All language subtitles for Poirot.S11E02.Cards.on.the.Table.HDTV

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 fiance. 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-offs 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 pass�, 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.

Pli� down, relev� 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 III of the Belgians.

There is the possibility of the Royal
Princess coming here to the school.

- Oh, quite an honour!
- Oui, bien s�r.

- 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,

na�tre...

- 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?

Cr�cy.

- 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 pla�t!

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 lbrahim 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, young lady, 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... l'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, of course,

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.

- Pr�cis�ment.
- 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 from Mademoiselle Bulstrode 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'�tat 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.

Oh. 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, Mademoiselle,

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 different guises,

but it was in the guise
of Angelica de Buque,

the cabaret dancer fran�aise,
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.

Pr�cis�ment.

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!
- H�las!

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.