Goodman onto it.
There was a word.
A name.
Think, Mademoiselle. This may be of vital importance.
Good Lord, how extraordinary.
But it's not possible.
The Angel!
Angel. The Angel. That was it.
Someone she recognised.
A parent? Or a relation of one of the pupils?
- Or a teacher. - Hardly a teacher.
But it is possible.
Easily solved - we'll get Mrs Upjohn down here right away.
- Ah. - There is a problem?
Mrs Upjohn has gone to Anatolia.
On a bus.
Where on a bus?
Excuse I, Miss B. The Emir's car has just arrived and we can't find the wretched Princess Shaista.
There must be some mistake - the Emir's car called for her an hour ago.
Oh. Well, probably a double booking.
I'll go down and give them a flea in their ear.
Monsieur Poirot, could I have a word with you?
But of course, Mademoiselle.
I just found it, I swear!
Found it? Where, Hsui Tai?
In the flowerbeds.
- I thought... - Yes?
Well, it does look a lot like Miss Springer.
I thought it might be, you know, a clue.
Indeed it might.
You permit?
Merci.
And the face of the unfortunate Mademoiselle Springer,
- it has been well captured you would say? - Very.
Bon.
- Honoria! - What is it?
Princess Shaista.
No, she's gone! The Emir rang from Claridge's and everything, and Shaista never turned up.
- Crumbs! - I think I might swoon if anything else happens.
It's just too, too thrilling.
- Do you reckon she's been nabbed? - Must have been.
- White slavers, do you think? - Oh, hardly.
- Why not? - She's not white, for one thing.
Come on. Better get to bed before Chadwick spots us.
A word, Mr Goodman.
Kidnapped from under your nose?
Yes.
The last thing you need is more publicity.
We're going to put it about that the girl's staying with her uncle at Claridge's.
Thank you.
I'll speak to you first thing.
Um... Miss Chadwick will be in charge for a while.
I have to go to town tonight - there's a meeting of the governors.
It's unavoidable, I'm afraid. They're very worried.
Does Poirot have any theories about the missing princess?
It's very odd, but...
...he didn't seem concerned about her at all.
- No sense in denying it, I suppose. - No, Mademoiselle.
- How did you... - It was the straw.
It smelled of the oil paint.
I would suggest that this oil paint came from one of the packing cases
that I observed when first I arrived.
Also your skill - it gave you away.
Such artistry... lavished upon an object of such hate?
Oh, I did hate her.
My God, I let off a lot of steam stabbing that thing thinking of her.
I had to get rid of it when she...
when she died.
- I thought I had. - Tell me, Mademoiselle,
what had Mademoiselle Springer done to you to be deserving of such an effigy?
It was just a bit of nonsense, that's all.
She was a bully, and a vulgarian. I can't bear people like that.
I made it for fun, Mr Poirot.
I didn't know she was going to go and get herself skewered, did I?
- Julia! - Oh, it's you!
Oh, thank goodness.
What's up?
As if murder weren't enough. Now kidnapping!
Has anyone looked in Shaista's room, in her things?
The police must have, I suppose.
If she's anything like the rest of the girls, she wouldn't leave love letters lying about.
No. No, she'd want them well away from prying eyes.
See you later.
Have you got a penknife, Jen?
What are you doing that for?
You thought someone had been in your room, right?
- Yes. - Looking for something.
Something they didn't find.
Corks!
I've had a wonderful evening.
Sorry.
- Sorry. Two left feet. - At least.
- You're smashing, though. - Natural grace, darling.
What do you think about Miss Springer, then?
Ah, I'm staying well out if it.
- Something to hide? - Curiosity killed the cat.
I wonder if it did.
You know, I've never had a chance to display my talents as a sleuth.
I think I might be rather good at it.
Go on, then. Test your skills on me.
Hm...
I'm sure you're hiding something.
Then again, aren't we all?
Are you all right?
There's something I want to tell you.
Entrez!
Forgive me, Monsieur Poirot.
- It is Mademoiselle Upjohn, is it not? - Yes.
How may I be of help, Mademoiselle?
- This is very late to call upon Poirot. - Oh.
Nom de... nom de... nom de... nom.
No-one likes to brag about having a mother in the booby hatch.
I'm sure no-one would hold it against you.
Wouldn't they?
Some of the high-flyers I've worked for, they certainly would.
Even here at Meadowbank.
Imagine the whispering if it got out.
Poor Mum.
Your turn.
Come on!
