Original subtitles

23.976

What's that one? Oh, it's called an anchor bend, surprisingly!

Hello. Managed to find your way around?

- Ahoy there! - Charlie!

Poirot! You've arrived!

Merci.

My guess is you're in the entertainment business too.

Non, non. Non, monsieur. I am a... a spectator merely.

- Been down here before? - Non.

No, I was introduced to Sir Charles at a bridge party.

Oh, it is now many... many years.

And you, monsieur, you have known him for a long time also?

Oh, yes. We were at Oxford together.

Tell me, why do you think he has retired?

Well, 'cherchez la femme', old fruit, that's all I'll say.

Tollie! Welcome! Good to see you!

- Poirot. - My dear Charles.

Oh, I'm so glad you two have finally met.

My two best friends in all the world.

Good afternoon, Sir Charles. Gentlemen.

Here is the menu for dinner.

Before sailing it was racing cars, remember?

Oui, d'accord.

- What next? Hot-air balloons? - Hm!

If you will excuse me, Sir Charles, it might

be a good idea were I to dine with you tonight.

Well, that would be lovely.

Otherwise we shall have an odd number of

males and females at table. I'm glad you agree.

Gentlemen.

What a remarkable specimen. How long have you had her?

Six years. In London, then here. Runs it like clockwork.

But now the bloody woman wants to leave.

She's leaving? Why?

She says she has an invalid mother. Sounds unlikely to me.

I'd be very surprised if Miss Milray had biological parents at all.

Je te remercie for your invitation.

This is a spot most beautiful.

So tell to me, if you please, who are to be the other guests?

Yes, come on, Charlie, who are the figures in this drama?

- The "dramatis personae"? - Mm.

Very well.

Down from London are Captain and Mrs Dacres.

Cynthia is, in fact, Ambrosine of Bond Street.

Oh! Not the... the dressmaker that is so celebrated?

That's it.

Whilst Dacres, once a jockey himself,

is now something of a flat-racing fanatic.

Who else?

Also from London,

is the up-and-coming playwright Anthony Astor.

Oh, splendid!

Does this London lot know the others who are coming?

No. Why should they?

My ingenue tonight will be...

Miss Lytton Gore.

Egg Lytton Gore?

Accompanied by her mother, Lady Mary. The genuine article.

Long on breeding, short on cash.

Then there are the Babbingtons.

Nothing very notable there, but protocol demands, et cetera.

Best to have the parson along.

Then, last and in every way least,

the young squib Oliver Manders.

- The villain of the piece? - Let's just say, he's a little bit devious.

Accompanied by... the chip on his shoulder.

He never goes anywhere without it.

And that is my cast.

Ah, but we must not forget Mademoiselle Milray,

for she is also to join us.

How could one forget Miss Milray? The spectre at the feast!

This is... er... Captain Dacres

and the very beautiful Cynthia Dacres.

For many years, madame, I have admired your creations formidable.

How penetrating of you.

Any chance of a drink, old boy?

I'm just about to mix some cocktails.

As soon as the others arrive.

Any tips for Goodwood, Dacres? You're a man of the turf, I hear.

What else do you know?

- I beg your pardon? - What else has she told you?

- Who, man? - Her.

Well, I'm not ashamed of my profession. Not one bit.

There may well be miners and stevedores and so forth

whose budget does not stretch to couture,

but if any woman is misguided enough to marry one of them,

that, as they say, is her lookout.

Mademoiselle, who is that lady?

Oh, that's Anthony Astor.

The playwright.

Her real name is Muriel Wills.

Oh! Here come the locals.

Oh, you're here. /

- Good evening. - Vicar

Come in, come in! Drinks!

Aye aye, skipper!

Ah, this is Mademoiselle Lytton Gore, hah?

Who calls herself something amusante?

- Egg. - Ah.

Don't ask me why.

Boiled, I like to think.

Have a cocktail, Egg.

Cheers.

I say, Sir Charles, you do know some very reactionary people.

People are people. I'm not political.

Oliver's not political either.

He just went to the East End once, by mistake, and had a "road-to-Damascus" moment.

You of all people should know how degrading poverty is.

Steady on!

It's all right. I can fend for myself.

Er... no.

- Madam? - Ooh! Do I dare?

Oh, go on, Mums. Show Mr Manders we're not

completely ground down by the iron heel of capitalism.

I think I might have one, too, if my wife permits.

May I have my annual drink, dear?

He'll do exactly as he likes, as usual.

Do come and meet a friend of mine who is actually a detective.

- A real one? - A real one. Golly!

This tastes slightly...

It's a cocktail, Stephen, not a pint of mild.

Oh! Mr Babbington!

- Stephen! - Is he ill?

Out of the way.

- Stephen, what is it? - Is he all right, Tollie?

Talk to me. Stephen!

No, I'm sorry, he's not.

- He's dead. - What?!

Stephen!

Stephen, please...

Did you ever see anyone die like that, Tollie?

I'm a psychologist. I don't see people die much at all.

A nerve specialist tries hard to keep his patients alive.

Something is out of joint. I can't... put my finger on it.

- What if he was murdered? - Murdered?

Who'd want to murder a harmless old clergyman?

- What if he wasn't harmless? - Look, Charlie,

you're a thundering good chap, but you do let

your imagination run away with you sometimes!

Look, Poirot, you're a crime expert.

Do you think anything untoward happened here tonight?

We're planning to get that glass, his glass, chemically analysed.

- Ah, oui? It can do no harm. - What do you think will be the results?

All I can do is to guess, Sir Bartholomew.

And my guess, it is that they will find the remains of a dry martini most excellent.

To poison a man with a cocktail, one of many handed

around on a tray, it is a technique tres difficile.

So what do you think happened?

All I know, Sir Bartholomew, is that he was taken ill most suddenly.

Mes amis, perhaps the inquest, it will reveal to us, hah?

I find nothing to indicate foul play of any kind.

No trace of poison in his glass, no sign of any wounding.

I conclude that the decease of Rev Stephen

Babbington was occasioned solely by natural causes.

Natural causes? What a lot of tripe!

That coroner should be struck off at once!

The vicar is elderly, mademoiselle, and his health, it is not so good.

Oh, he had a touch of arthritis, nothing more! He should have lived till he was 90.

Did you know him well, this Monsieur Babbington?

Yes.

He was a sweet man, a devout Christian and never unkind to anybody.

They had a son, you know. Robin.

Actually, I used to have rather a pash for Robin.

- And Robin is? - He's... well...

in India.

