11x01 - Mrs McGinty's Dead

[bunniefuu]

James Gordon Bentley,
you have been tried for m*rder.

Abigail McGinty
was found by the baker...

on the floor
of her sitting room...

with extensive wounds
to the head.

Her house in Broadhinny evinced
no sign of forced entry.

All the Police Surgeon
was able to ascertain...

was that she had been hit with
a sharp, heavy implement...

probably some time
the night before.

You, Bentley, were suspected
from the very beginning.

You knew where
she kept her money.

You had recently
lost your employment.

And then
the investigating officer...

Superintendent Spence...

found £60 in legal tender...

under a stone
by the garden path.

So you had the motive,
and you had the opportunity.

CLERK, VOICE-OVER:
Will the defendant please rise.

How do you find the defendant?

We find the defendant guilty.

JUDGE: James Gordon Bentley,
for the premeditated m*rder...

of Abigail McGinty...

I sentence you to be taken from
here to a place of execution...

...and there to be hanged by
the neck until you are dead.

Well done, Superintendent.
You brought a first-rate case.

SPENCE, VOICE-OVER: There was never much doubt...
about the outcome.

But I don't think he did it.

He was just a lad
from the village.

I dare say to the jury,
Bentley looked like a m*rder*r.

He's a bit unappealing,
a bit shifty but...

in my experience,
your actual murderers...

tend to look, well, cocky.

Not this little fellow.

Something in my water says he
just isn't the murdering type.

Which is why I've come to you.

I can't shake off
this feeling...

that I've sent an innocent man
to the gallows.

Pale ale, sir,
will that be acceptable?

Marvelous. Thanks.

A creme de menthe, sir.

Merci, George.

But this man, he had a trial
that was fair?

I'd say so.
He had a decent counsel.

So according to the law,
this James Bentley...

he has nothing to complain of?

If he's hanged
for something he didn't do...

he's got something
to complain of.

But your job, it is over.

Yes. They've put me
on a fraud case.

I'm off to Glasgow.

It's a very
fraudulent place, Glasgow.

So, what is it that you suggest?

I wondered
if you'd look into it.

You perceive things in...
pardon me...

a funny kind of way.

You might find
something I've missed.

But it's the devil of
an imposition, to ask you to...

Do you know what is the biggest
problem of my life?

- No.
- An abundance of leisure.

I will look into this for you,
Superintendent, with great joy.

But what if I discover that...

James Bentley
is guilty after all?

I'll put his head
in the noose myself.

I lived with my mum.

I looked after her
until she d*ed.

And then I had to sell up.

And so you became
the lodger of Mrs. McGinty?

Yes. I was taken on...

at Breather and Scuttle
in Kilchester.

It's about 4 miles
from Broadhinny on the train.

Sorry, but I am not familiar
with Breather and Scuttle.

- They sell houses.
- Ah.

Well, I never sold no houses,

but I showed
a few people 'round.

Most of them never came back,
so Mr. Scuttle let me go...

and I couldn't get another job.

And so your money, it ran out?

Yeah. Yeah.
3 pound a week she charged me.

And so you became,
what is the phrase...

en arrière, in arrears
with your rent?

I was 2 months behind.

Alas. So tell to me,
if you please...

what were you doing
on the night Mrs. McGinty d*ed?

Oh, what's the point?
I'm for the chop.

No, no, no. If you have
the fresh evidence...

you can still lodge an appeal.

Yeah, but I haven't got
fresh evidence, have I?

I have told you,
I am Hercule Poirot.

Perhaps I can
discover for you some?

Well, thank you, sir,
thank you very much.

Bon.

Good.

Et maintenant: the night
of the death of Mrs. McGinty.

She had her supper
about half 6.00.

Her bread, kipper,
and margarine.

I goes out for a walk
about 7:00.

I came back about 9:00.

I go straight to bed.

Next morning,
there she is, dead.

That's it.

How did you feel at that moment?

Well, I hadn't
had any breakfast.

I was starving.

Sir.

Thank you, sir.

Oh, I'm so sorry,
we've just closed.

If you are looking
for a property,

I'm sure Mr. Scuttle
can see you tomorrow.

Non, non, non, mademoiselle.
Thank you.

It is not a property
that I seek.

Hercule Poirot.
I make a further inquiry...

into a former employee
of the Breather and Scuttle.

Monsieur James Bentley.

Oh. Is there new evidence?
Is he going to appeal?

Oh, I'm so glad.

You liked him?

Amy called him a drip.
But, yes, I liked him.

He writes, you know.
He's a decent chap, really.

It makes me very happy
to hear that, mademoiselle.

Tell to me if you please,
did he ever talk...

about his landlady...
Mrs. McGinty?

He said she gave him
kippers too often.

James doesn't like kippers.

Did he ever mention to you...

that he knew where
she kept her money?

Actually, he did.

He said she kept it under a floorboard...
because she didn't trust the bank.

He reckoned he could
help himself to it any time.

Oh, Lord, I shouldn't have
said that, should I?

De rien, mademoiselle, de rien.

Now I must hurry myself to catch
my train to Broadhinny.

But, tell me, mademoiselle,
how do you call yourself?

Maude Williams.

Mademoiselle Williams,
the question, it is this:

if James Bentley did not k*ll
Mrs. McGinty, who did?

I hope you'll be comfortable,
Mr. Poirot.

If there's anything you'd like
to change, please, say so.

The only thing I would
change, madame...

were it within my power...

would be to provide you
with a suitable domestic.

I know.
It's a terrible bother.

We had a really good daily,
but she was m*rder*d.

Just my luck.

She came every Monday,
every Thursday.

Regular as clockwork.

Why are there bloody geese
in the hall? Maureen?

Oh, hello.

Monsieur.

New PG?
I hope you enjoy your stay.

It's a decent part of the world.

Our terms are weekly in advance,
if you don't mind.

Dinner shouldn't be
too long now.

Madame.

The window in my room,
it does not close properly.

There is the current
of the cold air.

I know.
Johnny's father and mother...

were badly off, poor dears.

Never did a thing to the house.

And when we came back
from India...

Johnny couldn't
afford to, either.

And now he's writing
his memoirs.

"Highways and Byways
of Hindustan."

That's why the place
is falling down...

and that's why we take in PGs.

- PGs?
- Paying Guests.

Good boy.

Things are a bit buggered
at the minute, financially.

Can't be easy for Johnny,
in the village.

They're all very nice people
in Broadhinny.

I say, do you mind me
slicing these in here?

The smell in the kitchen is just
completely unacceptable.

Not at all, madame.

Perhaps I should tell you
a little bit more about myself.

I am a detective.

- Are you?
- Mais oui.

Oh.

Hercule Poirot.

The most famous detective
in the world.

And I am here to investigate
the m*rder of Mrs. McGinty.

Ouch! Ooh.

Madame, you will forgive me,
but I do not think...

that tonight I will
require the dinner.

Take one twice a day, Bessie,
and the hot flushes should stop.

Thank you, Doctor.
Thank you.

Good day.

Monsieur le docteur.

S'il vous plaît, madame.

I says to Auntie,
you oughtn't have...

a man like that in the house.

Wandering about
muttering to himself.

Might go off his head.

And, of course, he did.
Dreadful.

Then he goes and hides the loot
under a stone.

I mean, what kind of halfwit
does that?

If you please,
may I ask of you...

some questions
about your auntie?

She's dead, poor soul.
She was 64.

