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SIR CHARLES: Ready about!

Go about!

[Laughs]

What's that one?

Oh, it's called an anchor bend, surprisingly.

Hello. Manage to find your way around?

Oui.

-Ahoy there! -STRANGE: Charlie!

Poirot, you've arrived.

Merci.

My guess is you're in the entertainment business, too?

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

STRANGE: Been down here before?

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

Oh, it is now many years.

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

STRANGE: Ah, 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.

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.

STRANGE: Before sailing, it was racing cars, remember?

POIROT: Oui, d'accord.

STRANGE: What next? Hot-air balloons?

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.

MISS MILRAY: Otherwise, we shall have

an odd number of males and females at table.

I'm glad you agree.

Gentlemen.

Remarkable specimen. How long have you had her?

Six years. First in London, then here.

Runs the place 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.

[ Laughter]

[ Indistinct conversation]

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? Very well.

Down from London are Captain and Mrs. Dacres.

Cynthia is, in fact, Ambrosine of Bond Street.

POIROT: Not the dressmaker that is so celebrated?

SIR CHARLES: That's it.

Whilst Dacres, once a jockey himself,

is now something of a flat-racing fanatic.

[Engine running]

Who else?

Also from London

is the up-and-coming playwright Anthony Astor.

STRANGE: Oh, splendid.

Does this London lot know the others who are coming?

SIR CHARLES: No. Why should they?

My ingenue tonight will be Miss Lytton Gore.

STRANGE: Egg Lytton Gore?

SIR CHARLES: 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.

STRANGE: The villain of the piece?

SIR CHARLES: Let's just say he's a little bit devious.

Accompanied by the chip on his shoulder.

Never goes anywhere without it.

And that is my cast.

Ah, but we must not forget Mlle. Milray,

for she is also to join us.

How could one forget Miss Milray?

The specter at the feast.

[ Laughter]

SIR CHARLES: This is 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?

STRANGE: I beg your pardon?

DACRES: 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?

MISS MILRAY: 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.

SIR CHARLES: Come in, come in.

Drinks.

Aye, aye, Skipper.

POIROT: This is Mlle. Lytton Gore

who calls herself something amusante?

Egg.

Don't ask me why.

Boiled, I like to think.

Have a cocktail, Egg.

Cheers.

Thank you.

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, Egg, should know how degrading poverty is.

Oh, I say, steady on.

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

-Madam? -Oh, do I dare?

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.

[ Laughter]

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.

Mr. Babbington!

What's happened? Is he ill?

Out of the way.

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

MRS. BABBINGTON: Talk to me. Stephen.

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

He's dead.

MRS. BABBINGTON: What?

EGG: Oh, my God!

MRS. BABBINGTON: 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 rather 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.

Poirot, you're a crime expert.

Do you think anything untoward happened here tonight?

We're planning to get that glass -- his glass --

chemically analyzed.

POIROT: Ah, oui? It can do no harm.

STRANGE: Yes, and what do you think will be the result?

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 trés difficile.

So, what do you think happened?

POIROT: All I know, Sir Bartholomew,

is that he was taken ”I most suddenly.

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

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 the Reverend Stephen Babbington

was occasioned solely by natural causes.

EGG: Natural causes?

What a lot of tripe.

That coroner should be struck off at once.

POIROT: But 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 M. 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 chére, there was nothing in that cocktail glass

but vermouth and gin.

It is proved.

Oh, yes, yes, but it's still damned odd.

I mean, the Babbingtons hadn't an enemy in the world.

And yet 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?

Mademoiselle, je suis désolé,

but it is not for --

It's all right.

I like a man to have had affairs.

Shows he's properly red-blooded.

Unlike him.

POIROT: 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.

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, M. le Docteur?

No. 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.

Fifteen years ago, perhaps,

but now I think I'm deluding myself.

Damned nice though she is.

I'm thinking of selling up, actually.

POIROT: 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.