So, you see, I feel rather strongly about this.

Supposing it wasn't natural causes?

Ma chere, there was nothing in that cocktail glass but vermouth and gin.

- It is proved! - Oh, yes, yes, but it's still damned odd!

The Babbingtons hadn't an enemy in the world.

And why would he just keel over and die?

I'm going to find Sir Charles and give him a piece of my mind.

I suppose he's had loads of affairs, has he?

Ah, mademoiselle, je suis desole, but it is not for -

It's all right. I like a man to have had affairs.

It shows he's properly red-blooded.

Unlike him.

But I thought the two of you, you were friends?

Yes. He's gone into his uncle's office in the City, and, well...

He's getting a bit oily, if you know what I mean.

He just wants to get rich, which I find odd,

as he's always saying he's a Communist.

But then... I find most people rather disgusting when it comes to money.

Ah, mademoiselle, so many people are disgusting about so many things.

I'm going to say good night, Poirot.

I've got an early-morning train to catch.

Will you return to London, Monsieur le Docteur?

No. I've... I'm going to Yorkshire.

I have a private clinic up there.

I hope we meet under better circs next time.

- Oui, d'accord. - Charlie.

When you two leave I shall be quite alone.

I'm sure you'll find some attractive company.

No, I'm an old man, Tollie.

Hair grows out of my ears.

15 years ago, perhaps. But now I think I'm deluding myself.

Damned nice though she is.

I'm thinking of selling up, actually.

Ah, oui?

Well, then we may resume our weekly lunches at the Ritz.

- No. I mean to get away. - To where?

I thought the Riviera.

- Monte Carlo. - Ah!

I make the visit to Monte Carlo each year.

Oh, of course. Where do you stay? At the Majestic?

Naturellement.

Excellent.

I need something to take my mind off this awful murder.

But then, you don't think it is murder, do you, Poirot?

I do not wish to disappoint you, mon ami, but I do not see how it could be.

No. Well, anyway, I don't mean to stay in Cornwall a moment longer.

I wish to God I'd never come to the wretched place.

Goodness! There must be some money in psychology!

Yes, Mums, but why has he invited us here? We barely know the man.

Oh, it takes me back to my younger days.

The shooting parties! The balls!

Of course not, you idiot! We received an invitation, that's all.

I'm warning you, Cynthia. First sign of a white coat, I'm making a dash for it.

Welcome! Welcome!

Do come through. Thank you!

- Hello! - Thank you so much for inviting us.

Ah. Good evening. Straight through, straight through.

Ahem!

That was a very fine meal, Sir Bartholomew.

One found the meringue especially captivating.

You don't stint on the firewater, as well, I'm pleased to say.

My dear, would you mind?

- Shall we clear now, sir? - Yes, by Jove, yes, do.

Serve the cheese now, Ellis, would you?

Yes, it has...

Oliver!

My God, Manders! What happened?

Bad smash, I'm afraid. I've been up in Cumberland for the shooting.

On my way back to London, lost control of my machine.

Bit of luck I was right outside your house, Sir Bartholomew.

-I'll say! - Shall I pour the port, sir?

Oh, yes, thank you.

- Is this where your sanatorium is? - Yes, in the grounds.

Oh. Tucked away.

What caused the crash?

I think I hit an oil slick.

Ploughed into your wall.

Sorry about the medieval masonry and all that.

That's an extremely tall tale, Mr Manders.

However, we drink to your miraculous escape!

As a matter of fact,

I'm very fortunate to have you amongst the company,

amongst my good friends from Cornwall and London,

for the reason that I have something remarkable to reveal.

I'm only sorry Charlie Cartwright can't be here. He'd relish it.

Why can't he?

He's in the South of France. Oh!

What a pity. Now! Ladies and gentlemen,

it has recently been brought to my attention

that... one of you...

Help! Help! Somebody get some help!

A bord, a bord le train bleu!

Depart Gare de Lyon pour Monte Carlo.

Tout le monde a bord!

Be cheerful, sir, our revels now are ended...

- Jouez avec moi! - Non.

-Jouez avec moi, monsieur!

- Amuse toi avec ton ballon. - Non, non, non! Madame!

- Poirot! - Ah, Sir Charles! Quelle surprise!

Thank heavens I've found you. Look at this!

- Oh, non, non! - Oh, yes.

"We regret to announce the death of Sir Bartholomew Strange,

the eminent nerve specialist." - Ah!

His demise occurred suddenly, at the end of a dinner party.

He was drinking a glass of 'Port'

when he had a sudden seizure and died

before medical aid could be summoned.

A glass of Port?

Now will you take me seriously?

Ah, oui.

We must return to England, tout de suite!

Dear Sir Charles, I'm so worried!

You'll have seen in the papers that Sir Bartholomew is dead.

Well, he died in just the same way as poor Mr Babbington!

Also, I'm worried about someone else.

My friend Oliver.

He's acting rather strangely.

I can't explain it all in a letter.

But you could find out the truth. I know you could.

Do come back, Egg.

May I say what a pleasure it is to see you again, Sir Charles?

Oh, thank you.

I hope you have enjoyed your time in France.

Splendid, thank you.

Merci, George.

Now, let us see who else was present at the death of Dr Strange, hah?

Ah! Ici.

Sir Bartholomew Strange is having his usual party for the St Leger.

Among the guests are Lord and Lady Cardigan,

Lady Mary Lytton Gore,

Captain and Mrs Dacres,

and Miss M Wills.

- Seduction After Dark. - I beg your pardon?

That was the play written by Mademoiselle Wills.

Oui, but there is no mention of Monsieur Oliver Manders.

It was Mademoiselle Egg herself who suggested that he also was there.

Tell to me about Melfort Abbey.

Well, Tollie bought it a few years back, for a song,

and restored it and put up a... sanatorium, nursing home, whatever you want to call it.

Nut house, basically.

I've got to find out what happened.

Someone has murdered my friend.

I'd better get off to Yorkshire.

I know the chief constable quite well. One moment, my friend.

In Cornwall I felt you to be guilty of overstating the case...

.. because I found it incredible

that such a gentleman who was old and harmless

should die a death anything that was but natural.

But now we have another death, in circumstances very similar.

And Hercule Poirot, he must admit... an error.

And so, if you permit,

I myself, Hercule Poirot, will make the investigation. Mais oui.

Hercule Poirot will travel to Yorkshire.

That's very handsome of you. Won't it take up your time?

What is time in the face of death?