My uncle d*ed young
of pneumonia...

so Auntie goes out
as a charlady.

There's plenty
rich people hereabouts...

who don't know how
to mop their own floors.

And your auntie, did she live
in this house for long?

- Oh, forever.
- And you, Madame Burch?

We were lucky to get this.
It's got a garden.

Oh, so your auntie left you
this house in her will?

Don't say we wanted her money...
the little bit she had.

Don't think we wanted
the house, either.

But you're not gonna say no,
are you, if you inherit?

What did Auntie like?

Oh, normal things, you know.
Knitting, cats and dogs.

Oh, she loved her Sunday papers.
All the film stars and that.

- Tea?
- Merci.

No milk, if you please.

No milk?

No.

You foreigners are fussy,
aren't you?

Merci, madame.

Bessie? Who's this?

Oh, this is Mr...
Oh, I can't pronounce his name.

He came to see
where poor Auntie was k*lled.

- This is my husband.
- Monsieur.

What are you doing in my house?

He's got a letter, Joe.
From the police.

It's like I told
your Superintendent...

we was at the cinema,
in Kilchester.

That's 3 mile from Drymouth,
4 mile from here.

You travel by the train?

No, mate, can't afford it.

We travel by bike,
don't we, Bessie?

I don't travel at all.

Mademoiselle.

How can I help you, sir?

I am Hercule Poirot.

And if you please,
I would like to buy...

some writing paper
and some envelopes.

This is a nice blue Bond.

So what brings you
to Broadhinny, then?

The m*rder of Mrs. McGinty.

Ah. That.
That was a shocking carry-on.

You knew her well?

We'd pass the time of day.
Anything else?

Yes, if you please,
12 one-penny stamps.

Tell to me, you know
her niece... Madame Burch?

I know Bessie Burch.

And Mrs. McGinty,
she was fond of her?

Oh, very fond, I think.

And the husband of her niece?

Mrs. McGinty was fond
of him, also?

As far as I know.

And when did you last see
Mrs. McGinty?

Let's think.
She d*ed on a Wednesday.

It must have been
early on Monday.

She came in for a bottle of ink.

A bottle of ink?

I expect she wanted to write
a letter, don't you?

Morning, Mrs. Carpenter.

Miss Sweetiman.

Oh, sorry, sorry.

Good gracious, it's you,
Monsieur Poirot.

Madame Oliver?
But what are you...

- I'm so sorry.
- But what was it?

It was only an apple core.
Won't do you any harm.

What are you doing
here in the sticks?

- You don't live here, do you?
- No.

No, you live in that awful,
modernist place in town.

So it's a m*rder?
Not my hostess, I hope?

Who is your hostess?

She lives somewhere around here.
Place called Laburnums.

Any idea where it is?

A chap called Robin Upward
is supposed to be

dramatizing one of my books.

Oh, felicitations, madame.

To have a work
performed on the stage!

Superbe! Oh, turn to the right.

Who's been k*lled this time?

- An elderly charlady.
- Oh.

A young man, he has been
convicted and sentenced to hang.

But he didn't do it,
and you know who did. Splendid.

I do not know who did it.

I am not even convinced that
the young man, he is innocent.

Men are so slow.
I'll soon tell you who did it.

- Ha.
- A woman's intuition...

that's what you need.

Now, if a woman were
head of Scotland Yard, well...

- Ariadne! Hello!
- Oh, it's him... Shakespeare.

Don't worry, I'll be discreet.

No, madame. I do not wish you
to be discreet.

- Truly?
- Truly.

So pleased you could come.

I've just had the most fantastic
idea for the denouement.

- Have you?
- Yes.

Oh, good.
Ah, Robin.

This is Monsieur Poirot.

- Delighted!
- Enchanté, monsieur.

Come on, let's have a drink.

I'm extremely pleased
to meet you, Mrs. Oliver.

Robin's told me
so much about you.

I've read all your books.

This is an old friend of mine.
Monsieur Hercule Poirot.

Madame.

We met in the village
just by chance.

- Robin.
- Yes, Madre?

Get some drinks.
Get cigarettes.

Yes, of course.

Are you an author, too,
Monsieur Poirot?

- Je regrette que non.
- Oh.

He's a detective.
A real one.

You know, Sherlock Holmes type.

Deerstalkers, violins,
that sort of thing...

and he's here to solve a m*rder.

But who has been
m*rder*d, monsieur?

You already know of it, madame.
It occurred last November 22.

Mrs. McGinty?
Well, that's all over, surely?

No, no, it's not over at all.
They've arrested the wrong man.

What was his name?

A Monsieur James Bentley.

But he didn't do it.

Poirot's got to find the real m*rder*r...
before they execute the other one.

I expect his little
gray cells are churning.

It's all frightfully exciting.

- Ah.
- Ah.

A White Lady for you,
my darling.

Thank you, my dear.

- Mrs. Oliver.
- Oh, thank you so much.

Monsieur?

Non, merci.

She used to work here.
Mrs. McGinty.

If you can call it work.
Going through drawers.

Peering into one's checkbook.
The nerve!

Now, don't get your
blood-pressure up, Madre.

She had her uses.

Oh, Robin.
Of course, you're right.

I suppose she did
sweep and scrub.

Robin is as good as a daughter
to me, Mrs. Oliver.

He thinks of everything.

You're wasting your time
snooping in Broadhinny.

We're all very nice people here.

Good luck with your play.

Good luck with your m*rder.

- Monsieur.
- Au revoir, monsieur.

Au revoir.

You have everything
that you need, madame?

Oh, yes.
I'm perfectly well provided for.

I have reams of paper
and oceans of ink.

And I'm sure Robin has gin.
What more does a girl need?

You have brought your own ink?

Always do.
Who'd be without ink?

Madame.

No, she always went down
to the Post Office...

and used the telephone.

So she never wrote
to you at all?

No, Auntie didn't hold
with writing letters.

But if someone wrote to her,
she would write back?

I suppose.
But who'd write to her, though?

Most of the furniture we sold.

The police kept some things.
But everything else...

Madame, please,
allow me to help.

Everything else is in here.

3 days before she d*ed.

Aren't you staying for lunch?

There's pancakes, if I can
get them out of the pan!

Non, madame, it is necessary
that I go to London.

But I return tomorrow
and then perhaps...

I shall teach you
how to make the omelet.

Au revoir.
To the station, if you please.

The Sunday "Comet," November 19.
Eva Kane.

"Her kindly relatives
in the New World...

"offered her a home
after Craig was sentenced.

"Changing her name,
the pitiful girl...

"seduced by
a cold-blooded m*rder*r...

"left these shores forever.

"'My daughter shall grow up
happy and innocent, ' she said.

"Her life shall not be
tainted by the past."'

Your hot chocolate, sir.

Merci, George.
Oh la... le deuxième photo.

"Lily Gamboll was too young
to be tried for m*rder.

"But her conduct during her
years at the Approved School...

"is said to have been exemplary.

"Now, having atoned
for her tragic lapse...

"Lily Gamboll lives somewhere,
a good citizen...

"a wife, a mother.

"'Where, ' asks the Sunday
"Comet, " 'are these women now?"'

Mademoiselle Horsfall...

after writing an article such as this...
do you often receive the letters?

Oh, sure.
You bet.

Some people have nothing more
constructive to do... than write letters.

Look, let's make this snappy,
can we?

Oui. Mademoiselle,
I will endeavor to be snappy.

Tell to me, do you remember
receiving a letter...

from a Mrs. McGinty
of Broadhinny?