Nurse, would you check on Miss Greenford in Ward 2, please?
Yes, Doctor.
Blimey, that's something!
I mean, the wife has paste ones - wears them at Christmas.
All very pretty, but...
But nothing when compared to the real thing, eh, Inspector?
Yes, this gem it is indeed most glorious, huh?
Part of the treasure of Prince Ali Yusuf
that was smuggled out of Ramat at the time of the revolution.
Is that what all this is about?
Someone's after the gems?
But what would that have to do with Miss Rich?
It's not as bad as we feared.
They say she'll pull through.
Obviously she can't tell us anything at the moment.
She was struck from behind?
Yes, with a sandbag from one of the fire buckets.
What was she doing out in the pavilion?
Miss Chadwick found her in front of Princess Shaista's locker.
Poor Chaddy. She's very shaken.
It happened on her watch so she's blaming herself.
Murder, now this.
And a kidnapping on top of everything else!
But I expect developments at any moment on that matter, Mademoiselle.
Tell to me, if you please,
did you ever notice the knees of Princess Shaista?
- Knees? - Oui.
No. Why should I?
Poirot noticed.
The Ramat rubies.
Worn by ten generations of the royal family.
It's like something out of Arabian Knights.
And hidden in the handle of a tennis racquet?
Jennifer said the balance was all wrong. Didn't you, Jen?
I can see now why that was.
So you conject, perhaps, that someone knew what was inside?
Yes. But of course we'd swapped, so they ended up with the wrong one.
Oh, isn't it thrilling?
Most thrilling indeed.
And then I remembered that Jen's parents had been burgled, just before term started.
So, maybe whoever it is was already looking for the tennis racquet.
Excellent, mademoiselle!
You think like a detective.
It has to have been someone who was out there in Ramat.
Someone who saw the jewels being hidden.
Mm.
Uncle Bob had a girlfriend. Maybe it was her?
- A girlfriend? - Apparently. Um...
Spanish. Or French.
Some sort of belly dancer.
Angelica. That was it.
Mademoiselles, we need to detain you no longer.
Oh. Oh, I don't mind.
Most of the girls have been taken out of school. The sainted parentals are panicking.
Poor Jen's off this afternoon, aren't you?
Yes, worse luck. Just when it was getting interesting.
Mesdemoiselles.
Angelica - The Angel. Coincidence?
Is there such a person? An agent in your files, Monsieur Goodman?
I checked when that nickname first came up.
There was an agent named Angel, but er... she was killed,
10, 15 years ago.
- And was there a photograph? - Probably.
There was a fire. Records destroyed, I'm afraid.
I see.
And the files concerning the revolution in Ramat -
- I may be permitted to see them? - Yes, of course.
I'll um... I'll see to it at once.
Merci.
How goes the search for Madame Upjohn, Inspector?
Well, when Miss Bulstrode said she was on a bus,
I imagined some sort of Thomas Cook's Tours, or what have you.
But?
It seems that Mrs Upjohn is what you might call a free spirit -
took off on her own, with only a carpet bag, determined to see the world.
We're doing our best, but finding a lone Englishwoman
in a country where they probably use chickens for currency...
News from the hospital. Miss Rich is coming round.
Miss Johnson says you were searching for clues to the Princess' disappearance.
Is that why you were in the sports pavilion?
Yes. I had an idea. I thought maybe she'd arranged to meet a boy.
There are lockers in the school,
but the pavilion would be the perfect place to hide anything confidential.
I mean, it's locked most of the time, and... and what with all the...
...um... police activity...
- Are you all right? - I'm tired.
Just tired.
I don't suppose you could say who you think may have...
Well, Miss Chadwick's out of it because she found you.
And then Miss Shapland and Mr Goodman found her.
They'd spent the whole evening together.
Miss Blake was with Mr Poirot,
- Miss Bulstrode was with the governors... - Non.
- Beg your pardon? - Poirot has checked.
The meeting with the governors was not until this morning.
Mademoiselle Bulstrode left the school at 7.30 last night.
Very well.
Excuse me.
What of the French mistress?
She said she went to bed and heard nothing until the alarm was given.
We've no evidence to the contrary, but Miss Chadwick says she's sly.
She's got a thing about the French.
Look, are we missing the obvious?
Bob Rawlinson's girlfriend is Angelica.
French.
Oui.
But the identity of this Angelica...
...well, there is more than one possibility.
What are we going to do? It's like a blasted exodus!
And who will lead us into the promised land?
What?
