Original subtitles

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six--

- Doctor!

Five, four, three,

two, one...

- To 1926!

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year!

- Now, listen, everyone.

Please, please, please.

I've been a very fortunate man,

especially to have friends like all of you.

But not many people went to Australia

and bought a farm over a copper seam.

- I have, at long last, persuaded Andrew to make a will

with my wife Sarah's help.

In it there are several minor bequests to some of us

and a small trust fund for Violet's education.

- Violet.

- The main part of the estate, 75%,

goes to the Ellen Fort Medical Foundation.

- Oh, how splendid.

- Dr. Pritchard, of which you are chairman.

- It'll be used wisely, Andrew,

if you ever die, that is.

- A lump sum of 2,000 pounds,

held in trust until their 18th birthdays,

will be shared between Peter Baker and Robert Siddaway.

- Oh, that's so kind of you, Andrew.

- I think you know how fond I am of your son.

And they'll be men soon,

with all the responsibility that entails,

and I'd like them to have a secure future.

- What about Violet?

- Well, she is your ward, Andrew.

You dote on her, but you've left her nothing.

- Sarah, shh.

- Yes, but she'll marry,

someone like Robert or Peter.

Ew!

- She's a woman, for heaven's sake.

- My God, Andrew.

You had to stop yourself saying, "only a woman."

- Watch out, whoa!

- Gentlemen.

- Shh, quiet, quiet!

- The motion before us is, this house believes that women

can never be accorded equal status with men.

I call upon Mr. Andrew Marsh, a former president of the union,

to propose the motion.

- Mr. President, gentlemen...

few people, if any here today,

would deny their fellow human beings,

regardless of color, creed, or gender,

the fundamental right of respect.

- Ah. Oh.

- Monsieur Poirot, it's lovely to see you again,

but we did say 7:00.

- My dear Mademoiselle Violet, you must forgive me.

You must blame the two-inch nail who punctured us at Baldock.

I'd like you to meet my associate, Captain Hastings.

- How do you do?

- Captain Hastings, this is Mademoiselle Violet Wilson,

Andrew's ward.

Thank you.

- But society, like the family,

is not merely a collection of individuals

haphazardly thrown together.

In order to function

industrially, politically, socially,

both must be structured, divided into those who make decisions,

those who put them into practice,

those who lead, those who follow.

- This is Miss Campion, the principal of my college.

- Mademoiselle.

- We really should hurry.

The debate's under way, and Andrew's already speaking.

- Such designations are status and are determined by a woman.

Her name is Mother Nature.

- Gentlemen, I now call upon Mr. Robert Siddaway

to oppose the motion.

- Mr. President, the debate so far has ignored

some rather unpleasant developments

taking place in the real world.

A few months ago, two leaders of immense status

but with very little respect for anything,

Adolf Hitler and Benito Mussolini,

overran neighboring countries.

Now, all people of good sense, regardless of gender,

can see that war right across Europe is imminent.

And when it comes, will we expect women

to merely keep the home fires burning, Mr. President...

Yes.

Or will be accord them equal status,

as we ask them to go onto the land and farm it?

Into the factories and make munitions?

Join the armed forces and fight?

- Into the valley of death

rode the 500 members of the women's--

- If you'll let us work and die for our country,

why won't you let us join the union?

Or God forbid, let us speak in a debate.

- Silence!

Silence!

I will not allow interruptions from the gallery!

If it persists, I shall have it cleared!

- Perhaps you're frightened we'll start talking sense!

Never mind the outcome, Bobby.

You spoke well.

- So did Andrew,

once you ignored what he actually said.

Congratulations, sir.

A worthy victory.

- Pity the press won't cover the debate, Robert.

I can see tomorrow's headlines now:

"New Woman Heckles Hecklers at Cambridge Union."

Poirot!

How are you?

- Andrew, my dear friend.

I missed your speech; please forgive me.

- Oh, but you've heard the gist of it many times before,

starting back as far as The Cavendish Clinic.