McGinty. McGinty.
I remember the name.

Conked on the head
by the lodger, right?

Ha. Not a very noteworthy crime.

No. A charlady, merely.

I mean, no sex appeal.

Look here...
you know, I do remember.

McGinty, from Broadway,
practically illiterate.

Broadhinny.

Broadway.
Atrocious handwriting.

Yes, so you may have
mistaken it.

I didn't mistake it.
She wrote from Broadway.

Something about a photograph.

She knew where there was a
photograph like in the paper...

would we pay her anything for it
and how much?

How did you respond?

Sent back the standard reply.
To Broadway.

Broadhinny.

So she never received it.

But she did recognize
a photograph...

and that is most interesting.

Mademoiselle Horsfall,
I thank you...

very, very much, indeed.

Oh, pardon me,
just one other thing.

This article that you wrote
on the individual cases...

the tragic women...
is it accurate?

Accurate? Heck, who knows?

No, what I mean
to say is that...

the characters of your heroines

may not be quite
as you represent them.

Look, it's romantic fiction
for a Sunday paper.

Now, I've no doubt Eva Kane
was a thorough bitch.

As for little Lily Gamboll...

well, I wouldn't let her
anywhere near my cutlery.

Eva Kane went abroad,
you know...

to the New World,
to the Dominions...

to "start a new life."

And there is nothing to suggest,
is there, mademoiselle...

that she did not
return to this country?

Not a goddamned thing.

Au revoir.

The incomparable Hercule Poirot.

Monsieur le docteur.

Well, this is an honor.

Have we crime in our midst?
My wife will want to know.

Ah, non. I seek fresh evidence
in the McGinty case...

and I understand that
she was employed here.

Would you say that she was
a person who was truthful?

Truthful?
What do you mean, truthful?

I mean truthful in the way
most people mean truthful.

If she were to tell
you something...

was she likely to be
telling the truth?

I really couldn't say.

You'd have to ask Mrs. Scott,
the housekeeper.

You employ a housekeeper
as well?

Yes. Mrs. Scott's knees
aren't very good.

We just had McGinty for
scrubbing the kitchen floors.

That sort of thing.
Blacking the grates.

She was an excellent worker.

There's little doubt that
Bentley did it, you know.

Did you know him?

Yes, he consulted me
once or twice.

Should have been more,
but he couldn't afford it.

Nervous type.

Coddled by his mother
when she was alive.

One sees that so often.

We've another case in point
right here.

- Ah, oui?
- Yes.

Mrs. Upward.
Laura Upward.

She keeps that son of hers
tied to her apron strings.

He's a clever enough
fellow, Robin...

not quite as clever
as he thinks he is, mind you.

And she...
to my way of thinking...

insulates him from real life.

Have they been here long?

In Broadhinny?
Only 3 or 4 years.

And you yourselves, Doctor?

We've been here about 8.

I gather you're staying
at Long Meadows.

- Oui.
- Poor devil.

It's coming to something when
the best family in the county...

has to take in lodgers,
isn't it?

Ah, this is my wife
Mrs. Rendell.

Madame.

Do you know
who this is, Shelagh?

This is the great detective...
Hercule Poirot.

Don't mind her.
She does that.

We're both very crime-minded.
Read a lot about it.

Really? Criminology,
or the fiction...

or the Sunday papers?

All 3.

Do you descend as low
as to the Sunday "Comet"?

Where would Sunday be
without it?

Let me fetch you a drink.

I mean, you do see,
don't you, Ariadne darling?

Here we have your fantastic
young man, your Sven Hjerson...

he's arriving
dripping with sweat...

having skied the 10 miles
from the village.

- He's 60.
- No, no, no.

I see him more as 35.

But I've been writing books about him for 30 years...
and he was at least 35 in the first one.

Ariadne, darling, if he's 60...

then how can we have any sexual tension...
between him and your young girl?

Your Ingrid? I mean... that would
just make him a dirty old man.

- It certainly would.
- Well, then, he can't be 60.

He must be 35.

But all the people who've read
my books know how old he is.

Ariadne, darling,
I have explained this...

several times now...
It's not a book, it's a play.

We must have some sexual tension
between Sven and Ingrid.

You know how it is...
they're antagonistic at first...

but secretly they like
each other, until finally...

Sven Hjerson never
cared for women.

What? Oh, no, no, Ariadne,
you can't make him a pansy.

I mean, he's an outdoors
sort of chap.

- He skis.
- He does not ski.

He's 60!

I have to go for a walk.

What the hell do you want?

Excusez-moi, Madame Carpenter.

I don't require
any cleaning fluids.

- Go away.
- If you please...

Hercule Poirot.

And I have a few questions
to ask you...

about the death of Mrs. McGinty
last November.

I don't know who you mean.

Madame, you do not remember
the McGinty?

No, I don't.
Now be off.

But you surely
remember her m*rder?

Or is the m*rder of servants
so common in this place...

that you do not even notice it?

Oh, the m*rder.
Yes, of course.

I'd forgotten
the old woman's name.

Even though she worked for you
here in this house?

She didn't.
I wasn't living here then.

Mr. Carpenter and I
were only married 3 months ago.

But she did work for you.
On Fridays.

When you were Mrs. Selkirk
and lived in Rose Cottage.

If you know the answers
to everything...

I don't see why you bother
asking questions.

She was only a stupid,
old charwoman.

She kept her money
under the floorboards...

for pity's sake.

Somebody m*rder*d her for it.

Like an item
in the Sunday papers.

Ah, the Sunday papers. Oui.
Like the Sunday "Comet"?

Do you take
the Sunday "Comet," madame?

We take the "Observer"
and the Sunday "Times."

But I recommend
the Sunday "Comet"...

for the photographs,
if for nothing else.

Guy!

A foreigner.
I think he's press.

He's been asking questions about
that horrid m*rder last year.

Some old char...
Do you remember?

I hate things like that, really.

Look here, have you been
annoying my wife?

Non, monsieur.

Simply I make
the fresh inquiry...

into the circumstances
of the death of Mrs. McGinty.

- And all I...
- Oh, God.

Quiet, Eve.

Monsieur, she came to you
on Wednesdays.

Wednesday was the day
of her death.

So she was here on that day?

I'm spectacularly busy.

I'm running for Parliament,
don't you know.

I really don't have time
for all this.

Monsieur, all I want
to know is...

if she said something
to you on that day...

that caught your attention.

Did she talk very much?

Dear God, she talked
all the time.

That class of person
always does.

One doesn't exactly listen.

Anyway, she didn't know she was
gonna be m*rder*d, did she?

So what does it matter?

Such a brutal crime.
A meat chopper. Ugh!

The police never found
the m*rder w*apon, madame.

Oh, we all know
it was a meat chopper.

Bentley must have, I don't know,
hidden it somewhere.

In the same way
as he has hidden her money?

Under a stone?

I don't quite see
what you're driving at.

She was just an old biddy
from the village.

A frightful liar, too.

- That is interesting.
- Eve...

What lies did she tell, madame?

Stupid things.
About people.

- Things that aren't true.
- Eve, be quiet.

You're not really
a journalist, are you?

- Monsieur, I...
- Croft!

The date of execution...

has been set
for Monday fortnight.

Have you any ideas?
Anything at all?

Here are the photographs.

The ones the Sunday
"Comet" used.

You'll never make
an identification from them.

You recall the Craig case,
Poirot?