Who will you name as your successor, Honoria?
That's rather an academic question. Meadowbank won't survive this scandal.
Why do you ask?
I saw the note.
The one you drafted. It was on Miss Shapland's typewriter.
I shouldn't have looked.
Oh, Chaddy,
I haven't made up my mind.
I was just checking Eileen Rich's references.
I have given everything to this school, Honoria.
My whole life!
- I have given... everything. - Chaddy, wait! Let me speak!
Miss Bulstrode, I'll take the afternoon off now, as arranged.
Oh... yes.
It hardly matters - there are so few girls left.
Chaddy! Wait! I must speak to you!
Mademoiselle, where were you during the last term?
I told you. I was ill.
But once again I ask the nature of this illness.
- Well, that's none of your business. - Poirot knows all, mademoiselle.
How?
It does not tax the little grey cells very much, Mademoiselle...
...to connect the loss of weight,
the sudden emotion expressed at the reading of the beautiful little poem.
"Look, Lizzie, look...
...down the glen tramped the little men... "
"... their evil gifts...
...their evil gifts would harm us. "
Courage, mademoiselle.
I so wanted to have the child.
But I didn't want to lose my job.
I love Meadowbank.
So I went away. Out of the country.
Where no-one would know.
- And what became? - He died.
Miss Springer found out... somehow.
She tormented me with it, like she enjoyed it.
Well, it is over now.
What's going on, Poirot?
You're hiding something, keeping me in the ruddy dark!
Au contraire, Inspector.
I only wish to illuminate matters.
There is a certain car whose number Poirot took the care to note.
The car it has been found and the owner traced.
And so, Poirot would like to propose a little excursion -
to a nightclub known as The Glass Slipper.
This is Maison Blanche again.
You understand me?
I have to speak of an account that is owed.
You have until later tonight.
Non, you have had plenty of time to settle this.
If the money is not paid,
it will be necessary for me to report what I observed on the night of the 16th.
You understand me?
Very well. Where?
Good evening, Princess Shaista.
Clammed up like a Scotsman's wallet, haven't you, love?
I can't believe it. She looks so... different.
Mature.
- Prècisèment. - You've lost me, Poirot.
- Was she kidnapped or wasn't she? - Yes and no, Inspector.
The real Princess Shaista was abducted in Switzerland.
I would imagine that she is still there.
The revolutionaries of Ramat sent a substitute to the Meadowbank School.
- What the hell for? - Oh, I think I get it.
If the Prince's jewels left Ramat in friendly hands, then sooner or later,
they'd be brought to the Princess.
Her uncle, the Emir, was in Egypt and had no plans to visit this country,
so the impostor could await the arrival of a certain package.
However, I did ask Mademoiselle Bulstrode if she noticed the knees of the Princess.
- Knees? - Ah, oui.
Knees are a very good indication of age, Inspector.
Par exemple, the knees of a woman of 24, 25
can never be mistaken for those belonging to a young girl of 14 or 15.
But nobody, alas, except Poirot, noticed her knees.
But the plan, it did not work, did it, Mademoiselle?
Nobody tried to contact you - there were no letters, no telephone calls.
The Emir could arrive at any moment,
and then he would realise this princess to be an impostor.
When the fateful moment arrives, the well-laid plan was put into action.
- Shaista was officially kidnapped... - And went where?
You work for the revolutionaries.
Yes? You might as well admit it.
You burgled Mrs Sutcliffe's place, and finding nothing,
you turned your attention to the school.
You can't hold me here. I got bloody rights.
We'll see about that.
The false Shaista could, of course, have killed Mademoiselle Springer.
But I do not think she had the motive to kill anyone.
Her role was simply to receive a package most valuable that never arrived.
And the reason? Because nobody knew exactly how the jewels of Prince Ali Yusuf
were smuggled out of Ramat.
Nobody, that is, except for one person.
You would be ill-advised to play games with me.
Give me what I need and I will return to France.
No-one will ever hear from me again.
Or hear what I know.
This cat-and-mouse game is tiresome.
I am growing angry!
Give to me what is owed and I promise that I...
Oof!
There you are, sir.
Light in the darkness.
- She has arrived? - Yeah.
- Now maybe we'll get somewhere. - No, no, Inspector.
This is insurance merely.
The case...
...it is solved.
It must have seemed that there was a sort of...
...vendetta against the mistresses of Meadowbank.
But I can assure you that this was not so.
Could have fooled me.
There have been here two murders, an attempted murder...