- Oh, mon dieu,

in such adversity are born the lasting friendships,

n'est-ce pas?

We were there, Hastings,

for the mutual pulling of the wisdom teeth, huh?

- It was not a pretty sight.

Damn doctor of mine never offers me anything for this wheezing.

- Perhaps because you tell him it does not bother you.

- Blasted man can see it, now, surely.

- Uncle Andrew's had a wonky heart for years.

It leaves him short of breath, though not of voice.

- This room is a place most industrious.

Do you not agree, Hastings?

- Certainly, yes.

- I run a magazine, monsieur, called New Prospects.

I'm hoping to expand it once I graduate.

- Merci.

- Do you have any money?

- Oh.

- Violet.

- If you won't invest, Uncle Andrew, I understand that,

but somebody will.

- Have you tried one of the banks, Mademoiselle Violet?

- Were I a man, they would give me a loan tomorrow.

- Well, I told you the reason for that.

Women in business are just begging

to be taken advantage of.

Right, Hastings?

- Ah, can't say I really know any women...

oh, in business, that is.

- Point proved; motion carried.

Three against one, eh, Poirot?

- No, mon ami.

Two against two.

Look, I know you've booked into a hotel, Poirot,

but why don't you join us for a few days at Crabtree?

Come over tomorrow for lunch.

- Well, we should be delighted.

- You will permit me, Mademoiselle Campion.

- Thank you.

- You like for your students to have the views

of the very strong, n'est-ce pas?

- I positively encourage it, Mr. Poirot.

- John, before I forget, our meeting tomorrow,

could we make it a little later?

- Why don't we meet for lunch?

My office at 12:30.

- It affects you, Martin.

I'm afraid I'm changing my will.

- It's your money, Andrew.

- Is Violet to be mentioned in your new will, sir?

- Setting aside your impertinence, Robert,

I could've sworn the debate was over.

Perhaps you feel I didn't win it convincingly.

- I'm sure he meant no harm, Andrew.

- You don't merely encourage the young, Phyllida,

you overindulge them.

- I apologize, sir.

- Robert.

- I'll talk to him, Mrs. Siddaway.

- Robert!

- Sarah, will you please not fuss?

- Robert!

Robert, wait.

- I'm sorry, Violet,

but just because he won a stupid debate

doesn't make his attitude right.

- Look, he is what he is, Bobby,

and we'll never change him.

And I'm not sure that I want to.

- Well, you can tell your dad

I'll leave a sack of seed potatoes

up by your front drive, all right?

- Yeah.

Thanks for the lift.

- Andrew, it's been marvelous,

but I've quite an afternoon ahead of me.

- Well, I'm sorry I was rough on Bobby.

I'll straighten things out with him later.

- Before I go, Andrew, I'd like to give you the once-over.

- Oh, good God, man.

Fuss, fuss, fuss.

- You've had a couple of strenuous days.

Now, jacket off and sleeves up.

- Mrs. Siddaway, would you be so kind

as to bring my stethoscope through to the library?

My bag's in the hall.

- Afternoon, Mrs. Siddaway.

- Peter, what are you doing home?

- Fortnights leave, then we're off to Palestine.

There's no one at the cottage and Dad's on duty.

I don't suppose Mother's--

- Yes, your mother's in the kitchen.

Why don't you go and find her?

- Mother!

- Peter!

- Entrez.

Ah, mon ami.

The good doctor, he tells you to get some rest,

and you ignore his advice.

You do not change.

- Oh, I've changed, all right, Poirot.

You'll think me an old hypocrite, I'm afraid,

saying one thing, doing another.

- I should not dream of such a thing, mon ami.

Please, do sit.

Even though, after all the things I've said

about my health over the years,

never taking anyone's advice,

well...

My specialist tells me I--

Oh, damn it, I'm not afraid of it.

I'm just afraid of upsetting others.

- He tells you that your life draws to its close?

- En diable.

- You know, ten years ago, I made a will.

- I have, at long last, persuaded Andrew to make a will.