I see you have changed your shoes.

Yes. I always start with the feet.

- Comment? - With the shoes.

Get the walk right.

Then the costume.

Before you know it, you've got a character.

Ah, oui, d'accord, d'accord.

Welcome to Yorkshire, gents.

Sorry about the weather, but some of us like it.

I was expecting Fred Johnson.

The chief constable's away.

I'm stood in.

Name's Crossfield.

I may as well say right off, I don't hold with

amateurs coming up from London, telling me my business.

Superintendent, if you permit,

we are here because of the death of Bartholomew Strange.

Dr Strange?

He were highly spoke of round here.

I'm afraid to say it looks like he were murdered.

There's nowt to indicate suicide. Tollie would never kill himself.

A friend of yours, sir? Very much so, yes.

You look oddly familiar.

Anyway, there's nowt for you to do here.

We're pretty sure that the butler's our man.

New chap.

Strange had only had him for a fortnight.

Morning after the crime, he disappears, vanishes into thin air.

Where had he come from? Any idea? Oh, yes.

His name is... Ellis.

Gave a London agency.

Reference from a previous employer. Sir Horace Bird, Holland Park.

And have you spoken with Sir Horace?

I'd be happy to, only he's away in East Africa on safari.

So these references, they could - They're forged, obviously, Poirot.

Anybody can see that. Hm.

And the house guests?

They are to be called as witnesses? We've asked them to stay on, yes.

Can we look around Melfort Abbey? No, you can't.

Now, look,

I'm very pally with Fred Johnson.

We used to play polo together in India.

- I'm sure - - Hang about.

Aren't you Sir Charles Cartwright?

- At your service. - Why the heck didn't you say so?

'Ey.

I saw you in Lord Aintree's Dilemma.

I did. I took the wife to London. She wouldn't see owt else.

It had to be Charles Cartwright in Lord Aintree's Dilemma.

I remember, we queued for hours for the Pall Mall Theatre.

But it were worth it!

Superintendent, if you please, are you

absolutely convinced in your little grey cells

that this Monsieur Ellis is your man?

Why else did he bolt?

My dear Charles, do you realise that almost every

person who was present at your dinner in Cornwall

was also present here? Look,

please don't assume that because I'm a thespian I am also dim.

- Of course I realise! Non -

- What can we deduce from it? - No, it's just that...

It appears to me that the doctor, he was making an experiment.

He must have thought that one of the people in Cornwall was responsible for the crime,

and so he has invited them here to Melfort Abbey.

I wore this as Galbraith of the Yard.

Rather authentic, don't you think?

- Hello, Annie. - Good day, Sir Charles. Come in.

Merci.

You've no butler? Mr Baker. He's in Margate.

Sir Bartholomew gave him two months' holiday for long service.

Excuse me, sir.

That's why Ellis was here.

- It's a caller for you, Sir Charles. - Oh, thank you, Annie.

Mademoiselle.

Crossfield here.

Now, listen, I've a pal who works in the coroner's office,

and he's slipped me the mortuary report.

I see. They think it were nicotine poisoning.

Couldn't you get that just from smoking?

Well, you'd have to smoke a heck of a lot.

The nicotine is an alkaloid, colourless, odourless,

and is used habitually by the gardeners

for the spraying of the roses.

Ah!

Also they got a toxicology report on the glass.

It contained Port and only Port.

Exactly the same as last time!

With one difference most important, mon ami.

This time we know it was murder.

So how did you find it, serving under Monsieur Ellis?

Oh, it were quite fun, actually, sir.

Yeah.

He'd been in service all over.

He knew things, scandals, about some very grand households, too!

Is it possible that he was not in fact a butler?

Oh, no, sir.

No, he'd been in service for sure.

Well, he arranged the work different from any butler I ever knew before.

Got his own method, sort of thing.

Bon.

So tell to me, if you please, about the Doctor Strange.

On the night that he died how was his mood?

Oh, erm... He were happy, sir.

Very jolly.

He even larked about with Mr Ellis,

a thing I'd never heard him do with Mr Baker.

Pardon, but what does it mean, he 'larked about'?

Mr Ellis came up with a telephone message,

and the Doctor asked him if he was sure he'd got it right,

and Mr Ellis said, 'Quite sure. '

And the Doctor laughed and said,

'You're an excellent butler, Ellis. '

I were that surprised!

What was this telephone message?

Oh. It were from the sanatorium, about a patient who'd arrived.

A Mrs Rushbridger?

Or summat like that.

That'll be them coming back from the inquest.

Miss Wills, do you mind if we ask you some questions?

Do you mind if I call my solicitor?

Erm... do we, Poirot?

Je pense que Mademoiselle Wills, she makes the little joke, non?

What is it you want to ask?

Did you notice anything... unusual about the arrangements that night?

I heard there's a secret tunnel. Did you hear about that?

- No! -Yes.

There's a secret tunnel that leads to open countryside.

- Is there? - Yes!

And they think the butler crawled along it and escaped.

Crikey!

- Where is it? -Ah, well,

that's the sort of thing that detectives detect, isn't it?

I'd start with the bookshelves, if I were you.

Miss Wills? I couldn't say what she thought about anything.

Eh bien. Tell to us what you thought about her.

Someone said she lives in Tooting, which she can't

help, but she does poke and pry something terrible.

- She was in my room! - She was what?

- In my room, poking about. - No, she wasn't. You're seeing things.

Here we go again! The funny farm's round the corner.

Do be quiet, Derek.

There's supposed to be a secret tunnel. Have you heard about that?

The coroner said it was nicotine poisoning.

- What's that? - Well, Egg,

it's a colourless, odourless alkaloid, widely available in fact,

often used by gardeners to spray their roses with.

. I use it. Everyone does. - Ah.

If you please to tell me, mademoiselle, where is Oliver Manders now?

Oh, he went straight back to town after the inquest.

He had to get straight back to work, poor love.

Did Ellis poison Dr Strange?

Well, how am I supposed to know that?

Do you have any information about the secret passage?

- Do you?! - I certainly don't!

- And I don't think Mums does either. - Oh, God,

this is hopeless. We haven't found out a single thing.

Oh, but you're doing wonderfully well!

Thank you.

The police have already searched Mr Ellis's room, sir.

Yes. Thanks, Annie.

Merci, mademoiselle.

Well, what have we here?

Ah!

He had athlete's foot.

Oh.

Look.

What is that?

It's ink.

There is something that is discomposing in my mind.

Yes? Go on.