Oui, d'accord. Alfred Craig...
the Town Clerk of Parminster...

and Eva Kane, 19 years of age.

She it is who falls in love
with Craig, and Craig with her.

And one day the neighbors,
they hear that the wife...

has been ordered abroad
for her health.

But her health, it declines,
and in time she dies.

But she does not die
on the French Riviera.

She dies in the cellar
in Parminster... poisoned.

Enfin, Craig is ex*cuted,
and Eva Kane...

who is expecting a child,
flees from the country.

SPENCE: Yes, she went
to Australia.

And I can tell you the name
she took: it was Hope.

Evelyn Hope.
Colleagues of mine...

think that Eva Kane
was a clever, little actress.

That she did the m*rder...
and Craig swung for it.

But if it is true...

- There's no evidence.
- No.

But if it is true
that Eva Kane is a k*ller,

then peut-être
she may k*ll again.

Then there's Lily Gamboll.

Ah... Lily Gamboll.

She is rescued from a tenement
that was overcrowded...

in the East End of London.

She was placed in the care
of her aunt in the suburbs.

Wimbledon.

And one evening, Lily Gamboll...

she wished to go to the pictures...
but her aunt, she said no.

So Lily Gamboll, she picks up...
the meat chopper from the table...

swings it at the head
of her protector...

and because her aunt,
she is weak and small...

the blow, it k*lled her.

Lily Gamboll used a chopper
on her aunt...

and McGinty was dispatched
with a similar instrument.

If Mrs. McGinty
saw the photograph...

it was in one of
her regular houses.

And if Eva Kane
is still alive...

she must have
more than 60 years...

and her daughter would be
in her thirties.

I have only met
one person in Broadhinny...

...who has the right age
to be Eva Kane...

and that is Madame Upward.

But she suffers
from the arthritis.

She is confined
to the wheelchair.

Also, she does not
have a daughter.

Only a son, whom she adores.

But if Mrs. Upward
was Eva Kane...

mightn't her son
k*ll Mrs. McGinty...

for the sake of
his mother's reputation?

No, I think he might
use it for publicity...

for one of his plays.

But you know there are 3 women
who have the right age...

to be the daughter of Eva Kane.

Shelagh Rendell,
the wife of the doctor...

...Maureen Summerhayes
from Long Meadows...

...and Eve Carpenter.

Let us first to consider
the daughter of Eva Kane.

Maureen Summerhayes,
she does not strike me...

as a "clever little actress"...

even though she has been
away for many years in India.

Shelagh Rendell,
she is afraid of something...

but of what I cannot discover.

But Eve Carpenter, a woman
who wears the, what is the word?

The maquillage, the makeup.
The most expensive.

Married to a man
with the ambitions political...

who has a great sense
of his own importance.

There is also something else
about Eve Carpenter.

She is so vain that she will not
wear the spectacles...

only those that have a tint.

And without the spectacles,
she cannot even...

see to cross the room.

But you know from the point
of view of age...

any one of these 3 women
could also be...

Lily Gamboll.

At the time of the death
of Mrs. McGinty...

Madame Carpenter was not
Madame Carpenter.

She was a young widow,
very badly off...

living in the cottage
of a laborer...

engaged to the rich man
of the neighborhood.

If only Guy Carpenter
had discovered...

that he was about to marry
a woman of low origin...

who had bludgeoned to death
her aunt with a meat chopper...

You do think
it's Eve Carpenter, don't you?

I do not know.

Peut-être she has the skeletons
in the armoire.

Mais, certain there must be some
reason that she tells to me...

that Mrs. McGinty was a liar.

The whole thing's damn thin.

Does anyone really
commit m*rder...

for the reasons
we've been considering?

Ah. The passion
for respectability...

it is very strong,
Superintendent.

These are not
artists or bohemians.

No, very nice people
live in Broadhinny.

They tell to me so themselves.

I think that
you do not originate...

from Kilchester, mademoiselle.

No. Moved here about a year ago.

Was in London before that.
Tired of it.

Tired of London?

May I ask, what was
your employment?

I worked in publicity.

And now you work for
the Breather and Scuttle.

I fancied a change.

But do you make progress,
Monsieur Poirot?

That's what I want to know.

Mademoiselle, we do not
have any suspects.

We do not have
the m*rder w*apon.

And we do not
have any evidence...

that James Bentley
did not do it...

so to speak truly, non,
we do not make the progress.

But there are only 2 weeks
until they hang him.

Aah!

Thank you.
Thank you very much, Sergeant.

My pleasure, sir.

Superintendent Spence,
if you please.

Superintendent, I have
some very good news for you.

No, no, no, no,
no, no, no.

It is that someone
has attempted to k*ll me!

So, after a while, the golfer
turns to his caddy and says...

"Caddy, why do you keep on
looking at your watch?"

To which the fellow replies,

"It's not a watch, sir,
it's a compass!"

It's him.
It's him.

I've had a look at everybody,
and it's him.

It's always the Doctor.

Thank you so much for coming...

to my little soirée,
Monsieur Poirot.

- Madame.
- I wish I could have...

found some more intellectual
company for you both, but...

She's not as bad as
she makes out, in my opinion.

If only she'd make
a little more effort...

she'd be up on her pins
in no time.

She lets young Robin
do everything.

I hear she gets about
when she wants to.

You know, yesterday somebody
tried to push me...

under a train at Kilchester.

Good gracious.

I think they intended
to k*ll me.

Well. Dr. Rendell had a surgery
in Kilchester yesterday...

so that settles it.

No, no, no, not quite.

Monsieur and Madame Carpenter,
they were also there.

He was speaking
at the meeting political.

She was doing the shopping.

Major Summerhayes, he was
there also, buying the pig-feed.

Well, Robin Upward's
in the clear.

He and I were at work all day
on the wretched dramatization.

Now he wants Sven
having sex in a sauna.

Sven's never had sex
in his life!

You don't know how I suffer.

Madame, I, too, suffer.

The cooking
of Madame Summerhayes,

it is beyond description.

Well, it is not cooking at all.

And the currents
of the cold air...

...the long hairs of the dogs,
the chairs...

the terrible, terrible beds
in which I try to sleep.

And the coffee...
Words cannot describe to you...

the fluid they serve
to you as coffee.

I do like parties.
Such lots of lovely gin!

And it's all thanks
to you, Mrs. Oliver.

I wish I could write books.
I can't do anything, really.

There was a woman writing
in the paper the other day...

the Sunday "Comet."

A very, very silly woman.
Horsfall or something.

She was asking
whether it's better...

to let your child be adopted...

and have every advantage...
every advantage!...

or whether you should keep it
whatever your circs.

Idiot. I was adopted.
I had every advantage.

And it's always hurt,
really sodding hurt...

to know that my mother
didn't want me.

I was so cruelly abandoned.

Well, just be thankful
someone took you in, darling.

It's cold out there.

Well, I wouldn't give up
my children, if I had any...

for all the advantages
in the world!

Come along, old girl.

I feel so alone!

I feel so alone!

Let's get you home.

No.

So, Monsieur Poi. .Poi...
Poirot...

I suppose you have
reason for thinking...

James Bentley didn't do it.

Oh, tell us, please!

If he didn't k*ll her, who did?

Haven't you got
any clues, Poirot?

That's it, clues.

Clues that mean everything to the detective...
and nothing to you, until at the end...

you fairly kick yourself.

Don't you, Mrs. Oliver?

I usually kick myself
at the beginning.