- In it, I left several small bequests:

250 pounds to my lawyer, John Siddaway,

and his wife, Sarah.

Phyllida Campion receive 500 pounds,

which she immediately pledged to her college for improvements.

My housekeeper, Margaret Baker,

and her husband, Walter, the local police sergeant,

were already provided for by an earlier endowment.

Their son, Peter Baker, and young Robert Siddaway

were left 1,000 pounds each to give them a start in life.

But I left the bulk of my fortune to Dr. Pritchard,

as chairman of the Ellen Fort Medical Foundation.

- If you ever die, that is.

- There was some consternation that night

that I had excluded Violet from my will,

but tomorrow I'm going to put that right.

I intend to write a new will, leaving everything to Violet.

Truth is, I've been so proud of her achievements at Cambridge

over the past three years.

She deserves it.

I'd like you to be executor of that will, Poirot.

Say you'll do it for me.

- But of course.

Why this urgency?

- Who the hell is that at this time of night?

Look, we'll--we'll talk more tomorrow.

- Oui, bien sur.

- Good night.

- Bonne nuit, cher ami.

Hello?

What, now?

Couldn't this have waited?

- Morning, Poirot.

- Good morning, Hastings.

Bonjour, mademoiselle.

- What do you think of Samson?

- I think that he is large, and you should take care, Hastings.

- We'll join you for breakfast, Monsieur Poirot.

- What a charming folly.

- Andrew restored it about 15 years ago.

He comes here to think.

Race you back.

Come on.

- Wait a minute, Violet.

Andrew?

Violet, go back to the house and get Sergeant Baker

and Poirot too.

- Sergeant Baker, you permitted I make a search.

- My men have done that, sir.

Found nothing.

- Perhaps a postmortem will tell us more.

- There's no call for a postmortem.

I've examined the body.

Andrew died about eight hours ago.

I'll give you the death certificate.

- Heart failure?

- What's wrong with that?

- It says nothing.

I've yet to see a corpse whose heart still beats.

- Poirot, the leading heart specialist in London

would tell you that Andrew--

- His illness and I were well-acquainted,

Monsieur Doctor.

- It's a bit odd to be walking around here

in the middle of the night, though, don't you think?

- He often had a late stroll, Captain.

It helped him to sleep.

- There you are, Walter.

- Last night, Andrew tells me he was to make a new will.

Half past midnight he gets a telephone call.

This morning he is dead.

No, this is not coincidence, Hastings.

We must make the search.

And Hastings, leave not a rock unturned.

- As your know, Monsieur Poirot,

it's not usual to read a will before the funeral,

but in this case I've made an exception,

hoping to dispel your fears concerning Andrew's death.

- Thank you.

- Ladies and gentlemen, perhaps we should be seated.

- Thank you.

- It wasn't a complicated will, Mr. Poirot.

We were all present at the witnessing,

ten years ago now.

- The will, Monsieur Siddaway.

- It doesn't appear to be here.

- Don't be absurd, dear.

It must be.

- It's got to be there somewhere, sir.

Just a matter of finding it.

- Madam and monsieur,

Andrew Marsh was a good friend to all of us here in this room,

and yet it seems that you wish his death to pass unquestioned.

- Not all of us, Mr. Poirot.

- And now we have a disappearing will,

and still you do nothing, Sergeant.

- With respect, Poirot, I think you're reading too much into it.

- Indeed.

The new will that Andrew Marsh intended to write

would have left everything to Mademoiselle Violet

with Poirot as executor.

Very well; I will execute.

But beware, mes amis.

For in so doing, with or without your help,

I will unravel the mystery of his death.

This is intolerable, Hastings.

We are dealing with a close-knit community,

where the business of each is known to all,

except to Poirot.

Yet.

- Just a second, Poirot.

That missing will could be a godsend.

It'll mean Andrew died intestate.

- Thank you for that note of optimism, Hastings.

- But all you have to do is tell the probate court

that Andrew wanted Violet to have everything.

- And you think that they will accept that?