It is simply the way that Sir Bartholomew Strange, he made a joke with his butler,

as was told to us by Mademoiselle Annie.

It did not seem in keeping with his character.

By God, you're right!

Tollie would never have spoken to the staff like that.

Et alors?

And when the incident occur? When Ellis brought

the telephone message from the sanatorium!

I'll bet there's no such person as Mrs Rushbridger.

I'll bet you it's a coded message.

I've just returned from abroad to this dreadful news.

I wanted to call in and make sure that everything was shipshape.

Dr Strange was very proud of this place, Matron.

Thank you.

His experimental treatments are often a great success.

Well, yes. I was speaking to a chap in Monte Carlo

who has a relation coming here. Mrs... Damn, what was the name?

Bridger? Rushbridge? Rus...?

Mrs de Rushbridger? Yes.

Oh, yes, she arrived.

Rather a bad breakdown.

Lapses of memory. Severe nervous exhaustion.

She won't be seeing anyone for a very long time.

Oh dear.

Well, thank you so much, Matron.

Merci.

Damn. Damn!

The bloody woman exists! This whole thing's giving me a headache.

What do you say we go somewhere for a stiff whisky? Non, non, non.

Non, non, non. Non, mon cher.

We must return to the bedroom of Ellis.

Ellis? Oh, why?

The stain of ink?

Now you remember perhaps, hah?

Just a stain on the skirting board, Poirot.

But how does it come to be there?

No, something, it is amiss.

- Yes, by God, you're right. - Hm.

He didn't drop his ink bottle. There'd be more ink. He dropped his fountain pen.

He must have been writing, or the top wouldn't have been off.

Perhaps he laid it on the mantel shelf and it rolled?

Non.

Non.

You know, in the theatre we have to examine the internal logic of all our actions.

There's this Russian cove called Stanislavsky... Ah.

He's writing a letter.

He thinks he hears something.

Oh! He has to hide the letter.

- No time to rip up a floorboard. - Non.

- Can't burn it. - Non, because of the cinders, hah?

La la la!

Only one place.

Behind the fire?

Have a look, mon ami.

Non?

Oui?

Bravo! Excellent!

We believe they are letters drafted by the fugitive Ellis.

This is to say that the writer does not wish to cause unpleasantness, but...

John Ellis, butler, presents his compliments

and would be glad of a short interview, touching the tragedy tonight,

before going to the police with certain information.

I am badly in need of money.

A thousand pounds would make all the difference to me. Meet me at...

So that's it! Blackmail.

Er... may I ask who you're telephoning to?

Cornwall, the Loomouth police.

So Ellis knew something, he was paid to disappear,

and that's exactly what he did.

The question is: where's he gone?

Well...

My friend, I am convinced that this Monsieur Ellis,

he is dead.

That is why there...

That is why there is no trace of him.

We are dealing with a maniac that is very dangerous.

Oh, my Lord!

What about Egg? Will she be all right? Well...

There is something that concerns me about the Mademoiselle Egg Lytton Gore.

The stain on the wall.

It's ink. How did she know that it was ink?

To me it was simply a stain on the wall.

Women have a better-developed colour sense than us.

It makes me to be suspicious.

- Of Egg?! - Oui.

Oh, no!

My dear friend, forgive me, but... we must consider every eventuality.

- Of course we must. - But it's not her. It can't be!

No, no, no, no! No! Can't be.

George.

I am so fatigued.

Sir, I'm afraid there are... visitors in the drawing room.

Visitors in the drawing room? Yes, sir.

But it is 11 o'clock at night, George.

Indeed it is, sir.

11 o'clock at night, therefore we do not have visitors in the drawing room!

No, sir.

- Take this! - Of course.

- Mademoiselle Lytton Gore! - Call me Egg.

- What is it that you do here? - Good evening.

- Monsieur Oliver. - Oliver has something to tell you.

Tell him!

The motorcycle crash was a stunt, sir.

- I faked it. - Comment?

Why did you do such a thing?

Do not make me angry, monsieur. I am very fatigued!

- I was told to do it. - By whom?

Bartholomew Strange. He wrote to me, told me to fake a crash and arrive about 9:30.

But he was as surprised as everyone else.

- Ten minutes later he is poisoned? - Yes.

- And there is no connection? - No! I had nothing to do with it.

You have not told this to the police?

Well, it's going to look a bit windy, isn't it, sir?

Why did you obey his instructions?

I heard you'd be there.

And I knew Charles Cartwright was in France.

Oh, Ollie!

- Why are you so wet? - I'm nervous.

- Why? I don't bite! - I'm mindful of Robin Babbington.

- Don't be ridiculous! - What happened to him?

He loved her, and she sent him to India. He never came back!

Why not?

That's enough! He went mystical, went to live in an "Ashram". Gaga!

- He did what he wanted! - Did he? You drove him away!

You drive us all away in the end, Egg!

- Miserable business. - I know.

But it must be done.

Stephen Babbington was a gentle old soul without an enemy in the world.

And yet he was killed.

Or at least we think he was killed.

We're about to find out.

What reasons are there for killing a person?

Babbington knew something. Babbington recognised somebody.

What did he know?

Perhaps it was something he didn't know he knew.

Perhaps he was the cause and Dr Strange the effect?

Precisement!

- What? - Well, if we are to believe

that the second murder, it sprang directly from the first,

then it is the first murder that we must investigate.

The murder of the Reverend Stephen Babbington.

If I hadn't moved to Cornwall, none of this would have happened.

I'm deluding myself, Egg.

I'm no detective.

Mademoiselle Wills.

What is it that you do here?

Well, I've never seen an exhumation before.

Ah! So this is all, how do you say here, grist to your mill?

Your command of English is really rather wonderful, isn't it?

Poor Stephen.

He told Egg to steer clear of Oliver.

But girls are very foolish, Monsieur Poirot.

There's something attractive to a girl

about being told that so-and-so is a bad man.

She at once thinks that her love will reform him.

It may seem a wicked thing to say, but...

.. I was relieved when my husband died and it was just Egg and I.

A little roly-poly baby, trying to stand up, always falling over.

Yes, it's a ridiculous nickname.

But don't let that deceive you.

She's a girl who knows what she wants.

On the night that Dr Strange died, did he appear to be worried about anything?

No. No, he was in high spirits.

He seemed to be amused about something.

Some private joke.

He said he was going to spring a surprise.

Sadly, he did.

Do you really think someone murdered my husband? With nicotine?

That's what they're trying to find out.