Come on, Poirot.
Give us a glimpse...

at the workings
of your colossal brain.

Yes, give us a clue!

You wish for clues?

Voilà!

Heavens!

Good Lord.
Is that it?

What frightful frumps!

Who are they?

Who's that awful child?

My dear, that hat!

But why are they clues?

Who are they?

You do not recognize
these photographs?

- Recognize?
- You do not, shall I say...

remember having seen one of
these photographs before?

No.

Madame Carpenter?
Madame Rendell?

Madame Rendell, you perhaps?

Oh!

Ah, yes.
Madame Upward.

You recognize one of
these photographs, do you not?

Yes... I think so.

Which one?

So you have seen
this photograph before. When?

- Oh... I can't...
- Madre.

Quite recently.
I can't remember where.

But I'm sure I've seen
that photograph before.

Mrs. McGinty also recognized
the photograph...

and now Mrs. McGinty,
she is dead.

You must tell me
anything you know, madame.

Anything at all.

You are a woman who is
secretive, madame.

When I come to a decision,
I act.

Knowledge is power.

Power must only be used
for the right ends.

You'll excuse my suggesting that
you don't perhaps appreciate...

the pattern
of our English country life.

In other words,
you say to me that...

"You are only
a damned foreigner."

Be careful, madame.

There is danger.

Where is it, Joe?
Where's the money?

Woman, mind your business,
all right?

You're doing it
again, just like before!

But we don't pay rent now,
so they can't kick us out!

We own the bloody place!

I think I'll smoke.
Good night.

I've never been so humiliated.

You embarrassed me in public.
Stupid woman!

You embarrassed me.
You lost all our money.

At least I had something to inherit...
which is more than you did.

It's not my fault I came from parents...
who didn't have that sort of money...

- Oh, shut up.
- Don't speak to me like that.

I'll k*ll you! I'll k*ll you
with my own bare hands!

It's the telephone for you.

Merci, madame.

Madame, there is also a new
current of cold air in my room.

Hercule Poirot?

I've got another theory.

Joe Burch, married to
that niece of McGinty's.

They had money troubles.

Joe fritters it,
they can't pay the rent.

Joe leaves the cinema
in Kilchester...

cycles the 4 miles
to Broadhinny...

clobbers the old girl,
then pedals back...

just in time for the credits.

Then they inherit the cottage.

Got it?
See you later.

MAUREEN: Here, boy!
Come on.

Where have you gone?
Come on.

S'il vous plaît, madame...
what is this utensil?

Oh, you've found that, have you?

- Oui.
- It's a sugar cutter.

Or sugar hammer.

Or something.
For chopping up sugar.

It's rather fun, isn't it?
Oh, my head!

You brought it back, perhaps,
from India?

Oh, no.
We bought this...

at the Jumble Sale at Christmas.

It came from Baghdad.

At least, that's what
Shelagh Rendell said.

In one of her more
loquacious moments. Ha ha.

Merci, madame.

Come on, boy.

A sugar hammer?

Oui, madame. it is
an instrument of brass...

with a handle of wood...

and there is on it a bird...

and there is also inlaid
the stones, blue and red.

Oh, yes.

Madame?

Oh, yes, we bought it
in the bazaar.

On holiday, last year.

But it looked out of place,
so I took it to the Jumble Sale.

I see.
So, you kept it here,

in this house,
until Christmas...

and then you took it
to the Jumble Sale?

No, it wasn't
the Christmas sale.

It was the one before that.
Harvest Festival.

The Harvest Festival?

So when is that...
September, October?

The end of September.

Are you sure you took it to
the Jumble Sale in September...

and not at Christmas?

Yes.

Why are you really
here in Broadhinny?

To inquire into the death
of Mrs. McGinty.

Nonsense. It's absurd.

No one believes that
for a moment.

She was a char!

Look, I know what
you're actually after.

And it's not true.
None of it's true.

He wouldn't.
I just know.

Madame...

And you, a professional...
a so-called professional...

I would have thought it
beneath your dignity...

to come down here
and hound a man!

To harry him like a dog,
like a beagle, it's, it's...

Madame...

Those letters
were written by cowards!

Cowards and liars!
Traitors! Filth!

Don't you believe a word.

Madame!

It is not glamorous.
It is not fashionable.

It's cheap.

Sven Hjerson is a vegetarian.

Sven Hjerson has always
been a vegetarian.

He's got a little machine
for chopping carrots.

Yes, yes, Ariadne,
precious, yes, but why?

I don't know why I ever
thought of the revolting man.

I must have been mad!
These things just happen.

You try something and people
seem to like it...

and then you go on... and before
you know where you are...

you've got someone like
that maddening Sven Hjerson...

tied to you for life.

Shouldn't you spend some time
on casting, Robin?

- Hmm?
- Didn't you think...

Cecil Leech was a good idea?

Oh, that is very shrewd, Madre.

You know, Cecil Leech
could do it.

Now, why don't we motor over
to Kilchester tonight?

He's in my touring production
at the Rep.

To London, if you please.
Express.

Ooh. Scotland Yard.
Fancy.

Mademoiselle Sweetiman,
from your accent...

I suspect that you are
not from these parts.

No, I'm a blow-in.

May I ask, where the wind
it has blown you from?

I grew up abroad.
Never mind where.

Hello, Joe.

Monsieur.

Oh, Madre, I'm so sorry.

I just don't want you
to feel lonely, that's all.

Look, we can cancel it.

You'll do no such thing.
Go out and have a lovely time.

You'll enjoy it, Mrs. Oliver.

If I'm lonely, I'll ring up
one of the neighbors.

- Well, if you're sure.
- Of course I'm sure.

Good night, sweetheart.

- Good night.
- Good night.

Damn. Hang on a minute.

Sorry, darling.
Almost forgot your coffee.

Now, are you sure you're
gonna be all right, precious?

I'll be fine.

I've something for you.

Something that might
help the investigation.

Mrs. Carpenter.

Eve Carpenter used to be
an exotic dancer...

at the Cactus Club in Soho.

How do you know this?

I've been scouting around.

And?

She's still got
the publicity stills.

Pretty audacious, actually.

Mademoiselle, are you
telling to me...

that you have
broken and entered?

Certainly not.

I was conducting a survey
for the Estate Agents' Guild.

I simply ask the burghers
of Broadhinny...

if I might peep inside
their lovely homes.

They invariably give me a tour.

I also noticed something
at Dr. Rendell's house.

His wife was...

Dinner!

Well, that was incredibly
well received, wasn't it?

You know, I think that Cecil is
going to be just perfect for us.

Look, let me sign your program.

Oh, that would be
so kind of you.

Pleasure. There you are.

Marvelous.

I'll just put the car away.

Jolly good.

We're home, Mrs. Upward.

It was terribly sad.

But he's ever so talented,
I suppose.

I'm going to bed.

Mrs. Upward?

Neat, quick, efficient.

The Thuggees did it
that way in India.

Victim doesn't cry out
or struggle.

Pressure on the carotid artery.

I wager it was someone she knew.
They had a coffee together.

There are no prints on the cup,
but there's lipstick... look.

And there was
a strong smell of scent.

Very expensive scent.

You say Mrs. Upward recognized
one of your photographs?

So many think of m*rder
as a game.

It is not a game.

I told this to her,
but she would not listen.

Come in, Mrs. Summerhayes.
I think you know these people?

Yes.

So?

I was here.
Last night.

At what time?

I don't know.
She telephoned me.

She was lonely.

