11x03 - Third Girl

[bunniefuu]

NORMA: I must see him now.
Please.

A young lady has called, sir.

I do not see people
at this hour, George. Non.

No, sir.

Does she give a reason
for wishing to see me?

She says Mrs. Oliver
recommended you, sir.

It's about a m*rder
she might have committed.

Might have committed?
You mean she does not know?

This is not
very satisfactory, George.

But on the other hand,
it might be interesting.

Help me to dress,
s'il vous plaît.

Merci.

Moment.

Bon.

This way, miss.

Bonjour, mademoiselle.

I hear you are acquainted
with Mme. Oliver.

You wish to see me?

Sit down, I pray of you.

You're Hercule Poirot?

- Assuredly.
- The famous detective?

Well, some people
have heard my name, oui.

Now, how may I help you,
mademoiselle?

My manservant mentioned a m*rder
that you might have committed?

- You find me amusing?
- No, not at all, mademoiselle.

But surely it is normal to know

if one has committed a m*rder
or not.

But I'm not normal.
Can't you see that?

I see only what is before me,
mademoiselle...

a young lady who is anxious.

So would you like to tell me about
this m*rder that you imagine you...

It was a mistake to come here.
I thought you might understand.

I thought you might be able
to save me.

Save you? But save you
from what, mademoiselle?

Nothing. It doesn't matter now.
It's done.

And besides...

You're too old.

OLIVER: Too old?

How hurtful.

No, no, no.
Not at all, madame.

Girls are like that.

Anyone over 35
they think is half-dead.

They've no sense, girls.
You must realize that.

But why did you suggest
that she visit me?

She seemed to think
there'd been a m*rder.

Where was this?

- The m*rder?
- No, no. The conversation.

It was here. In the lift.

She was completely distraught

and in need
of a sympathetic ear.

What, so this morning
you meet in this lift

this girl who is a stranger,
and immediately, what,

she confesses to a m*rder?

Yes. Does sound like the plot of
one of my novels, doesn't it?

But you see, M. Poirot,
I'd met her before.

Last night, in fact, at a party.
Upstairs in their flat.

- She was the third girl.
- The "third girl"?

Well, you know
how it is these days.

One girl takes a lease
on a flat,

her friend joins her
in second-best bedroom,

paying a little less rent.

Then they have to find somebody
for the room that's left.

The third girl. That was her.

Uh-huh. The third girl.

Tell to me more
about this party.

Well, they were making
such a terrible racket.

Totally impossible to work.
So I decided to join them.

It was a party to celebrate
the first girl's birthday.

She's secretary
to some businessman or other.

Claudia Reece-Holland.

Very pretty. Very efficient.

Just the sort of girl you need
for a tricky job.

The second girl
was Frances something or other.

Very arty.
Works as an actress.

She seemed nice enough,
if a little artificial.

And then there was
the third girl,

looking somewhat left out,
as if she didn't quite fit in.

In fact,
the only time she came to life

was when the peacock arrived.

Madame, what is this peacock?

Yes, the peacock.

Well, at least
that's what he reminded me of.

He's a painter. David Baker.

Very flamboyant, quite effete...
though he was making eyes at the third girl

from the moment he arrived.

And this third girl...
How does she call herself?

Norma Restarick.

I see, so this morning you meet this Mlle.

Norma Restarick in the lift
and she confesses to a m*rder.

Tell me, madame,
who has been m*rder*d?

Well, she didn't say.

She seemed confused and upset.

So I suggested she pop over to
Whitehaven Mansions and see you.

Chère madame,
do you know of any m*rder

that has taken place recently?

In this building of apartments,
peut-être?

I rather think I'd have noticed
a m*rder, M. Poirot.

Don't you?

Ah. Inspector Nelson arrives.

Perhaps we have our m*rder,
madame.

Constable, will you tell
the Inspector Nelson

that Hercule Poirot is here?

- Yes, sir.
- Merci.

Poirot. Might have guessed
you'd turn up.

Inspector Nelson.

Took her own life, clearly.

Ah.

That is certainly
the impression.

Who was the unfortunate lady?

NELSON: Lavinia Seagram.

According to the concierge
who found her,

she'd lived here for many years.

Kept herself to herself.
Very few visitors.

Drank a lot.

A very unhappy woman.

Now, tell me...
What are you doing here?

Uh, merely rendering a visit
to a friend.

A life so sad, hein?

As was her death.

Did she leave a note of su1c1de?

It appears not.

And will you permit
that I examine for myself

her apartment?

For what reason?

Curiosity only.

Curiosity, eh?

Well, if you must.

Merci.
Oh, one other thing, Inspector.