All we know is that Tollie Strange drank some Port

and... well, it was - - It was just the same.

I was there. It was just the same.

You have some lovely flowers, Mrs Babbington.

- What are these? - Lupins, dear.

I have such trouble with greenfly, I have to spray them constantly!

Forgive my forthrightness, Mrs Babbington, but...

.. did your husband leave you very much money?

What? He gave away everything!

Missionaries were better off than we were.

I used to scold him about it.

What about when he was younger?

Did he have any enemies?

Enemies? No!

Stephen was my father's curate.

We were engaged for four years.

Then he got a living in Kent, in Gilling,

so we were able to get married.

We lived in Gilling for 16 years.

Then we came to Cornwall.

We were happy.

I have a little idea I would like to suggest.

Is it possible

that the poison was intended all along for Sir Bartholomew Strange

and then... the Reverend Babbington, he drank it by mistake?

No-one who knew Tollie at all well would have tried to poison him with a cocktail.

- Mais pourquois pas? - Because he never drank them.

- Couldn't stand them. - Ah, oui?

Bon.

May I speak to you the truth?

You know, this whole investigation, it has been conducted with...

great enthusiasm

and great skill.

But it has yielded very little, non?

And there is danger.

Real danger.

So now Poirot, he will take charge.

We will return to London by the early train.

And if you please, mademoiselle, you will make

the visit to the showrooms of Ambrosine Limited.

Sir Charles will receive his instructions from me.

It is the approach classique, you see.

The technique of elimination!

We eliminate the suspects one by one.

We do not scamper around like... the puppies.

Cynthia Dacres?

Thank you.

Fleur-de-lys on the cuffs.

Witty, don't you think?

And the waistline is rather penetrating.

I shouldn't have it in the red-lead colour, though.

I should have it in Espanol.

And you've come into some money, you say?

You have so much personality, you mustn't wear anything ordinary.

Have you been back to Cornwall since that party?

Oh, my dear, I couldn't. It was too upsetting.

I know.

And you knew the vicar from before, I think I remember him saying.

In a place called Gilling, in Kent?

Oh, no, no. Marcelle, no!

I asked for the Blue Patou.

No, I would never go to Kent.

Why would I go to Kent? What's in Kent?!

Perhaps Captain Dacres?

Him? No, he never leaves the Seventy-Two Club,

except to lose money at some stupid racecourse or other.

Which we can scarce afford at times like these!

Oh, now, look, this is lovely.

What did you say your name was again?

Egg.

Hello. I'm Bacon.

You have lovely eyes. Anyone ever mentioned that?

- Tell me about Reverend Babbington. - Who?

Babbington. You knew him, didn't you?

In Gilling, wasn't it?

If you say so, my dear.

Sorry, just back from Newbury, had a bit of a poxy day.

Funny thing is I can understand bumping off a doctor, for obvious reasons,

but I can't understand bumping off a parson.

- Who'd want to bump off a parson? - Or a doctor?

Oh, a lot of people, lot of people!

Doctors are interfering swine.

- Did Bartholomew Strange - - Strange? Bartholomew "Humbug"!

I'd like to know what goes on in that sanatorium of his.

Nerve cases? Very likely

All I know: doesn't matter what your nerves

are like, they lock you in, you never get out.

And they call it a cure!

Cynthia told me not to talk about it.

- Talk about what? - It! The thing! The Arab!

The Arab?

This Arab gentleman that Cynthia was wooing.

He was going to invest in Ambrosine, which it badly needs,

because her head for business is as about sound as her dress sense.

But he had some awful trouble with his nerves.

He was seeing a fellow in Harley Street, a specialist,

who packed him off on a cruise, a world cruise!

Gone for good! "Arrivederci"! And his chequebook with him!

That specialist was Bartholomew Strange?

We don't know.

But, if it was, things would look a bit fishy for us, wouldn't they?

Which is I am not supposed to talk about it.

Now you tell me something. What was that woman doing in my room?

- What woman? - Rabbit Face. The playwright.

Always poking and prying.

Like a ferret up a drainpipe, that one!

William!

Evening Standard! Cornish exhumation!

Taxi! Taxi!

Miss Milray!

Oh, isn't it dreadful?

- Miss Milray, are you all right? - Oh, hell!

- I know. It's terrible. - Sorry, I'm overreacting.

I'm fine. Really. Really. Fine.

It's just...

I've known him all my life.

- Mr Babbington? - Yes!

I grew up in Gilling, where he was vicar.

- All my family come from there. - Gilling?! But when -

Sorry, I must dash! Awfully nice to see you again!

Evening Standard! Vicar poisoned!

Such a pity you left the profession, Sir Charles.

You'd have been perfect in this one.

- What's it called? - Sin In Suburbia.

- Who's playing my part? - Geoffrey Winchester.

Oh, God.

No, no, no. No, he'll be wonderful. I adore Geoffrey.

- When do you open? - Next Thursday.

- Come to the dress rehearsal. - Love to.

And you, Monsieur Poirot. I like an audience. Bring your friends.

Oh! Merci beaucoup.

Mademoiselle, I would like to ask you something more

about the events so terrible at Melfort Abbey.

Because, if there was anything to be noticed,

I believe that you, the connoisseur of human nature,

- you would have noticed it. - "Grist to my mill"?

Peut-etre.

I was intrigued, I admit.

I've never seen a murder at close hand before.

Actually, there was one thing that I suppose I

ought to have informed the police, if truth be known.

What was it?

Well, it was about the butler. Ellis.

What was it?

He had a kind of strawberry mark on his right wrist.

I noticed it when he poured the Port.

Ah!

No-one else mentioned a birthmark. Where exactly was it?

It was right here.

Roughly the size of half a crown.

When you were in Yorkshire,

did Sir Bartholomew mention a Mrs de Rushbridger to you?

One of his patients? Suffering from loss of memory?

No.

Well, can you tell us anything else at all about any of the other guests?

Sorry.

Oh, well!

Sorry to have disturbed your rehearsal.

- Goodbye, Miss Wills. - Mademoiselle.

She knows something. I'm sure she does.

Faites attention, mon ami.

You must be careful.

It may not be Mademoiselle Wills that we must watch.

So, Cynthia Dacres is desperate for money.

Possibly Dr Strange ruined her best chances of getting some.

What about Oliver Manders? Does his story ring true?

Tollie Strange writing him a letter?

No, I have the impression that it is not in keeping

with the character of Dr Strange to behave in such a fashion.

I'm very suspicious of Oliver Manders.