Well, she spoke
to Johnnie, actually.

Hello.

Come and have coffee, she said.

Well, Johnnie was working
as usual...

and their coffee's a lot better
than ours, so...

So you had coffee with her?

I rang the bell.

- Mrs. Upward? Hello?
- But nobody answered.

I called out,
but there was no answer.

You've hit the bull's eye
with that sugar-hammer thing.

People don't realize that even
a microscopic amount of blood...

will show up
under analysis nowadays.

And it fits the head-wound
rather snugly.

Please to have a look
at this, Superintendent.

"Marine Life of
the Great Barrier Reef."

It has some illustrations
that are splendid.

But please to take a look
at the flyleaf.

Evelyn Hope.

Eva Kane.

But how did you?

The Great Barrier Reef, mon ami,
it is situated where?

Australia.
Mrs. Upward.

You have not told to me, madame,
about your visit to Kilchester.

It was like going to see
his family.

He's more at home in the theater
than he is at home.

And yet he has feelings
so strong for his mother...

and cares for her so diligently.

So perhaps he made to her
the telephone call that evening?

To his mother?
Oh, yes, absolutely.

Indeed?
At what time?

About 7: 15, I suppose.

Just before we got
to the theater.

And how was Madame Upward?

Then, oh, she was fine.

You know, it's not very nice
to discover a body.

No.

I shall have to write a lot less
screaming in future.

They'll hang me eventually.
They're keen.

Your friends work hard for you.

What friends?

Maude Williams.

What's it got to do with her?

She is convinced
that you are not guilty.

Ma foi, is it a crime
to like a pretty girl?

Tell to me!

We went for a walk
together once.

It was nice.
She's nice.

I liked her hair.
She had lovely, dark hair.

And her clothes.

Mother's were old-fashioned,
but hers were nice.

And she's kind.

She came to Broadhinny?

Yes. On Estate Agent business.

And you took her to
the pictures, or perhaps a meal?

No. No, sir, I didn't
have any money.

We just walked.
Bumped into that writer chap.

Maude said I should talk to him
about my poems.

Poems?

Yeah, I write
these little poems.

She asked him for his autograph.
She said he was famous.

Robin Upward?

That's him. Yeah.

Maude said I could be famous
one day if I stick at it.

And this was just a little while
before Mrs. McGinty was k*lled?

Yeah, it was on the Monday.
She d*ed on Wednesday.

I wish to ask you something
else, Monsieur Bentley.

Mrs. McGinty, she took
the Sunday "Comet."

That's right.

Did you ever read
her Sunday "Comet"?

No. I was brought up
to believe it was trash.

So you did not see it that week?

No.

And Mrs. McGinty,
did she speak of...

anything that she read
that Sunday?

Oh, she did!
Yeah, she was full of it!

She went on and on!

All right, now,
this is very important...

so please to be careful.

What did she say?

It was about some
ancient m*rder case.

Craig? Maybe not.
Conway? I can't recall.

She said someone
connected with it...

is living in Broadhinny now.

Did she say who?

Well, it was
his mother, wasn't it?

Whose?

The chap we were
just talking about.

The writer chap.

Madame Upward?

Yeah, yeah.
I think so.

Or was it someone else?
I wasn't really listening.

It is disheartening
to reflect, monsieur...

that if you are hanged,
it is because...

you do not pay
the proper attention...

to the people
with whom you converse.

I don't want to be hanged, sir.
I haven't done anything.

It's my mind, it wanders, right?
Just do what you can, please?

Why, Superintendent,
should a woman keep...

a photograph of herself
when she is young?

Vanity?

Oui. So she has been
a pretty girl...

so she keeps a photograph
of herself...

to remind her what a pretty girl
she used to be.

When the mirror, it says to her
things most distressing.

If Eve Carpenter
or Shelagh Rendell...

both women who are
most attractive...

had a photograph such as this...

I think they would tear it
into pieces very quickly...

for fear someone should see it!

Non. Your reason of vanity
we may discount.

Let us take
another reason: sentiment.

The memory of someone you love.

Did anybody love Lily Gamboll
at that age?

Surely the whole point
about Lily Gamboll...

is that she was a child
that was not loved...

this child of the slums.

So I conclude...
It was not sentiment, either.

Look here, Poirot,
what you're saying is...

that nobody would have
kept that photo.

Exactement, mon ami.

But someone did.

Mrs. Upward admitted
she'd seen it.

But had she?

Dash it all, Poirot,
you said she had.

Yes, but I believe
that she was lying.

She noticed
the photograph, yes...

but she pointed to the other one
for to create a screen of smoke.

Why? Was she being blackmailed?
She was a wealthy woman.

Madame Upward
has seen something.

She intends contacting
the person concerned...

at the first opportunity.

And the first opportunity
was when Robin Upward...

went to the theater.

Hercule Poirot?

I shall be there
first thing tomorrow.

I know I shouldn't, but I do.
He's just too persuasive.

He asks me, and I can't say no.

Mademoiselle Sweetiman,
it is vital...

that you tell to Poirot
who he is.

Joe. Joe Burch.

The husband of the niece
of Mrs. McGinty?

And you have met him
on the night of the m*rder?

I saw someone...

going in to Laburnums.

I think it was a woman.

Sorry I'm late, sweetheart.

The Major said
I had to tell you.

Monsieur Upward, your play,
it goes well?

Well, no, to be honest.

I was just having
a little break.

But I must persist.

I feel it's what poor old Madre
would have wanted.

By the way, I hope my typing's
not too noisy for you.

- Pardon?
- My typing.

I hope it's not too noisy.

Non, non, non.

I can't stay at Laburnums
on my own.

Where is it?

What is it you look for, madame?

The Ministry of Agriculture form
about the bloody pig.

Got it!

Madame Rendell.

S'il vous plaît, madame,
may I ask of you something?

Did Madame Upward telephone
to you on the day of her death?

Yes.

At what time?

Mrs. Scott, the housekeeper,
took the message.

Ask her.

And what was the message?

Was it perhaps to ask you
to go there that evening?

Yes. But I'm ashamed to say
I took my medication...

and I fell asleep after dinner.

When I awoke, it was too late,
it was dark.

I should have gone.

Merci, madame.

Doesn't this take
the pressure off James?

He can't have k*lled Mrs. Upward.
He's in prison.

What is it that
you want, mademoiselle?

I believe in James Bentley.
He is a troubled soul...

but I believe he can
do great things.

I want to clear his name.

Tell to me what you discovered
at the house of Dr. Rendell.

On reflection,
it may have been nothing...

but his wife was
burning letters.

There was a pile of letters...

in the grate in her
sitting-room, still smoldering.

Now, what might she be up to?

She hardly looks the type
to be having an affair.

Does the name Evelyn Hope
mean anything to you?

Evelyn Hope?

I see you know the name.

Why, yes.

It was the name Eva Whatsername
took when she went to Australia.

It was in the paper.
The Sunday "Comet."

The Sunday "Comet"
said many things, mademoiselle.

It did not say that.

Evelyn Hope is a name
that I discovered...

in a book at the house
of Madame Upward.

- What?
- Why did you want...

the autograph of Robin Upward?

Why did you come to this part
of the world in the first place?

How did you know Eva Kane
went to Australia?

Sorry. I've got to go.

Where to, mademoiselle?

I've got to go.
I'm sorry. Goodbye.

Mademoiselle?

I'll pay you whatever you want.

You're a private investigator,
aren't you?