...and what appeared to be a kidnapping.
But I understand that this kidnapping it has been explained to you. Oui?
I said, didn't I? That whole business with the brassiere.
All through this affair, the problem, it has been
to clear out of the way all the extraneous matters
which, though criminal in themselves, obscure the thread most important -
the thread that leads us to a killer...
...who is determined, ruthless,
and in your midst.
A cat among the pigeons.
The threads of this case begin in Ramat,
where, as you know, a revolutionary coup d'ètat took place it is now a few months ago.
At the same time as this coup,
the jewels most fabulous that belonged to the late Prince Ali Yusuf
were spirited out of the country, and certain persons were most anxious to get hold of them.
I now know, from the files in your Secret Service,
that the great friend of the Prince, a Monsieur Bob Rawlinson,
was under the observation most secret.
He was observed to spend 20 minutes in the hotel room of his sister, Madame Sutcliffe,
who was visiting from England.
But she was not there in the room.
So why spend 20 minutes in a room that was empty?
Because... he was seeking most desperately
the means of smuggling these jewels out of the country until a safer time.
So... he places the valuables in the luggage of his sister.
The revolutionaries eventually determine
that Madame Sutcliffe brought the jewels back to England
and in consequence, her house, it is ransacked.
But Poirot says someone else knew exactly where were these jewels.
They were concealed within the handle of a tennis racquet
that belonged to the daughter of Madame Sutcliffe - Jennifer Sutcliffe.
Huh?
And it was she who brought this tennis racquet to Meadowbank School.
But someone within this school...
...knew the location of these jewels.
For the room of Jennifer Sutcliffe, it had already been searched.
But now they turned their attention to the sports pavilion.
This person assumes that everybody would be in bed, asleep, huh?
But this was not the case.
For Mademoiselle Springer is watching.
And she follows.
She confronts this person in much the same way as she has in the past.
She intends to have her amusement,
and for the character of Mademoiselle Springer, it is sadistic, non?
Already she has warned the staff at Meadowbank School in terms most unsubtle
that she enjoys to sniff out a scandal.
Already she has her claws in more than one teacher
because she knows of their little weaknesses or foibles.
But, naturellement, she knows nothing of the rubies of the Prince.
Non, she is safe. She is... smug.
Quite the dark horse, aren't you?
She will enjoy watching her new victim... squirm.
Like the worm on the end of the fishing hook.
But she has failed to take into account the character of her victim.
A person who is cold, ruthless -
a killer.
Who wished to silence her?
Mademoiselle Blake, par exemple?
She who lavished such care in creating an effigy of straw
of the games mistress so hated, and derived a pleasure at stabbing at it,
again, and again, and again?
Why should she do this?
Mademoiselle?
At my last school,
there was a boy.
A pupil.
It was inappropriate.
It hardly amounted to anything, but I had to leave.
It was a wretched mess.
I don't know how Springer found out, but she made my life hell.
I could gladly have stuck that javelin in her, Mr Poirot.
But I didn't.
- I didn't kill her. - No.
No, for the psychology, it tells to me that your instincts are creative,
not destructive, hm? Non.
No, it was not Mademoiselle Blake who killed Mademoiselle Springer.
So let us return now to the night of the murder.
The killer must act rapidly, because at any moment they might be disturbed.
So, the tennis racquet belonging to Jennifer Sutcliffe, it is found, grabbed.
And the killer disappears. Pfft!
Into the night.
But what the killer cannot know is that a short while before,
Jennifer Sutcliffe had exchanged the racquets with Julia Upjohn...
...and swapped the tapes that bore their names.
And now we come to the second incident.
The attack on Mademoiselle Rich...
...which came so near to tragedy.
Why were you in the sports pavilion that night, Mademoiselle?
Um... I wanted to search Princess Shaista's locker
to see if there were any clues as to where she'd got to.
Bon.
But someone followed you there, huh?
And struck you on the back of the head with a sandbag
as you knelt down in front of the locker of Princess Shaista.
Who could this have been?
And again, this crime was discovered almost at once because...
...Mademoiselle Chadwick...
...you saw the light on in the pavilion and hurried out there?
Many of you have the alibi most strong.
But where was Mademoiselle Bulstrode?
The governors' meeting was the next morning and she left the school at 7.30 that evening.
So could it be Mademoiselle Bulstrode that struck down Mademoiselle Rich?
Non.
No, because Mademoiselle Bulstrode was on a mission most delicate -
the discovery that la pauvre maman of one of her colleagues
lives out her days in the lunatic asylum.