What is his relationship with Mademoiselle Milray?

With Milray? He has none.

The woman is incapable of relationships.

Osmosis, perhaps. Not relationships.

Ah.

Now, Oliver Manders was present at both murders,

and now he's keeping his head down.

Is there a link between Manders and Miss Wills?

I do not believe so.

So what are we going to do?

Think.

- Think? - Mm.

- It is a mental process - - I know what it is!

But can't we DO something?

For you always the action, eh, mademoiselle?

Alors, there are enquiries to be made at Gilling.

The mother of Mademoiselle Milray.

And I wonder if you would be so kind, the both of you,

to find out what you can about the past of Rev Babbington?

Righto.

In the meantime I will make the preparations for my sherry party.

A sherry party?

Oui.

Tomorrow evening at eight o'clock.

It is the fashionable thing to do, n'est-ce pas?

Ah. Mesdames, Messieurs, a moment, s'il vous plait.

Let us have no talk of murders and poisons because it spoils the palate.

- Sir Charles. - Thank you, Poirot.

Cynthia. Charming dress.

Thank you.

Why do you bring me to these awful places?

It's how I pick up custom.

Like you picked up the Arab, like you picked up Sir Charles.

Keep your filthy insinuations to yourself.

Ah.

To marry an older man, I think it's safer.

His follies are behind him. Not as with younger fellows, still to come.

I wish that I shared your certainty.

Oh, but we have been so badly off.

I want Egg to see people, places,

great cities and great art.

- I don't know how you put up with it. - What do you mean?

Him barging in like that. He's a has-been.

A wash-out. A flop.

- You're right. I should -- - Monsieur Oliver.

I wish to ask you something.

The letter you received from Doctor Strange, the

invitation to, how do you say, gate-crash the party.

Where is it?

Oh, I, er... I burnt it.

But why?

Well, after he was killed I thought it might incriminate me.

But the police didn't even notice me.

And tell to me, if you please, what is it that

prevents you from proposing to Mademoiselle Egg?

I haven't any money.

Can't you see?

Here's to you.

You've changed my life.

Sometimes I feel like I'm bad luck.

- Like a bad penny. - Oh, don't be absurd.

Poirot, off to Gilling tomorrow?

Ah, oui. But Mademoiselle Milray. Where is she? She is not here.

- I'm sure that I invited her. - Good health and God save the King.

- I'll have another sherry, chum. - Ah, the sherry.

I prefer it to the cocktail and a thousand times to the whiskey.

Ah, the whiskey. Like the delicate wines of France, you have to merely taste this -

Charles? Charles! Oh! God!

- Charles! - Good grief.

Charles, no. No, Charles.

Mes amis...

You fool.

You absurd, play-acting little fool!

You think you know everything about everything but look what you've done!

Gently.

A performance magnifique, Sir Charles.

Bad luck.

Still here.

- You beast. - Golly.

But... why?

Messieurs, Mesdames, I demand pardon of you all.

This... little farce, it was necessary to prove to you,

and also to me, one little fact that my reason told to me it was true.

I placed into one of these glasses a teaspoon of the plain water.

This water was to represent the pure nicotine.

And I asked Sir Charles to play the victim here tonight.

Sir Charles, superb.

But suppose for one moment that this was not a farce,

that it was a real life.

What do you think the police, will be the first thing they will do?

- They'll analyse the glass. - They will analyse the glass.

And traces of the nicotine it will be found, oui?

Non, you make the error. No nicotine will be found.

- Why not? - Because that is not the glass

from which Sir Charles he drank.

This is.

The theory of the conjuring trick, it is very simple.

The attention can never be in two places at the same time.

While you were looking at the body,

Hercule Poirot, he switches the glass.

Oh, Charles!

This is how both of the murders were hidden so expertly.

Alors, faite attention.

I demand that you listen to me most attentively.

This murderer may strike again.

I any one of you knows anything at all...

.. now it is the time to speak.

- So you planned it all. - Oui.

Just to see if anyone noticed if you switched the glasses.

I also had another purpose.

When Sir Charles he fell dead,

I wished to see the expression on the face of one person in particular.

- And did you? - Oui.

Which person's?

Ah. That is my little secret.

So you know who the murderer is?

Oui.

Then have them arrested.

I cannot. Because until I know why Steven Babbington was murdered,

I have no proof at all.

And I do not know why.

Excuse me, sir. Telegram.

Milles tonnerres.

Please come at once. Can give valuable

information about death of Bartholomew Strange.

Margaret de Rushbridger.

Margaret de Rushbridger?

Merci.

Change at Doncaster. Thank you.

Looks like we won't find out any more about

the Reverend Babbington from old Mother Milray.

She died a month ago when I was in France and Milray didn't tell me.

Oh, this is hopeless.

I wish Poirot was here.

Egg?

Look at these names.

Well, there are some frightfully strange ones.

There's a family of Shovepennys.

Here's a Mary Anne Sticklebucket.

None of them are as strange as mine.

- Cartwright. That's not strange. - It's not my real name.

It's an acting name.

What's your real name?

- Couldn't possibly tell you. - Why not?

- You'll laugh. - No, I won't.

- No, I can't tell you. - What is it?

It's... Mug.

My father's name... was Mug.

That is genuinely catastrophic.

To go through life as a Mug.

And are you really a Charles, Sir Charles or are you a sham in all respects?

Well, are you really poisonous?

Are you the black widow everyone says you are?

What? What do you mean?

- What about Robin Babbington? - Oh, I don't know.

He was always wet. He wore sandals.

Anyway, you were in Madras with him, you tell me.

No, I was not in Madras with him.

I found out afterwards from the consul that he's sold his passport and grown a beard.

- And you had nothing to do with it. - Well, of course I didn't.

And what about Oliver Manders? Are you trying to implicate him in these murders?

Because Oliver couldn't kill anyone.

What are you up to? Trying to clear the field for yourself? See off the opposition?

No, of course I'm not.

I love you, Egg. And I would very much like to marry you.

I just haven't found the courage to ask you.

So you mean you've just been dithering.

Well, yes.

- Yes, I remember you. With Sir Charles. - But you never told me your name.

- Oh, I call myself Hercule Poirot. - And who do you want to see?

Madame de Rushbridger.

But, don't you know? She's dead. She died this morning.

She's been poisoned.

The box of chocolates came for her by post.

They're liquor chocolates.

Nicotine?

Chemical analysis will show.

Was she killed to prevent her telling us what she knew, eh, Poirot?