The wishes of Andrew Marsh told to me in confidence

without any witnesses?

- Oh, I see.

- Uh, Poirot.

I wonder if I might have a word.

- Sant�.

- Uh, good health.

- I want you to know that I am the major beneficiary

of Andrew's missing will

as chairman of the Ellen Ford Foundation,

in case you get the wrong end of the stick.

- I have no stick by either end, Monsieur Doctor.

- Yes, but you might reasonably think

that 75% of the Marsh estate is worth killing for,

and Andrew was going to make a new will, you said.

- But you would not have stolen the old will,

since it favored you.

- Andrew told you he wanted Violet to have everything,

you said.

- Did he mention nobody else?

- No.

Why is it that you ask?

- Because, for a long time now,

I've believed that Andrew had a son.

- Belief, Monsieur Doctor, is good,

but it is not good enough.

- Andrew, John, and myself, we met at Crabtree one night.

It must've been, hmm, two years ago now.

Sarah was away, and Robert had just been accepted at Cambridge.

His father was full of it, bursting with pride.

- To Robert.

- Robert. - Thank you.

- I'm very happy for you, John.

- Oh, forgive me, both of you.

I rattle on as if you fellows had sons to be proud of as well.

- What makes you think I don't understand your pride perfectly?

You may be my solicitor, John,

but you don't know everything about me.

Does he, Maggie?

- Andrew Marsh was always very fond of Margaret Baker.

Maybe Peter is Andrew's son.

- I see.

Doctor, I thank you.

I have been stumbling around in a darkened room,

and now you have switched on the light.

You see how things go, Hastings?

I believe that he was killed for his fortune,

but the question still remains:

who would lay claim to it once he had died?

- Well, there's that son that Pritchard talks about.

But then we only have his word that he exists.

- We find the son, mon ami; we also find the murderer.

Soon we may have the word of Madam Margaret Baker.

- You can't ask a woman a question like that, Poirot.

- Not only can I, Hastings, I must.

- Met him in Australia, sir.

He hired me as nanny to Violet, his business partner's child.

And when he came to England,

he gave me the chance to come too.

- Which is where you met your husband,

the bobby of the village.

Madam Baker, I truly wish to cause you no offense,

but Monsieur Andrew Marsh, he admired you greatly,

n'est-ce pas?

- Well, yes.

- And you were also very fond of him.

- Yes.

- And perhaps it would be true to say

that you did not work for him as a nanny to Mademoiselle Violet

so much as to share in his life?

- I want to hear this.

You're saying I might have a claim to his fortune,

aren't you, Mr. Poirot?

- Be quiet!

- Dad, you always said Andrew had an eye for the ladies.

- Yes, well, in my case, he admired from afar.

After we came back from Australia,

Mr. Andrew was sent to fight in France.

You were conceived while he was away.

By the time Andrew got leave, Peter was three months old.

- So you worked as the nanny to Mademoiselle Violet

while Monsieur Andrew, he was absent?

- Yes.

Well, his other friends pulled their weight, of course,

but Miss Campion's not much good with small children,

nor Mrs. Siddaway, come to that,

in spite of being a children's nurse.

- Ah.

Thank you, madam.

- You got some gall to go casting suspicions

like that, Poirot.

- I have the gall, Sergeant Baker,

because a man has been murdered, and you refuse to investigate.

Very well.

The time has now come for me to go above your head.

Thank you for coming, Chief Inspector.

You have met Sergeant Baker, I see.

- Yes.

I must say, Poirot, that in spite of your comments,

he seems like a reliable chap to me.

- This way, Chief Inspector.

Monsieur Marsh was discovered here, Chief Inspector.

- No marks on the body?

Nothing out of the ordinary found?

- Rien.

- What's this, then, if it isn't out of the ordinary?

- C'est incroyable.

- Looks like a medicine bottle to me.

- I myself searched this area but meticulously.

- Must've missed it, Poirot.

Any of the local quacks reported one of these missing?

- No, sir.

Sorry, sir.

I'll get onto it right away.