I made a visit to Monte Carlo each year.

Oh, yes, of course you do.

Where do you stay? At the Majestic, isn't it?

Naturellement.

ExceHent

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, man 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.

LADY MARY: Goodness, there must be some money in psychology.

Yes, Mums, but why has he invited us here?

We barely know the man.

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.

[ Indistinct conversations]

STRANGE: Welcome! Welcome!

Do come through.

WOMAN: Thank you so much for inviting us.

STRANGE: Evening. Straight through.

[ Indistinct conversations]

[Clears throat]

[ Laughter]

CYNTHIA: That was a very fine meal, Sir Bartholomew.

One found the meringue especially captivating.

And you don't stint on the firewater as well,

I'm pleased to say.

[ Indistinct conversations]

ELLIS: Shall we clear now, sir?

By Jove, yes, do.

Serve the cheese now, Ellis, would you?

[Door slams]

Oliver!

My God, Manders. What happened?

A bad smash, I'm afraid.

I've been up in Cumberland for the shooting.

I was on my way back to London

when I lost control of my machine.

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

I'll say.

ELLIS: Shall I pour the port, sir?

STRANGE: Yes, thank you.

Is this where your sanatorium is?

STRANGE: Yes. In the grounds.

OLIVER: Oh, tucked away?

STRANGE: What caused the crash?

OLIVER: I think I hit an oil slick.

Plowed into your wall.

Sorry about the medieval masonry and all that.

STRANGE: That is an extremely tall tale, Mr. Manders.

However, we drink to your miraculous escape.

As a matter of fact,

I am 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?

EGG: He's in the South of France.

What a pity.

STRANGE: Now, ladies and gentlemen,

it has recently been brought to my attention

that one of you...

[Glass clinks]

[Gasping ]

[Coughing]

EGG: Help! Somebody get some help!

Quickly!

[Women screaming]

MAN: En bord! En bord! Le train bleu!

Gare de Lyon pour Monte Carlo.

"Be cheerful, sir. Our revels now are ended."

-Jouez avec moi. -Non.

Jouez avec moi, monsieur.

Amuse-toi avec ton ballon. Non, non, madame.

Poirot.

POIROT: Ah, Sir Charles. Quelle surprise.

SIR CHARLES: Thank heavens I've found you. Look at this.

POIROT: Oh, non, non.

Oh, yes.

"We regret to announce the death

of Sir Bartholomew Strange,

the eminent nerve specialist.

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."

POIROT: A glass of port?

SIR CHARLES: Now will you take me seriously?

Oui.

We must return to England tout de suite.

EGG: 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.

[Train whistle blows]

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

Oh, thank you, George.

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, hein?

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, ah, Miss M. Wills.

"Seduction after Dark."

SIR CHARLES: I beg your pardon?

That was the play written by Mlle. Wills.

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

and it was Mlle. 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,

restored it, and put up a sanatorium, nursing home,

whatever you want to call it.

Nuthouse, 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 just 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.

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?

[Whistle blows]

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

and 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.

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

There's nowt to indicate suicide.

Tollie would never kill himself.

CROSSFIELD: 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.

The morning after the crime, he disappears,

vanishes into thin air.

Where did he come from? Any idea?

Oh, yes, his name is Ellis.

Gave a London agency

and a 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 be --

Well, they're forged, obviously, Poirot.

Anybody can see that.

POIROT: And the houseguests?

They are to be called as witnesses?

We have asked them to stay on, yes.

SIR CHARLES: Can we have a 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.

Hang about.

Aren't you Sir Charles Cartwright?

At your service.

Well, why the heck didn't you say so?

Eh.

I saw you in "Lord Aintree's Dilemma." I did, yeah.

I took the wife to London, and she wouldn't see owt else.

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

And I remember we queued for hours

for the Pall Mall Theatre.

But it were worth it.

POIROT: Superintendent, if you please.

Are you absolutely convinced in your little gray cells

that this M. Ellis is your man?