Or what she did not know, Superintendent.

I must waste no time.

A lad from Melfort Village says he were given a telegram by a tramp.

A tramp?

This nut-house.

Said he could have two bob if he sent it.

To me.

Aye. To you.

Bon. Superintendent, if you please, to take me

to the railway station as quickly as you can.

And also, there is one other thing that I would like you to do for me.

Merci, George.

Sir Charles telephoned from his Belgravia residence, sir.

He's concerned that Miss Wills has gone missing.

He motored out to Tooting for the purpose of a further interview

but when he got there she was nowhere to be found.

Miss Lytton Gore, sir.

Merci, George.

Monsieur Poirot will see you now, Miss.

Mademoiselle, s'il vous plait.

Good heavens, what are you doing?

Alors. I find that the building of the house of cards is - is -

is most stimulating... to my little grey cells.

And so whilst I was in the railway station

.in Yorkshire, I purchased this pack of cards

But these aren't real cards. Non?

They've sold you Happy Families. It's a children's game.

I haven't seen these in years.

Master Bun the Baker's son, Mr Grits the Grocer.

Oh. And here's me.

You? Mrs Mug, the Milkman's wife.

For I am to be Mrs Mug, Poirot, when I marry Sir Charles Cartwright.

For that is his real name.

Well, wish me happiness. I've just told you I'm engaged to be married.

Oh, pardon. Oui, oui. But I do wish you happiness, Mademoiselle.

But not the brief happiness of youth, but the happiness that endures,

happiness that endures upon the rock.

I'll tell Charles you called him a rock.

He'll think you're referring to his acting. God, they're paranoid.

We think it's Miss Wills, by the way, the murderer. Porquoi?

Because she's gone missing and she's creepy.

We're going to see a dress rehearsal of her play tomorrow.

But will she be there? Will she show up?

I'm so excited. I've never been to a rehearsal before.

And Charles says he'll take me backstage.

Sacre!! -

- Poirot? - But Poirot has been blind.

- Blind. - Are you coming?

- Mm? - To the theatre?

Oh, oui, but of course and I shall bring everyone.

Everyone must come.

Oh, do, it's going to be fabulous.

I shall round up the audience but immediately.

Paddington Station.

One moment, driver. Yes, sir.

Follow that taxi, if you please.

Stop!

You cannot do this, Mademoiselle.

It is evidence.

It's so exciting.

It's only Geoff Winchester, Egg, don't expect fireworks.

Mesdames, messieurs, you have come to watch a dress rehearsal of a play.

Instead I give to you...

.. Hercule Poirot.

When the Reverend Steven Babbington died,

Sir Charles advanced the theory that he had been murdered.

I did not think it likely.

Steven! Steven, please!

I could not figure to myself why Steven Babbington should be murdered,

never mind how.

As there was no trace of poison in his glass.

Until... 24 hours ago...

.. when I saw that this murder was both reasonable and possible.

Who had the opportunity to poison the cocktail of the Reverend Steven Babbington?

Only Sir Charles and his serving maid.

Who handed around the drink.

But were either of these two at Melfort Abbey? Non.

Non, they were not. So...

They could be eliminated from being suspects very swiftly.

So who had the best chance to put the nicotine

in the glass of Dr Bartholomew Strange at Melfort?

The butler Ellis who disappeared

but he, we knew, was a blackmailer merely.

But then I was visited by sensation curieux.

Tres curieux.

I was certain that the person who committed both of

the crimes must have been present on both occasions.

Well, that was obvious.

But it appeared to me that this obviousness was an arranged obviousness.

In other words it was too obvious and therefore not obvious at all.

I was certain that the person who murdered the

Reverend Steven Babbington and Dr Bartholomew Strange

must have been present on both occasions but not apparently so.

And so I am forced to investigate once again this butler so mysterious.

This... Monsieur Ellis.

He appears suddenly. Out of the blue.

A fortnight before the crime, and pht, disappears immediately afterwards.

And Poirot, he comes to the conclusion that he is dead and in a way I was correct.

I recalled the remarks made about him by the parlour-maid at Melfort, Mademoiselle Annie.

Well, he arranged the work different from any butler I ever knew before.

Got his own method, sort of thing.

And eventually Poirot, he came to realise why.

Alors, if this butler, Monsieur Ellis, was indeed dead.

Why?

Because he never, ever existed.

But Dr Bartholomew Strange was another matter.

He must have known the true identity of his temporary servant.

Do we have any evidence for this? Oui. His remark facetious.

You're an excellent butler, Ellis.

Said as the joke, ah?

But as told to us by Mademoiselle Annie, the lark.

And it would have been a lark perfectly

understandable if the doctor had known the butler.

Totally understandable if the butler was indeed...

Sir Charles Cartwright.

His old friend.

And the doctor had known of this all along.

Serve the cheese now, Ellis, would you?

And then we'll. I say, what's this?

Oliver!

I'll say.

Shall I pour the Port, sir?

Yes. Thank you.

Is this where your sanitorium is?

It has recently come to my attention that one of you...

What's happened?

And now, my heart it is breaking.

And Charles...

it is you who have broken my heart.

I hope you know where you're going with this, Poirot.

Sadly, mon ami, I do.

You see...

.. if anybody at the dinner table that evening

had spotted that Sir Charles was the butler,

the whole thing could be passed off as a practical joke.

But nobody did.

Oh, Sir Charles Cartwright is the actor supreme.

He is in disguise and he played the part but to perfection.

Even adding the little detail

of painting the birthmark on the... right wrist.

And so the Doctor Bartholomew Strange, he dies

and this butler escapes by the secret passage.

And two days later he is strolling about the gardens of Monte Carlo.

And what of the letters of blackmail behind the

fireplace in the room of this Monsieur Ellis?

Sir Charles himself uncovers them.

And the letter asking Monsieur Oliver Manders to fake the accident?

What could be easier than for Sir Charles to write a

letter himself in the name of Dr Bartholomew Strange?

Because he wants to bring you all together again, non?

So that there are many, many suspects.

And so I return to Mademoiselle Wills.

Mes amis, Mademoiselle Wills noticed the butler Ellis

more than anybody else at the table that evening.

And when I interviewed her, in this theatre,

Sir Charles, he is gratified that he spotted the birthmark.

Well, of course, he likes his audience to notice his skill.

But then la catastrophe.

I do not think that until that moment

Mademoiselle Wills connected Ellis with Sir Charles.

But she is an observer.