I'll ask Dr. Pritchard.

- Pritchard?

- He's the chairman for the Ellen Ford Medical Foundation.

Dr. Martin Pritchard.

- Listen, Poirot.

Don't tell people I'm in the neighborhood yet.

I shall need to see the coroner's officer.

I want a postmortem.

I want to know what was in this.

- Miss Campion, could you spare us a few moments?

- I am rather pressed for time, Robert.

- Please, Phyllida.

- It's about my mother, Miss Campion.

About me.

About my father too, I suppose.

- Two years at King's and you still don't make any sense,

my dear boy, like so many before you.

- You won't laugh when you know the reason, Phyllida.

Robert needs your advice.

- I think Andrew Marsh was my father, Miss Campion.

- And you're asking me what you should do about it?

Why don't you ask Mr. Poirot?

- But Robert, why didn't you mention this before today?

- My mother only told me about it last night.

It took some guts on her part.

- It doesn't seem to have upset you unduly, Robert.

- Well, after some thought, what difference does it make?

- Bien, Monsieur Robert, I will tell you the difference.

In the will that is missing, you inherit a small fortune.

If you can prove you are his son,

you will inherit a vast one.

- And now, a son by Sarah Siddaway.

We find the son, we find the murderer, you said.

- Yes, indeed, Hastings.

But it would be unseemly to unmask him

the day before the funeral of Andrew Marsh.

- The man had a lot of friends, Poirot.

- What good are many friends, mon ami,

when you have one bad enemy?

- Doctor Pritchard.

- You look to be in the rudest of health, Chief Inspector.

- You have met before?

- Would you care to fill these gentlemen in, sir,

or shall I?

Very well, then.

We met in London 15 years ago.

Doctor Pritchard here was running

a so-called humanitarian group helping the terminally ill...

to kill themselves.

- To end their suffering, you mean.

- We investigated his organization,

but couldn't prove anything.

At a rough guess, I'd say he's up to his old tricks again.

- No.

- Yours, Doctor, according the manufacturer.

They send them out with batches of insulin--

all numbered so they can keep tabs on them.

Because as well as working miracles,

insulin can also be lethal.

- I don't understand.

- The postmortem found needle marks in Mr. Marsh's upper arm.

Martin Arthur Pritchard,

I'm arresting you for the murder of Andrew Marsh.

You're not obliged to say anything,

but anything you do say will be taken down and used in evidence.

All things come to he who waits, Poirot.

I knew I'd get him sooner or later.

- Just because the solution to a crime is simple, Poirot,

doesn't mean to say it's wrong.

Pritchard killed Andrew Marsh, end of story.

- But why would he steal a will that favored him?

No, Chief Inspector.

Still it has not been found, nor, I believe, will it ever be.

Did you question other suspects?

Did Sergeant Baker?

- Of course we didn't, because there weren't any.

- Robert Siddaway and Violet Wilson.

Monsieur Poirot is expecting us.

- What about that telephone call, Chief Inspector,

the one that Andrew received at gone midnight?

- Pritchard, of course.

Honestly, you two, when you're backed into a corner--

- Miss Wilson and Mr. Siddaway.

- Monsieur Poirot, we thought you should be the first to know.

We're going to America.

Robert's going to forego his last year at King's,

and there's a berth on the Queen Mary leaving on Tuesday.

- Mademoiselle Violet, Monsieur Robert.

Please, do sit.

Et bien, mademoiselle.

What of the end of term?

What of the graduation ceremony of Mademoiselle Campion?

- Why the sudden rush, Miss Wilson?

- What is there to stay for?

Women are treated as equals in America.

I can forge myself a decent career.

And a man I've known all my life is charged, quite insanely,

with my guardian's murder.

- Mademoiselle Violet, your late guardian

would not have wanted you to miss the graduation ceremony.

Now, I beg of you,

before you finally make up your mind,

to give Poirot a little more time, please.

- It's all very well,

you saying probate's a lengthy business, John,

but Robert and Violet are planning to leave the country.