Why else did he bolt?

[Thunder rumbles]

My dear Charles, do you realize that almost every person

who was present at your dinner in Cornwall

was also present here?

Please don't assume that because I'm a thespian,

I'm also dim.

Of course I realize.

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?

[Doorbell rings]

SIR CHARLES: Hello, Annie.

ANNIE: Good morning, Sir Charles. Come in.

POIROT: Merci.

You've no butler?

Mr. Baker. He's in Margate.

Sir Bartholomew gave him two months' holiday,

for long service.

[Telephone rings]

Excuse me, sir.

That's why Ellis was here.

It's a caller for you, Sir Charles.

Oh, thank you, Annie.

Mademoiselle.

CROSSFIELD: Crossfield here.

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

and he's slipped me the mortuary report.

They think it were nicotine poisoning.

But couldn't you get that just from smoking?

You'd have to smoke a heck of a lot.

POIROT: The nicotine is an alkaloid, colorless, odorless,

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 M. 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?

ANNIE: 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.

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

On the night that he died, how was his mood?

Oh, he were happy, sir. Very only.

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.

SIR CHARLES: What was this telephone message?

[Telephone rings]

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

A Mrs. Rushbridger.

Or something like that.

[Vehicle approaches]

That'll be them coming back from the inquest.

SIR CHARLES: Miss Wills, do you mind

if we ask you some questions?

Do you mind if I call my solicitor?

Um, do we, Poirot?

Je pense que Mlle. Wills,

she makes a little joke, non?

What is it you want to ask?

Did you notice anything unusual

about the arrangements that night?

I heard there was a secret tunnel.

Did you hear about that?

No!

Yes.

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

-SIR CHARLES: 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 Miss Wills thought about anything.

Eh bien, will you tell to us what you thought about her?

Someone said she lives in Tooting,

which she can't help, I suppose,

but she does poke and pry something terrible.

She was in my room.

-CYNTHIA: She was what? -DACRES: In my room.

Poking about.

No, she wasn't. You're seeing things.

Oh, here we go again.

The funny farm's round the corner.

CYNTHIA: 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 colorless, odorless alkaloid,

widely available, in fact.

Often used by gardeners to spray their roses with.

I use it. Everyone does.

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?

SIR CHARLES: Do you have any information

about the secret passage?

-Do you?! -EGG: 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.

But you're doing wonderfully well.

[ Knocking ]

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

Yes, thanks, Annie.

Merci, mademoiselle.

SIR CHARLES: Well, what have we here?

[Sighs]

Ah!

He had athlete's foot.

Oh, look.

POIROT: What is that?

It's ink.

There is something that is discomposing in my mind.

SIR CHARLES: 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 Mlle. 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.

Alors?

And when did 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.

SIR CHARLES: Well, yes,

I was speaking to a chap in Monte Carlo

who has a relation coming here.

Missus... Damn, what was the name?

Bridger? Rushbfldge?

-MATRON: Mrs. de Rushbridger? -SIR CHARLES: Yes.

MATRON: 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.

SIR CHARLES: Oh, dear.

Thank you so much, Matron.

Merci.

[Woman crying]

Damn. Damn.

The bloody woman exists.

This whole thing's giving me a headache.

What do you say we go somewhere for a stiff whiskey?

Non, non, non, mon cher.

We must return to the bedroom of Ellis.

Ellis? Why?

The stain of ink?

Now you remember perhaps?

Yes, it's 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.

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

He dropped his fountain pen.

And he must have been writing at the time

or the top wouldn't have been off.

Perhaps he laid it on the mantelshelf and it rolled?

Non.

Non.

You know, in the theater,

we have to examine the internal logic of all our actions.

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

He's writing a letter.

He thinks he hears something.

He has to hide the letter.

No time to rip up a floorboard.

Non.

He can't burn it.

Non. Because of the Cinders.

Là, là, là!