I'll pay you whatever you ask.
Get the police off my back.

They think I k*lled
the Upward woman.

And did you, madame?

No! I was at home,
listening to the radio.

Guy was at a meeting.

Croft took the message
from Mrs. Upward...

asking me to go down
and see her.

- Did you go?
- Why the hell should I?

Damned dreary old woman.

Thought she was
a bloody movie star.

Why do you not wear
your spectacles, madame?

Oh, I do sometimes.
I had to as a child.

Also, the plate for the teeth?

Yes. I was a sad, little thing.

I am sure your mother,
she did not think so.

I couldn't tell you.
She left pretty sharpish.

What the hell are we
talking about, anyway?

Will you take the job?

Je regrette que non, madame.

A question of money, is it?
How much?

That is your great mistake,
madame.

To think always in terms
of the question of money.

Scissors.

Ah.

I've been
making inquiries in Dublin.

There's a woman called
Lily Brogan...

serving life in Mountjoy Gaol...

for chopping up her spouse
with a meat cleaver.

She's the right age.

She wears thick glasses,
has a vile temper...

and is said to have originally
come from Wimbledon.

Hardly conclusive.

Fixed.

So, this woman in Dublin,
she could be Lily Gamboll?

Yes, which leaves us
with Evelyn Hope...

formerly Eva Kane...

who reportedly d*ed in Australia
20 years ago.

Eva Kane was the governess to
the Craig family, n'est-ce pas?

Yes.

And where there is a governess,
il y a des enfants.

The children.

Yes. 2.

They went to live with relatives...
when their mother was k*lled.

Wait one little minute.

Confirm for me this,
mon cher Spence:

Eva Kane leaves the country
before Craig...

he is ex*cuted, c'est vrai?

- Yes.
- And at this time...

she is expecting a child?

Yes, like it said in the paper.

Mon Dieu, how stupid is Poirot!

Do you know, mon ami,
what is a secret Polichinelle?

I don't speak foreign, Poirot.

Ah. Then quickly,
Superintendent!

Into the car! Vite!

Mesdames et messieurs, I will
not make for you the history...

that is long and complicated.

But it is necessary
that I should start...

at the very beginning.

Mrs. Abigail McGinty.

A woman who was
simple, hardworking.

Down on her knees,
scrubbing your floors.

Alas, Mrs. McGinty,
she is k*lled...

and a young man, James Bentley,
he is tried and convicted.

But, my dear friends...

Superintendent Spence
from Scotland Yard...

had doubts that Bentley
was truly guilty.

And so he approached me,
Hercule Poirot...

...to confirm his suspicions,
or not, as the case may be.

And so the first question
for Poirot to ask...

it is this: why did
Mrs. McGinty die?

By now you know
about the photograph...

that was published
in the Sunday "Comet," oui?

Bon. Well, Mrs. McGinty
has recognized...

one of those photographs.

In fact, James Bentley
told me so himself...

...that she saw this photograph
at the house of Madame Upward.

But when I produced
my 2 photographs...

- Voilà.
- at her house that night...

...Madame Upward pointed
to the photograph...

of the child k*ller...
Lily Gamboll.

But Madame Upward pointed
to the wrong photograph...

quite deliberately to shake me
from the scent.

But one person was not deceived.

The m*rder*r.

And here I will not
b*at around the shrubbery.

The photograph that
Madame Upward recognized...

was the other one...
that of Eva Kane...

the accomplice
in the Craig m*rder case.

In the following evening,
Madame Upward, she is k*lled.

But before she d*ed, 3 women
received the telephone calls.

Madame Eve Carpenter.
Madame Shelagh Rendell.

Madame Maureen Summerhayes.

We must now look to them.

Now, Madame Upward
made this call herself...

asking each of these women to
come and see her that evening.

Now, had these women
anything in common?

Nothing, it would seem,
except their age.

Each has the right age to be
the daughter of Eva Kane.

But when these summonses
were received...

what actually occurred?

Madame Summerhayes
went to the Laburnums.

Mrs. Upward!

She could not...

make herself heard,
and so she departed.

Madame Carpenter
and Madame Rendell...

for different reasons,
they did not go.

And yet there were traces of
lipstick on a cup on the table.

There is also another witness,
who shall remain incognito...

who saw a woman walking up
to Laburnums.

Et aussi, we have the evidence
of a scent:

scent that is strong,
exotique, expensive.

And exactly the same
as is used by you...

Madame Carpenter.

I never went near the place!
Guy! Do something!

We know already
certain things...

about your wife's past, monsieur...
things that she would rather keep hidden.

You bastard!
Perhaps she has further secrets?

Let me inform you, Poirot...
we have laws of slander in this country.

Is it a slander, monsieur,
to say that your wife...

wears a certain lipstick
or uses a certain perfume?

You utter bastard!
This is ridiculous!

Anyone could go
splashing my perfume about!

Exactement!

Anyone could.

And someone did.

Clumsy and crude.
But it made me to think.

Scent, lipstick on a cup.

But surely lipstick,
it can be removed very easily.

Every trace.
But it was not!

Why not?

And it seemed to me
that there was...

an emphasis most deliberate
on femininity...

an underlining of the fact
that it was a woman...

who committed the m*rder.

So, Poirot, of course he begins
to suspect that it was not.

The telephone calls
that these women received...

they were only messages.

None of them actually
spoke to Madame Upward herself.

She communicated with
Monsieur Croft, your butler...

...Madame Scott,
your housekeeper...

...and of course with you, sir.

Major Summerhayes.

What did she say
to you, in fact?

Hello?

She said ask Maureen to pop
'round for coffee, if you would.

Just so?

Just so.
What are you implying?

No, nothing, monsieur.

It's just that did she
sound to you normal?

Was she under any stress?

I wasn't really listening,
damn it.

I put the receiver down
and called for my wife.

I was hard at work on my book.

But I suppose her voice
sounded strained.

Do you think someone
forced her to do it?

I only know, monsieur,
that someone was most anxious

to involve a woman... any woman.

I ask myself, why?

And the only answer,
it seemed to me, could be this:

that it was not a woman who
k*lled Madame Upward, but a man.

And so we arrive to here:
a man k*lled Madame Upward...

and from the evidence
that we now have...

it is conclusive that the same
man k*lled Mrs. McGinty.

But what kind of man?

A man they knew?

A man to whom
they would open the door?

A man who would, how you say,
"pop around"...

by foot, by car, by bicycle?

Both of these murders
hinge on a photograph.

And after the second m*rder...

...I'm sure you will all
agree with me...

that the very presence of this
photograph for the m*rder*r...

it is very dangerous.

It should be destroyed?

But it was not.

How do I know this?

I discovered this photograph
only yesterday...

in a drawer in this room.

Eva Kane.

And on the reverse...

"My mother."

I don't understand.
I never saw...

You told to us
that you were adopted.

You never knew your parents.

But someone did, someone knew,
someone discovered.

Someone has all
the ancestral pride...

of the family...

and someone who, rather than
let the world know...

that his wife was the daughter
of Eva Kane...

would rather die or,
in this case, would rather k*ll.

Now, look here,
you filthy swine...

I've just about had enough!

Anyone can put a photo
in a drawer!

You're quite potty.

I've never seen that picture
before in my life.

Except at the Upwards'
that night.

Who's that awful child?

You are fortunate, madame,
that Poirot knows...

he is telling the truth.

Because this photograph, it had
been placed in this drawer...

only a little while
before I found it.