- You knew? - Yes, my dear.
Someone alerted me.
"For the care of A Shapland. "
Same initial, you see - I had to look into it.
Especially with all the whispering about somebody being not quite right in our midst.
So there now remains to consider the murder of Mademoiselle Blanche.
I believe that Mademoiselle Blanche knew the identity of this killer,
but nothing...
...rien is more dangerous
than to levy the blackmail on a person who has killed at least once.
Mademoiselle Blanche,
she makes an appointment with the murderer and, of course...
...she is killed.
And there, mes amis, you have an account of this whole affair.
And now what?
Et bien, let us to consider.
The knowledge that these jewels
were concealed within the handle of a racquet could only have been acquired in one way -
someone must have seen them put in there.
Any one of you could have been in Ramat over the summer.
- You, par exemple, Mademoiselle Rich? - No.
I was ill. I was away for a term.
For a term, yes. But over the summer, you could have been in Ramat.
But you know where I was.
You promised!
Look here... hasn't the poor girl suffered enough?
Why do we have to go through these wretched theatricals?
- I must protest! - Oui, d'accord.
Mademoiselle Rich was not in Ramat.
That has been ascertained.
But someone was there.
The Angel was there.
And here, Poirot must present to you a person most significant.
A person that many of you have never before encountered - Madame Upjohn.
Oui, la maman of Julia Upjohn.
And in the years past, she was a member of the British Secret Service.
- Secret Service? - Oui.
You know, on the day that Poirot presented the Pembleton Shield
Madame Upjohn recognises a face in the crowd.
The face of an agent most dangerous.
A killer.
A person known as... The Angel...
...whom she thought long dead.
But she dismisses the idea - it is a resemblance, no more.
But a member of the staff was watching most closely.
And we now know that Mademoiselle Springer
realises that The Angel has been identified and is very much alive.
I suspect that this Angel was working for the revolutionaries in Ramat,
eating away at the very foundations of the government of Prince Ali Yusuf.
In so doing, she forms a relationship most intense
with a great friend of the Prince, Bob Rawlinson.
And then one day, purely by chance, she sees something extraordinaire.
A treasure so magnifique that she will be secure all her life.
She determines to retrieve these jewels herself, in her own identity,
as a free agent - not as a paid lackey of the revolutionaries.
Who could this be?
You, Mademoiselle Shapland.
What?
Oh, you have lived a life most dangerous,
but you have never been suspected in your own identity.
All the jobs you have taken have been most genuine, yes,
but all with a purpose singulaire - the obtaining of information.
Ever since you were 17, you have been a secret agent.
You have worked for many masters in many guises,
but it was in the guise of Angelica de Buque,
the cabaret dancer française, that you spent the summer in Ramat!
- Oh, come on! - Monsieur Poirot, that's impossible.
Impossible? Non!
There was no opportunity of taking the tennis racquet there and then
because of the evacuation of the British people.
And to obtain a secretarial position here, it was not difficult.
I propose you paid a sum most substantial to the former secretary of Mademoiselle Bulstrode...
- Vera? - Oui!... to vacate her post.
And now, everything is easy, is it not? Huh?
If a tennis racquet of a child went missing, what of it?
And simpler still, you could now gain access
to the sports pavilion at night and... ... abstract the jewels.
But you had failed to take into account Mademoiselle Springer.
This is crazy.
Miss Bulstrode, you can't honestly...
Anyway, where's your proof?
- You haven't a shred of... - Now, Inspector!
Now!
There! That's her! I was right!
I was right.
Put it down, Ann.
No, Miss. Shan't.
No!
- Get a doctor, quickly! - I'll go!
It's bad. It's very bad.
Was... for... the school.
She was only a slip of a thing, but lethal.
Bitch. You bitch!
I recognised her face from the files.
But she was dead!
Killed on a mission in Silesia.
Or so you thought.
- Ambulance is on its way. - I'll get her straight to hospital.
- Christ Almighty, I thought... - What, lover boy?
You thought you'd made a pretty good catch?
I've eaten better fellas than you for breakfast.
You're just a bit of fluff until the fuss died down and I could get away.
It was that gorgon Springer who started to unravel it all.
Aha!
What the hell do you want?
Oh, don't worry. Your secret's safe with me.
For now.
I said what do you want?
Fun.
No!
I wiped the smile off her face.
But still you could not find the jewels, huh?
And then, Mademoiselle Blanche tries to blackmail you and you kill her.