[Fingers snap]

Only one place.

POIROT: 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.

£1,000 would make all the difference to me.

Meet me at..."

So that's it. Blackmail.

SIR CHARLES: May I ask who you're telephoning to?

Cornwall. The Loomouth Police.

[Train chugging]

SIR CHARLES: So, Ellis knew something

and he was paid to disappear

and that's exactly what he did.

The question is "Where's he gone?"

My friend, I am convinced that this M. 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.

Well, what about Egg? Is she going to be all right?

There is something that concerns me

about the Mlle. Egg Lytton Gore.

The stain on the wall.

It's ink.

POIROT: How did she know that it was ink?

To me, it was simply a stain on the wall.

Women have a better-developed color sense than us, don't they?

But it makes me to be suspicious.

SIR CHARLES: Of Egg?

-POIROT: Oui. -Oh, no.

POIROT: 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. No, can't be.

[ Match strikes ]

[Clock chiming]

George.

I am so fatigued.

Sir, I'm afraid there are visitors

in the drawing room.

POIROT: Visitors in the drawing room?

GEORGE: Yes, sir.

POIROT: But it is 11:00 at night, George.

GEORGE: Indeed it is, sir.

POIROT: It is 11:00 at night,

therefore we do not have visitors in the drawing room.

GEORGE: No, sir.

POIROT: Take this.

GEORGE: Of course.

Mlle. Lytton Gore.

Oh, call me Egg, for Pete's sake.

What is it that you do here?

-Good evening. -POIROT: M. 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?

And do not make me angry, monsieur.

I am very fatigued.

OLIVER: I was told to do it.

POIROT: By whom?

OLIVER: Bartholomew Strange.

He wrote to me and told me to fake a crash

and arrive about half-past 9:00.

But when I got there,

he seemed as surprised as everyone else.

And 10 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.

Excuse me, what has happened to Robin Babbington?

Well, Robin fell in love with her, too,

and she sent him to India. He never came back.

-Why not? -That's enough!

He went all mystical, went to live in an ashram or something.

-Totally gaga. -He did what he wanted!

Did he, or did you drive him away?

You drive us all away in the end, Egg!

[Door slams]

[Train whistle blows]

SIR CHARLES: Miserable business.

EGG: 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.

EGG: What reasons are there for killing a person?

SIR CHARLES: Babbington knew something.

Babbington recognized 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.

Précisément.

What?

If we are to believe that the second murder,

it sprung 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.

Mlle. 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 --

grist to your mill?

Your command of English is really rather wonderful,

isn't it?

LADY MARY: Poor Stephen.

He told Egg to steer clear of Oliver.

But girls are very foolish, M. 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?

LADY MARY: 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.

MRS. BABBINGTON: 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.

But 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.

POIROT: Mais pourquoi pas?

SIR CHARLES: Because he never drank them.

Couldn't stand them.

POIROT: Ah, oui?

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.

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.

CYNTHIA: Fleur-de-lis on the cuffs.

Witty, don't you think?

And the waistline's rather penetrating.

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

I should have it in español.

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

You have so much personality,

you mustn't wear anything ordinary.

EGG: Have you been back to Cornwall since that party?

Oh, my dear, I couldn't.

It was too upsetting.

EGG: 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, no, Marcel. No.

I asked for the blue pattu.

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.

DACRES: What did you say your name was again?

EGG: Egg.

Hello, I'm bacon.

You have lovely eyes. Has 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?

Who'd want to bump off a doctor?

Lot of people. Lot of people.

Doctors are interfering swine.

Did Bartholomew Strange --

Bartholomew Strange. Bartholomew Humbug.

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

Nerve cases very likely.

All I know is, doesn't matter what your nerves are like,

they lock you in and you never get out.

And they call it a cure, the swine.

Cynthia told me not to talk about it.

Talk about what?

DACRES: It. The thing.

-The Arab. -The Arab?