How do I know this? Because I replaced...
the contents of this drawer earlier...

and it was not there then.

So it must have been placed
there during that interval.

And so both crimes
were committed by a man.

And for the simplest
of reasons: money.

In a flyleaf of a book that
I discovered at Madame Upward...

is the name written Evelyn Hope.

Now, Hope was the name
given to Eva Kane...

when she left England
to go to Australia.

But if her real name was Evelyn,

then it is quite natural
to suspect...

that she would give this name
to her child.

After all, Evelyn is a name
that can be given...

to a man as well as to a woman.

But why did we suspect
that the child of Eva Kane...

was a girl?

Because the Sunday "Comet,"
it told us so.

In an article written by
Mademoiselle Pamela Horsfall.

But, mes amis, this article,
it was a work of fiction.

How could Pamela Horsfall
possibly know...

the sex of a child
that was unborn?

Accurate? Heck, who knows?

Non!

Evelyn Hope was
the son of Eva Kane.

He left Australia,
came to England, found work.

He attracts the attention
of a widow who is rich, lonely.

And little by little,
she grows to adore him.

He changes his name to hers
by deed poll...

and they come to Broadhinny.

But your real name, monsieur,

it is Evelyn Hope...

...n'est-ce pas?

What are you talking about?

The name Evelyn Hope,
that I discovered...

in the flyleaf
of the book, monsieur...

it is in your handwriting...

...as are the words
"My mother"...

...on the back
of this photograph.

And it was this photograph
that Mrs. McGinty found...

when she was tidying your room.

She assumed that
it was a photograph...

of Laura Upward
when she was young.

She could have no idea
that Madame Upward...

was not your real mother...

but your real mother, monsieur,
it was Eva Kane!

And you know that
if your Madre, she knows...

she would throw you out.

Out on your own,
to fend for yourself.

It is not easy to make a living
as a playwright, eh, monsieur...

without the help
of a generous banker?

So Mrs. McGinty,
she is silenced.

You ridiculous, little man!

Where do you get
these absurd ideas from?

I will tell it to you.

You know, from the beginning,
I thought that there was...

something unnatural
at the Laburnums.

Your attitude
to Laura Upward, monsieur...

it was not the attitude
of a son to a mother.

It was rather the attitude
of a protégé to a patronne.

And Laura Upward,
even though she adores you...

she treats you
as an object of luxury...

for which she has
bought and paid.

Oh, but all goes well
for Robin Upward.

Soudainement, here is
the successful playwright!

Until comes along the McGinty.

What are you to do?

You steal the sugar hammer
from the Summerhayes.

You can steal anything
from the Summerhayes.

You drive your car
to her cottage.

And Mrs. McGinty, she is
expecting le petit cadeau, eh?

The little present,
perhaps even the pay-off.

Instead, you smash in her skull.

Next, you fake a burglary.

You mean Monsieur James Bentley
to be fingered.

You met him
only a few days before.

You found him to be a man
of little intelligence...

so he will discover the body.

He will panic.
He will incriminate himself.

Et voilà!... He does.
He is tried and convicted.

And all goes well until
I produce my 2 photographs...

at the house that night.

And at that very moment,
you know that...

your "Madre," she knows.

And so you prepare
your mise en scene.

Damn. Hang on a minute.

You leave Madame Oliver...
sitting in the car.

Almost forgot your coffee.

Now, are you sure you're
gonna be all right, precious?

I'll be fine.

Oh!

And you k*ll her!

And the m*rder, it takes
a matter of seconds.

And now to make it look
as though...

a woman committed the crime.

You smear the cup
with lipstick...

lipstick that you had taken from
the handbag of Madame Carpenter.

You even brought along a bottle
of her scent most favorite.

Now for the final act
of incriminating a woman...

...you make a telephone call
to your mother...

on your way to the theater
with Madame Oliver.

From Kilchester.
Is that not right?

Yes! Yes, I did,
and she was fine.

Now, that is enough!

I shall certainly be contacting
my lawyers immediately.

This lawyer had better
be an expert, monsieur.

Because you did not
telephone to your mother.

Because at that time, Laura Upward...
she was already dead.

Oh, you made
the telephone call, yes.

But you made the telephone call
to 3 women.

Madame Eve Carpenter,
Madame Shelagh Rendell...

and Madame Maureen Summerhayes.

You employed all the skills of
the actor that you once were!

Hello. This is Laura Upward.

I wonder, would you please
give Mrs. Rendell a message?

And now you wanted to place
any one of these 3 women...

at the scene of the crime.

And once you had
discovered that...

Maureen Summerhayes,
she had been there...

it was then that
you conceived the idea...

of placing this photograph
amongst her possessions.

After all,
the sugar hammer was hers...

and because
she had been adopted...

she would find it
very difficult to prove...

that she was not
the child of Eva Kane.

But you forgot to observe
one little fact, monsieur.

The fact that
Madame Maureen Summerhayes...

never, at any time,
wears the lipstick.

Is that not so, madame?

No. I never wear lipstick.

You see, monsieur,
when I tidied the drawer...

I knew that the person who had
placed this photograph there...

was typing above my head.

And then I remembered what you
said to Maureen Summerhayes...

when she admitted to being
adopted that night.

Just be thankful someone
took you in, darling.

It's cold out there.

And then I remembered...

the title of your play
as told to me by Madame Oliver.

"Abandoned."

And then I knew that you,
Monsieur Robin Upward...

or rather
Monsieur Evelyn Hope...

you were also adopted.

Is that not so?
Is that not so?

Yes.

Don't look at me.

Please!

Don't look at me.

Hello, there!

I'm not late, am I?
We said 4:00, didn't we?

I believe we said 3:00, madame.

Oh, well, never mind.
So, it was Robin Upward.

Whilst I was sitting in the car.
I must confess I'm astonished.

I was certain it was the Doctor.
Or Joe Burch.

I am afraid, madame,
that your female intuition...

it has taken the day off.

Nonsense. My mind was
on other things, that's all.

But I am so sorry
that your play...

it will not now be written.

You can be sorry
if you like, Poirot.

Personally, I'm overjoyed.

Now, hop in...
I'll take you back to London.

Oh. I'll just move these.
Give you some room.

So, who was it who tried
to push you under a train?

Robin Upward?

Non, non, non, non, non.
Let me explain it to you.

Over a period of years
in the town of Stoke on Trent...

a number of people
who are terminally ill...

are assisted in their suicides
by taking dr*gs...

that are prescribed
by a local doctor.

A crime?
A mercy k*lling?

Dr. Rendell?

Oui. D'accord.

Enfin, the gossips, they begin
to write letters of malice.

But I could not
find any evidence...

that the doctor
benefited financially.

But the tongues, they will flap,
n'est-ce pas?

The doctor has a wife
with a neurosis...

so they have begun a new life
in Broadhinny...

Et tout va bien.

Until comes along the meddling,
little Belgian.

Oui, c'est moi.

But Poirot, you know,
he is immortal.

And what is more,
he knows everything.

Par example, he knows it was you
that night at Laburnums.

You were the girl.

And Poirot, he also knows
your real name.

It is Craig.
N'est-ce pas?

And Eva Kane was your governess?

She k*lled my mother.

I went there that night
to take my revenge.

I was going to k*ll her,
but she was already dead.

And now... I know it wasn't her
after all.

Thank God
I didn't pull the trigger.

So, do you intend to charge me
or something?

It is time to go.

So go.

Bon chance!

Whitehaven Mansions,
if you please.