It comes so natural to you, does it not, to kill?
Natural as breathing, darling.
- Sir? - Let's get her out.
Ann Shapland, I'm arresting you for the murder of Grace Springer and Elise Blanche.
Miss Chadwick!
Hold on.
Monsieur Poirot, I...
I don't understand. That still leaves the attack on Miss Rich.
Oui.
She couldn't have done it. We er... we were together all evening.
Oui, d'accord.
No, it was not she who tried to kill Mademoiselle Rich.
Then who did try to kill me?
She loved Meadowbank too much, I think.
And when I spoke of retiring...
She regarded herself as the only person who could take over.
But she was too old. She must have known that.
She could not think clearly, I fear.
Something in her mind must have snapped.
Once again, she sees the light in the pavilion.
She thinks she can prove herself by catching the killer.
She picks up a sandbag from a fire bucket, and what does she find?
Eileen Rich.
Her rival.
And all the resentment,
all the mounting pressure of the last few weeks, suddenly it breaks.
But this was a moment of madness.
Mademoiselle Chadwick is not a killer by nature.
And what she told to the police was the truth exactly.
Except for the fact that it was she who struck the blow.
At once, her mind rebels at what she has done.
And that's why Ann Shapland used a sandbag to kill Mademoiselle Blanche.
Prècisèment.
Ann Shapland, huh?
A young woman who is very clever.
Out of the blue comes this second attack, for which, of course, she has the alibi.
And later she thinks she can tie up the murder of Mademoiselle Blanche with this.
But, of course, it is only natural to assume that it was the work of the same person.
Hello, Chaddy.
I want... to tell you something.
Eileen Rich...
...it was... - Yes, I know.
Jealous.
I...
I know, I know.
I can't...
I'll never... forgive myself.
You saved my life, Chaddy.
My life and the life of Mrs Upjohn.
That counts for something, doesn't it?
I only wish... I could have given my life for both of you.
No...
That would have made it...
...all right.
You did, my dear.
You did.
Would you like me to leave now, or would you prefer I waited until the end of term?
I beg your pardon?
I presume you know the reason why I was away.
You'll stay till the end of term.
And if there is a new one here, which I still hope, you'll come back.
- You mean you still want me? - Of course I still want you.
- You haven't murdered anyone, have you? - No!
Teaching is your vocation, I know it is.
Well, we'll need three or four years to put Meadowbank back on the map.
We?
I'm offering you a partnership.
Oh!
You'll have different ideas, of course. That's the way it should be.
I don't suppose we'll agree about everything.
No, I don't suppose we shall.
Monsieur Poirot, I've made the right choice, have I?
Oui.
Poirot had come to the same conclusion about Mademoiselle Rich some time before.
Alors, and now it is time for Poirot to excuse himself.
Au revoir, Mademoiselle.
- Thank you for everything. - Oh, de rien.
And you, Mademoiselle, the challenge, it has returned, non?
Oh, yes.
Always at my best when I'm up against it.
Meadowbank will once again be the finest school in England.
Well, I'm glad we sorted all that out, Monsieur.
Ah.
- Au revoir, Inspector. - Au revoir, Monsieur.
- Madame Upjohn. - Oh, Monsieur Poirot.
You should be very proud of your little one.
- She has shown the great courage. - Never mind that, Mr P.
What about Mummy here? A secret agent?
- All this time and I never knew. - Well, not really.
She's told me all about the shooting and Miss Shapland, and it is bloody exciting.
- Julia! - Hèlas!
Sorry!
But it is.
I suppose school's going to be awfully dreary
now people aren't getting bumped off all over the place.
- Are you heading back to town? - Alas, oui.
I have an appointment with your Foreign Office.
There is a little matter of a king's ransom in rubies that must be returned.
Oh, yes.
- Oh, they were rather smashing! - Oui.
No chance they could be regarded as - what-d'you-call-it? - Treasure trove?
Non, mais non.
The jewels, they must be returned to their rightful owner - the real Princess Shaista,
who has been found to live a life quite pleasant in a Swiss chalet.
But in recognition of your assistance so great in this affair so dangerous,
I have been authorised to present to you un petit cadeau.
What are they?
I believe they are called the gobstoppers.
Oh.
Super.
Well, say thank you to Monsieur Poirot, Julia.
- Thank you. - Je vous en prie, Mademoiselle.
Oh! And, Mademoiselle, please to take care when eating a red one, uh?
It has a centre most hard.