There was this Arab gentleman Cynthia was wooing.

He was going to invest in Ambrosine,

which, by the way, it badly needs,

because her head for business

is about as 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 checkbook with him.

And that specialist was Bartholomew Strange?

Well, we don't know, but if it was,

things would look a bit fishy for us, wouldn't they?

Which is why I'm not supposed to talk about it.

Now, you tell me something.

What was that woman doing in my room?

What woman?

DACRES: The rabbit face. The playwright.

Always poking and prying.

She's like a ferret up a drainpipe, that one.

William.

BOY: "Evening Standard"!

Cornish exhumation!

WOMAN: Taxi! Taxi!

Miss Milray.

Oh. Isn't it dreadful?

EGG: 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? -MISS MILRAY: 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.

BOY: "Evening Standard"!

Vicar poisoned!

Such a pity you left the profession, Sir Charles.

You would have been perfect in this one.

What's it called?

"Sin in Suburbia."

Who's playing my part?

Geoffrey Winchester.

Oh, God. [Laughs]

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, M. Poirot.

I like an audience. Bring your friends.

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"?

POIROT: Peut-étre.

MISS WILLS: I was intrigued, I admit.

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

Actually, there was one thing

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.

SIR CHARLES: 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.

SIR CHARLES: Well, can you tell us anything else at all

about any of the other guests?

Sorry.

Oh, well.

Sorry to disturb 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 Mlle. Wills that we must watch.

EGG: 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?

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 Mlle. Milray?

With Milray?

He has none.

The woman is incapable of relationships.

Osmosis, perhaps, but not relationships.

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?

It is a mental process.

I know what it is.

But can't we do something?

For you, always the action, eh, mademoiselle?

Voilà. There are inquiries to be made at Gilling.

The mother of Mlle. Milray.

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

to find out what you can

about the past of the Reverend Babbington.

Righto.

In the meantime,

I will make the preparations for my sherry party.

A sherry party?

Oui.

Tomorrow evening at 8:00.

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

[ Indistinct conversations]

Ah, mesdames et messieurs, un moment s'il vous plait.

Let us have no talk of murders and poisons

because it spoils the palate.

Sir Charles?

Thank you, Poirot.

Thank you, George.

Cynthia, charming dress.

Thank you.

Why do you bring me to these awful places?

It's how I pick up custom.

Oh, 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, is safer.

His follies are behind him.

Not, as with younger fellows, still to come.

I wish that I shared your certainty, madame.

Oh, but we have been so badly off.

I want Egg to see people, places,

great cities, great art.

Don't know how you put up with it.

What do you mean?

Him barging in like that.

He's a has-been.

A washout.

A flop.

You're right. I should --

M. Oliver, I wish to ask you something.

The letter you received from Dr. Strange --

the invitation to -- How do you say --

gate-crash the party --

where is it?

Oh, 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 Mlle. Egg?

I haven't any money.

Can't you see?

SIR CHARLES: 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?

Oui.

But Mlle. Milray, where is she? She is not here.

I'm sure that I invited her.

DACRES: Good health, and God save the king.

I'll have another sherry, chum.

POIROT: The sherry, I prefer it to the cocktail,

and a thousand times to the whiskey.

Ah, the whiskey, quelle horreur.

But the delicate wines of France,

you have merely to taste these.

EGG: Charles.

Charles!

Dear God!

Charles. Charles, no.

Not you, Charles.

POIROT: Mes amis.

You fool.

You absurd, play-acting little fool!

You think you know everything about everything.

But look what you've done.

Gently, Egg.

A performance magnifique, Sir Charles.

Bad luck. Still here.

You beast.

Golly.

LADY MARY: But why?

Messieurs et 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 analyze the glass.

They will analyze 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, mes amis,

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.

And this is how both of the murders

were hidden so expertly.

Alors, faites attention.

I demand that you listen to me most attentively.

This murderer may strike again.

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

...now it is the time to speak.