Do you want that?

- No, of course, I don't.

- Is it that difficult to prove you're someone's heir?

I mean, what does it involve?

- Surprisingly little.

You swear an oath that you are who you say you are.

- Don't you need a birth certificate or something?

- No.

- Would you apologize to Sarah for me?

She's invited me to dinner on Saturday,

but I'm going to London.

- I'll tell Sarah.

Theater, concert?

- No.

To see Hercule Poirot, as a matter of fact.

I need his advice on something.

- Oh, beg your pardon.

- Oh!

- Someone, stop!

- Whoever pushed Mademoiselle Campion down the moving stairs,

it was not Dr. Pritchard.

He is in your custody.

- Yes, well, we don't know that anyone pushed her yet.

- But he is not the murderer, Chief Inspector.

The murderer is still at large.

- Well, they obviously got her here pretty quickly.

At least we know she survived.

- Thank you, nurse.

- Police.

I shall need to speak with Miss Campion

as soon as possible.

- Well, you can't; she's concussed.

Very nasty fall, gentlemen.

Leg's broken in two places.

- She will recover soon?

- I think you'll find Mrs. Campion's

made of pretty strong stuff.

- She's a miss, Doctor.

Miss Campion.

You called her "missus."

- You, uh, know her well?

- Well...

- No, but we know she's not married.

- Tell me, Doctor,

did you call her "missus" out of habit

or a slip of the tongue?

- Look, I'm sorry.

I-I didn't mean to speak out of turn, but--

- If there's something you know, Doctor,

it's your duty to tell us.

- Miss Campion has had a baby at some time in her life...

by cesarean section, no less.

- Miss Lemon, I have a task for you.

- Ladies and gentlemen...

The end of the academic year

is something I would never miss,

although this time, it was a close-run thing.

As you know, this is always an informal occasion,

because while the university here at Cambridge

acknowledges the hard work of its male students,

it doesn't yet see fit to hold a degree ceremony for women.

So I hold my own.

- Bravo!

- And as you take your places in society,

I hope that three years here

will have proved you more than worthy of them.

- Thank you, Hastings.

A smile of triumph, Miss Lemon.

- Of course.

- Madames et monsieurs...

- Shh.

- To begin, I think it is fitting

that we should make a toast to our dear, late friend,

Monsieur Andrew Marsh.

- Andrew Marsh.

- Today would've given him much pleasure, n'est-ce pas?

And how proud he would've been of you,

Mademoiselle Violet.

However, there is someone in this room

who denied to him this pleasure.

- You mean, his murderer is here?

One of us?

- On the night that he died,

Monsieur Andrew Marsh asked me to be the executor

of a new will he would make.

I believe he was killed for that fortune,

and that the old will was stolen and destroyed

so that he would die intestate.

So my duty, you see, it has been twofold.

First, to find the murderer,

and then, before this ruthless murderer could lay claim to it,

to deliver his estate to Mademoiselle Violet,

according to his wishes.

However, this murderer, he was at work

even as my dear friend Andrew told to me his news most tragic.

- My specialist tells me I--

Oh, damn it, I'm not afraid of it.

I'm just afraid of upsetting others.

Who the hell is that at this time of night?

Hello?

What, now?

- And thus, the murderer lured him from the house...

- Couldn't this have waited?

To a rendezvous at the folly.

- Ah!

- And here, our murderer administered

a massive and fatal dose of insulin,

in a cowardly attack upon a man who was sick and weakened.

And voil�.

Hmm.

But then along comes Poirot, who says that this death

is not a death that is natural.

Oh, no.

It is a murder.

So fearing for their own safety, the murderer pointed the finger

toward Dr. Martin Pritchard,

by placing at the scene of the crime

the vial containing the insulin.

Chief Inspector Japp arrives to help me with the investigation,

he examines the folly, and he finds it there.

Why was that vial not found the day of the murder

by Sergeant Baker, huh?

Because it was not there.

No.

Poirot himself searched the area,

and Poirot never misses.