Did the concierge know anything
more about Mlle. Seagram?

For instance,
from where did she originate

or how did she live
before she came here?

Only that she used to work
as a nanny.

Ah. Merci.

"Crosshedges, Long Basing.
1917.

The last happy summer.

A.J. Battersby."

Nanny Seagram,
Mary, and Mlle. Norma.

There is the connection.

And Mary?

The mother, perhaps?

"The last happy summer."

I feel that there is here
something strange.

FRANCES: [ Echoing ] Norma?

What are you doing in there?

Norma?

Can I come in?

Norma?

Would you like me
to come and sit with you?

NORMA: No.
I'd like to be alone.

But, unfortunately,
we are stuck with you.

She's in such a state.

She keeps muttering something
about blood.

Good Lord.

Poor Nanny.

CLAUDIA: Hello, Andrew.

Come through
to the drawing room.

ANDREW: Thank you, Claudia.

Frances, this is Norma's father,
Andrew Restarick.

How do you do, Frances?

Claudia says you've been
very kind to my daughter.

I'm grateful.

She's in her room, you say?

There's something troubling her
very deeply.

She keeps talking about
dead people and blood.

One of your neighbors,
Nanny Seagram,

has k*lled herself.

What?

Police informed me. I've
just come from her apartment.

Perhaps Norma's
already found out.

k*lled herself? Her old nanny?

Well, no wonder
she's behaving as she is.

Poor Norma.

Yes. Poor Norma.

The police are quite certain
it was su1c1de?

Yeah, they seem to think so.

Nanny Seagram
was not a happy woman.

- Better talk to her.
- Mm.

I was there.

I k*lled her.

You haven't said this
to anyone else, have you?

I said something
to Mrs. Oliver, I think,

and to an old man I met.

- But no one believes me.
- Because it's not true.

Look, I think I can help you.

There are places
where you can get help

for these morbid thoughts.

An asylum, you mean?

Why on earth
would you k*ll Nanny?

Why?

And what do you mean,
you were there?

Her wrists were cut open.

I had a Kn*fe in my hand.

So, what are you going to do?

I want to help you.

Oh, please let me.

I'm so sorry for
all the mistakes I've made.

I don't need your help.

I don't need anybody's help.

Norma.

David.
What are you doing here?

I came to see you.

Thought you might like
to go for a walk.

What's troubling you?

I think I'm losing my mind.

You can tell me anything, Norma.

Yes? Can I help you?

Yes. I'm Ariadne Oliver.

The... The novelist.

Sorry, we don't buy or sell
anything at the door.

I was a guest at Claudia's party
the other night.

You're the woman who's always
complaining about the noise.

Only when you're dancing.

I-I live directly below,
you see?

I think that's why Claudia
invited me.

I was hoping
to have a word with Norma...

Norma Restarick.

So, you see,
Norma and I were having

a marvelous conversation
about modern fiction,

and she so sweetly said

she'd like to read
one of my poor efforts.

So I promised to pop one 'round.

Mm. And here you are.
Popping it 'round.

Mm.

So you're the first girl
and you're the second.

Are you old friends?

No. I answered Claudia's
advertisement in rooms to let.

And Norma?

Why are you so interested
in Norma, Mrs. Oliver?

She seemed troubled
about something.

Do you know her well?

Norma's father is my boss...
Andrew Restarick.

Ah. So that's how Norma happened
to take a room here.

He wanted you to keep
a kind eye on her, I suppose.

I suppose.

Anyway, I'll make sure
the book gets to her.

So you have no idea
where she is?

FRANCES:
Norma walks the streets a lot.

She's a very...
introspective girl.

She has a great-uncle
she's fond of.

Perhaps she's gone to visit him
in the country.

No. Apparently Norma doesn't go
to Crosshedges anymore.

Her dear old, doddery
great-uncle has a new friend,

which of course means that Norma

is no longer
the center of attention.

Was that everything?

Is there any more tea?

The last happy summer.

- Oh!
- Oh!

- Excusez-moi.
- Ah.

Hercule Poirot.

The famous detective.

She was right.
You are too old.

And you are?

Baker. David Baker.

Ah, M. Baker.

You are an acquaintance of
Mlle. Restarick, are you not?

You could say that.

You're working for her father,
I suppose?

- You do not like him?
- I've never met him.

MAID: Your visitor, sir.

Merci.

Hello.
Are you the chap from Belgium?

Hercule Poirot.

Are you?

Sir Roderick,
what a great pleasure it is

to see you
after all these years!

Oh, yes, indeed. Yes, indeed.

How long...
How long would you say?

Your letter wasn't specific.