EGG: So you planned it all?

POIROT: Oui.

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

POIROT: 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?

POIROT: Oui.

Which person's?

Ah, that is my little secret.

SIR CHARLES: So you know who the murderer is?

Oui.

Then have them arrested.

I cannot.

Because until I know why Stephen Babbington was murdered,

I have no proof at all.

And I do not know why.

GEORGE: Excuse me, sir.

A telegram.

Milles tonnerres.

"Please come at once.

Can give valuable information. Death of Bartholomew Strange.

Margaret de Rushbridger."

EGG: Margaret de Rushbridger?

[Whistle blows]

Merci.

MAN: Just change at Doncaster. Thank you.

SIR CHARLES: Looks like we're not going to 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.

There are some frightfully strange ones.

There's a family of Shovepennys.

And here's a Mary Ann Sticklebucket.

None of them are as strange as mine.

Cartwright? That's not strange.

That's not my real name.

It's an acting name.

EGG: 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 Mugg.

My father's name was Mugg.

That is genuinely catastrophic.

To go through life as a Mugg.

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'd sold his passport and grown a beard.

And you had nothing to do with it?

But 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.

I call myself Hercule Poirot.

And who do you want to see?

Mme. de Rushbridger.

But don't you know?

She's dead. She died this morning.

She's been poisoned.

CROSSFIELD: A box of chocolates came for her by post.

They're liqueur 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 the telegram

by a tramp.

-A tramp? Aye.

The tramp says it came from a loony lady in the nuthouse,

this nuthouse.

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.

M. Poirot will see you now, miss.

Mademoiselle, s'il vous plait.

Good heavens, what are you doing?

Alors, I find that the building of a house of cards

is -- is most stimulating

to my little gray 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. Mugg, the milkman's wife.

For I am to be Mrs. Mugg, 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.

Pardon, oui, oui.

But I do wish you happiness, mademoiselle.

But not the brief happiness of youth,

but the happiness that endures,

happiness that is built 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, aren't they?

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

-The murderer. -Pourquoi?

Well, because she's gone missing and she's creepy.

And the funny thing is,

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?

-Hmm? -EGG: To the theater?

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.

Follow that taxi if you please.

[Whistle blows]

Stop!

You cannot do this, mademoiselle.

It is evidence.

It's so exciting.

It's only Geoff Winchester, Egg.

Don't expect fireworks.

Mesdames et messieurs,

you have come to watch a dress rehearsal of a play, hein?

Instead I give to you

Hercule Poirot.

When the Reverend Stephen Babbington died,

Sir Charles advanced the theory that he had been murdered.

I did not think it likely.

Stephen! Stephen, please!

POIROT: I could not figure to myself

why Stephen 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 Stephen Babbington?

Only Sir Charles

and his serving maid who handed around the drinks.

But were either of these two at Melfort Abbey?

No, no, 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 a sensation curieux, hein?

Trés curieux.

I was certain that the person who committed both of the crimes

must have been present on both occasions.

Well, alors, 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 Stephen 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 M. Ellis.

He appeared suddenly, hein, out of the blue

a fortnight before the crime

and disappears but 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 parlormaid at Melfort, Mlle. 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 realize why.

Alors, this butler, M. 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?

Ah, oui. His remark facetious.

You're an excellent butler, Ellis.

POIROT: Said as the joke, hein?

But as told to us by Mlle. Annie,

the lark.

And it would have been a lark perfectly understandable

if the doctor had known the butler.

It would have been a lark totally understandable

if the butler was indeed...

Sir Charles Cartwright, his old friend,

and the doctor had known of this all along.

STRANGE: Serve the cheese now, Ellis, would you?

And then we'll...

I say, what's this?

EGG: Oliver!

I'll say.

Shall I pour the port, sir?

Oh, yes, thank you.

Is this where your sanatorium is?

STRANGE: It has recently come to my attention

that one of you...