So my good friend the Chief Inspector Japp

promptly arrests Dr. Martin Pritchard.

And with a man who is innocent charged for the murder,

the real killer could now lay claim to the Marsh fortune,

so it was thought,

without suspicion.

But Dr. Martin Pritchard had already told

to my associate Captain Hastings and myself

that Andrew had a son.

Peter, perhaps?

- That doesn't mean to say I'd kill him for it.

- Or you, Robert.

Now, your claim had to it more substance, n'est-ce pas?

Because you believed that Andrew Marsh and your mother

were lovers.

- Robert was with me the night of Andrew's death,

Monsieur Poirot.

- Violet, don't.

- Was the arm that pushed Mademoiselle Campion

down the moving stairs yours, Peter?

Yours, Robert?

- Someone, stop!

- Were you afraid of what she might say to me?

- Theater, concert?

- No.

To see Hercule Poirot, as a matter of fact.

- And, of course, the killer certainly knew

of the visit to London of Mademoiselle Campion

to see Poirot,

because Mademoiselle Campion had discovered in a conversation

with the lawyer John Siddaway

that for a child to claim the estate of the father,

the real identity of the mother need not to be revealed.

But events took such a turn that did reveal a secret

that she herself had kept for more than, what, 20 years?

- What Mr. Poirot means is that the doctor who treated me

saw that I'd had a baby...

when I was a student here.

- It was but a short step for my secretary Miss Lemon

to discover the name of that baby.

Please do read it, Miss Lemon.

- "Born on the 17th of July, 1913, to Miss Phyllida Campion,

the daughter whose name was Violet."

- What's going on?

What on earth is happening?

- Was it necessary to pry into Phyllida's past, Poirot?

It's Andrew we're interested in.

- Yes, indeed.

But during all this time,

not once did we ask ourselves this question:

is this son that we seek...

perhaps a daughter?

- So Violet is Andrew Marsh's daughter?

- Yes.

- So Monsieur Robert, why did you kill the father

to Mademoiselle Violet?

- I didn't.

- I say you did, monsieur!

Why?

You know that she loves you.

You know that she wants you to go to America with her.

Why, then?

- He's just told you he didn't!

- No, madam.

Perhaps Robert, he is not the murderer.

Because, just as we thought the heir of Andrew had to be a man,

so too did we think of the murderer.

This killer was someone who stole a syringe

from the bag belonging to Dr. Pritchard,

who knew the power of insulin.

And you, I was told, had been a children's nurse,

Madam Siddaway.

It was you who convinced Robert

that he was the son of Andrew.

It was Robert who told you of the visit

of Mademoiselle Campion to London,

where you followed her,

where you pushed her down the moving stairs.

- Somebody get help!

- Because you are afraid that at last

she would reveal Mademoiselle Violet

as the rightful heir.

- No.

- John, help me.

- There's nothing I can do, Sarah.

- How did you know about Violet?

- I had a friend who worked in the clinic.

I met her years later.

There was so little we had to give Robert.

- But he was mentioned in the will, madam.

Well, why did you steal and destroy it?

- Because I wanted him to have everything!

Why should it all go to Violet?

- Because Andrew Marsh wished it

as proof that she was his daughter...

and his equal.

- I think you'd better come along with me, Mrs. Siddaway.

- Ah!

Mademoiselle Campion, Mademoiselle Violet.

Your magazine could not have a name that is better, huh?

The New Prospects,

for these are very exciting for you both, are they not?

- They certainly are.

And I'm going to use the inheritance

to start my own publishing company.

- Ah!

- And you, Monsieur Poirot, shall be my first subscriber.

- Thank you, mademoiselle.

You know, the companies, they have a chairman, huh?

But in this instance, why not a chairwoman?

You already have a chair, I see.

- Not for much longer.

Plaster comes off a week today.

- And what of Robert?

- I think I can persuade him to finish his degree.

- That is good.

Alors au revoir, mademoiselle.

Et bonne chance.

- Thank you, Monsieur Poirot.