And when the drinks, they are poured, she notices not the drinks but...

the hands that held them.

And at that moment, Mademoiselle Wills

understood that Sir Charles, he was the butler.

Because with or without a birthmark, the hand it was the same.

And now he is worried. He thinks she knows

something and believes she is a danger to him.

When Sir Charles acted the death scene at my sherry party...

Charles!

.. the face that I was watching was that of Mademoiselle Wills.

And I saw a look upon that face of complete astonishment.

It was then I knew that Mademoiselle Wills suspected Sir Charles

and if Mademoiselle Wills suspected Sir Charles

then Sir Charles indeed suspected Mademoiselle

Wills and now she was in the danger most grave.

So it was on the advice of Hercule Poirot that she leaves her London home.

S'il vous plait, entrez Mademoiselle Wills.

S'il vous plait, asseyez vous.

And she was wise so to do.

Because the following evening, Sir Charles he drives to Tooting

to dispose of the one person he feared could expose him... Mademoiselle Wills.

And now we come to murder victim number three. Madame de Rushbridger.

How does she fit into the puzzle?

It is my belief that on the day of the sherry party given by me, Hercule Poirot,

Sir Charles Cartwright rises early that morning, perhaps

even at dawn to make the long journey to Yorkshire,

where he disguises himself as a tramp, gives to a small boy

the telegram addressed to me, Hercule Poirot at Whitehaven Mansions.

Ostensibly from Madame de Rushbridger.

When on my one and only visit to the sanitorium

with Sir Charles I had never even mentioned my name.

And why does he do this? Because he needs Poirot out of the way.

Oh, pardon, one other thing...

He even posted a box of chocolates to this poor woman who knew nothing.

In fact she would tell to Poirot that she knows nothing, nothing at all.

It was a decoy, merely.

And it is for this simple reason...

.. that she is dead?

Suddenly I saw how this murder of Dr Bartholomew Strange

was not only essential but purposeful.

Well, I'm hooked

Oh, go on. Tell me what was my motive

for murdering my dearest friend?

A man I had known since boyhood.

It was the doctor himself who gave to me the clue

when he said 'cherchez la femme'.

You know, Sir Charles, it was obvious to me you were in love,

deeply in love with Mademoiselle Lytton Gore.

You loved her with a passion that was so arid, so... terrible.

So why the hesitation? Why did you not ask her to marry you?

What was the obstacle?

Poirot he will tell to you. The obstacle it was this...

That you already had a wife.

Oh, but of course, you enact the role of the bachelor.

But this marriage of yours it took place since many years before.

When you were young. Long before you were Sir Charles Cartwright the actor renowned.

And when your name, it was something else.

Voyez, mes amis.

There are only two situations in the law when a divorce cannot be permitted.

The first: when either the husband or wife is serving a life sentence in prison.

And the second: when one or either of them is confined to a lunatic asylum.

Ah!

And of course, Sir Charles, you cannot kill her yourself

because immediately you will become the prime suspect.

But what if nobody knew?

Then you'd be free to marry Mademoiselle Lytton Gore without telling her the truth.

But one person did know and one person only. Your oldest... friend.

The best man at your wedding.

And so before you can remarry, it is necessary

that Dr Bartholomew Strange, your friend so dear to you...

he must be eliminated.

And Babbington? I suppose he knew too. Hm?

Ah, well, that was the one flaw in my theory.

Because even if it was you, Charles,

who placed the nicotine into the glass,

you could never make sure of it reaching one particular person.

You never intended specifically for the Reverend Steven Babbington, no.

It was intended for anyone who was there present.

Except, of course, for Dr Bartholomew Strange, who never touched a cocktail.

And Mademoiselle Lytton Gore...

.. the young lady with whom you are in love.

You handed me my cocktail yourself.

Have a cocktail, Egg.

This tastes slightly...

The murder of the Reverend Steven Babbington

was nothing more nor less than a dress rehearsal.

Sir Charles he is the actor. He rehearses the murder before he commits it.

And the rehearsal it goes well. Steven Babbington he dies.

And foul play, it is not suspected, not even by Hercule Poirot.

Of course I was invited to go to Loomouth because if

Poirot suspects nothing, nor indeed will anyone else.

Eh, Mademoiselle Milray?

You knew that your employer conducted the

chemical experiments in the tower in the wood.

In fact, it was you who paid the bills for the solution for the spraying of the roses.

But you knew he was no gardener.

And when you read about the death of the Reverend Steven Babbington,

that he was poisoned by this very same solution, you did not know what to do.

You had known the Reverend Babbington since you were a little girl.

But now you are in love with your employer who was so fascinating.

But when you heard about the death of Madame de Rushbridger,

you decided that enough it was enough.

So you travelled all the way to Cornwall

to destroy the apparatus in the tower to protect the man who you love.

But Poirot he has prevented you.

Superintendent, if you please?

What I have here, sir... is your passport.

We know exactly when you went to France.

And I have here...

.. the note that proves...

.. that in the Haviturnham Asylum in Essex there

is a lady by the name of Gladys Mary... Mug.

Fifty-eight years of age.

Who is your lawful wedded wife.

Is it true?

- Is it true? - Egg.

It's all lies.

It is true, Mademoiselle.

I loved you.

God damn you.

What have you done?

WHAT HAVE I DONE?!

IT IS YOU WHO HAVE DECEIVED ME!

These last two days they have not been genial.

You are deranged, Monsieur.

Deranged.

You don't know what it's like...

People think you're so happy, so... glamorous.

Girls run after you.

Beautiful girls.

You kiss them and then they go home.

Take off their pretty costumes and they go home... and you're alone.

I would have loved you, Egg,

till the day I died.

That's all I wanted.

Love.

Is that so much to ask?

It's not enough to kill three people for.

My friend.

Your revels now are ended.

Oh, well.

Damn you.

Damn you all.

Don't worry, sir.

Monsieur Manders, I think now is the time

to take home the Lady Mary and Mademoiselle Egg.

Yes, sir. Of course.

You will look after her now.

I shall.

And, Mademoiselle.

You fall down.

But you will get up again.

A tragedy in three acts, I think.

A great man brought low.

I can see now I should have gone to the police.

Don't judge me too harshly.

Oh, Mademoiselle, I investigate. I do not judge.

I've just had a terrible thought...

If anyone could have drunk the poison cocktail...

Golly, it could have been me.

And there is a possibility even more terrible, Mademoiselle.

It could have been me.

Subtitles: Thor

Correction & resync: lfellix[freelancer]