[Coughing]

POIROT: 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 Dr. 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.

Now, what of the letters of blackmail

behind the fireplace in the room of this M. Ellis?

Sir Charles himself uncovers them.

And the letter asking M. Oliver Manders to fake the accident?

What could be easier

than for Sir Charles to write the letter himself

in the name of Dr. Bartholomew Strange?

Because he wants to bring you all together again, hein,

so that there are many, many suspects.

And so I return to Mlle. Wills.

En effet, mes amis,

Mlle. Wills noticed the butler Ellis

more than anybody else at the table that evening.

And when I interviewed her, in this theater,

Sir Charles, at first,

he is gratified that she spotted the birthmark.

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

But then Ia catastrophe.

I do not think that until that moment

Mlle. Wills connected Ellis with Sir Charles.

But she is an observer, hein?

And when the drinks, they are poured,

she notices not the drinks, but the hands that held them.

And at that moment,

Mlle. Wills understood that Sir Charles,

he was the butler,

because with or without the 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.

Charles!

...the face that I was watching was that of Mlle. Wills,

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

And it was then that I knew

that Mlle. Wills suspected Sir Charles,

and if Mlle. Wills suspected Sir Charles,

then Sir Charles indeed suspected Mlle. 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, Mlle. Wills.

S'il vous plaît. Asseyez-vous.

And she was wise so to do, hein?

Because the following evening,

Sir Charles, he drives to Tooting

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

Mlle. 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 Mme. de Rushbridger,

when on my one and only visit to the sanatorium 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.

How could she? She 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

that you were in love, deeply in love with Mlle. 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

when you were sailing around Loomouth?

What was the obstacle, hein?

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 of our land

when a divorce, it 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 would become the prime suspect.

But what if nobody knew, hein?

Well, then, you'd be free to marry Mlle. Lytton Gore

without ever having the need to tell to 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 re-marry,

it is necessary that Dr. Bartholomew Strange,

your friend so dear to you,

he must be eliminated.

And Babbington?

I suppose he knew, too, hmm?

POIROT: That was the one flaw in my theory.

Because even if it was you, Charles,

who placed the liquid nicotine into the glass,

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

No, the poison was never intended specifically

for the Reverend Stephen Babbington.

No.

It was intended for anyone who was there present.

Except, of course, Dr. Bartholomew Strange,

who never touched the cocktail,

and Mlle. Lytton Gore.

The young lady with whom you were in love.

You handed me my cocktail yourself.

SIR CHARLES: Have a cocktail, Egg.

This tastes slightly...

POIROT: The murder of the Reverend Stephen 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.

Stephen Babbington, he dies,

and foul play, it is not suspected.

Not even by Hercule Poirot.

Which is why, of course, I was invited to go to Loomouth,

because if Poirot suspects nothing,

nor indeed will anyone else.

Et enfin, Mlle. 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 Stephen 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 is so fascinating.

But when you heard about the death of Mme. de Rushbridger,

you decided that enough, it was enough.

So you traveled 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 a note

that proves that in the Haburton Asylum in Essex,

there is a lady by the name of Gladys Mary Mugg,

58 years of age,

who is your lawful wedded wife.

Is it true?

Is it true?

SIR CHARLES: 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.

They 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.

[Chuckles]

Damn you all.

CROSSFIELD: Don't worry, sir.

M. Manders,

I think now is the time

to take home the Lady Mary and Mlle. Egg.

Yes, sir, of course.

POIROT: You will look after her now.

OLIVER: I shall.

POIROT: And, mademoiselle.

You fall down, hein?

But you will get up again.

A tragedy in three acts, I think.

POIROT: Oui.

A great man brought low.

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

Don't judge me too harshly.

Ah, mademoiselle, I investigate.

I do not judge.

I've just had a terrible thought.

If anyone could have drunk the poisoned cocktail,

golly, it could have been me.

And there is a possibility even more terrible,

mademoiselle.

It could have been me.

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