Ah. I feared that
you might have forgotten me.

But it is not to worry.

I merely happened to be in
the vicinity of Crosshedges...

Forgotten you?
Not at all, dear chap.

Not at all. Sit... Sit down.

Merci.

- We met in France, you say?
- Oui.

In Normandy,
during the Great w*r.

Ah, what decisions
we had to make, hein?

You yourself. Colonel Race.

General Abercromby.

And you... you were
the little Frenchy!

I was the little Belgian.

Oh, yes. Of course, of course.

Those were the days,
eh, Pierrot?

Do you ever see old Abercromby?

Here and there. Oui.
From time to time.

Tell me, Sir Roderick...

I could not help but notice
in the hallway by the stairs

a portrait so fine.

Oh, yes. Lots of those.

This was a portrait
of a woman so beautiful.

And it seemed to me that there
must have been at one time

a companion piece
hanging by its side?

Once upon a time. Not anymore.

Mary couldn't stand
the sight of it.

Mary was my favorite niece.

Her husband, Andrew,
ran out on her.

Must be 20 years now.

Mary took it badly.

Destroyed everything of hers
that reminded her of him,

including that damn portrait.

He's back now
and full of regrets.

"Hell is the truth
learned too late."

Tell me, Sir Roderick,
the husband...

Does he live here still?

Andrew?
No, no. He lives in London.

Although he came to see me
a couple of nights ago.

Yeah, stayed all evening.

Keeping me company, he said,

while my secretary
was in London.

Couldn't get rid
of the damn chap.

Did they have children?

One. Norma.

And the mother?

Mary Restarick has been dead
for many years.

Oh, Sonia!

This is my secretary, Sonia.

My eyes. And my companion.

Enchanté, mademoiselle.

Hercule Poirot.

Yes, I guessed as much.
I read your letter.

Ah.

I'm afraid Sir Roderick
tires easily.

He doesn't
normally see visitors.

Ah. Je suis désolé.

I will detain
no longer of his time.

I'll show you out.

- No, no, no. There is no need.
- I insist.

Madame Restarick was a woman
most striking, no?

Evidently.

May I ask how did she die?

I'm told she d*ed suddenly.

How sad.

But her daughter comes to visit
her granduncle, non?

Norma doesn't come here anymore.

But for what reason?

I have no idea.

Nobody ever comes here
unless they have good cause.

- Merci.
- Sir.

Well, what did
you find out at Crosshedges?

Nothing.

How dreadfully dull.

Not at all!

The fact
that Poirot discovered nothing

means that there is a great deal
that is being concealed.

What did you find out?

Well...

The first girl told me

Norma has had a falling out
with her great-uncle.

Something about
a new friend he has.

Ah. That I can understand.

And the second girl?

She spoke more warmly
about Norma.

Frances Cary.
The bohemian one.

Oui.

No idea how to make
a cup of tea.

Where was the girl brought up?

You were with Mlle. Restarick
all of the evening?

- At the party?
- Oui.

Uh, she went to her room
when the ice cream came out.

Hurrah!

Who would like ice cream?

Ice cream.
What a wonderful idea.

Excuse me.

I had a bowl, then left.
Didn't find anyone to talk to.

Nobody seemed
terribly interested

in the fate of the modern novel.

Not even the artist that you
mentioned, this David Baker?

Oh, he was far too busy for me.

He spent all evening
talking to Frances.

It struck me that they didn't
want to be overheard by anybody.

Oh, one more thing.
Claudia Reece-Holland.

She's secretary
to Andrew Restarick,

Norma's father.

Ah, well, then it seems
that I must make an appointment

to see this M. Restarick, no?

What can I do?

Nothing, madame.

- Nothing?
- No, nothing at all.

Just be careful, huh?

Where there is m*rder,
anything can happen.

m*rder? Who's been m*rder*d?

Well, Nanny Seagram, of course.

So you don't think
she took her own life?

No, no, no.

Not for one second.

RODERICK: Ohhh.

I decided to buy some new shoes.
Do you approve?

I like the leg.

So he was an old w*r comrade
of yours?

Who? The frog?
Never met him in me damn life.

Are you sure about that?

Told me he sees old Abercromby
from time to time.

Ha. Have to dig him up first.

I think he came to ask questions
about Norma and her mother.

Mm.
Two nosey parkers in one day.

You mean someone else
has been here?

Some arty type called Baker
came snooping around.

Asking questions about Norma.

And he was looking for, uh...
for photographs.

Seems that Andrew's commissioned
a portrait from him

to hang next to Mary's.

Oh, well. Perhaps it'll put
that ghost to rest.

I love family photographs.

No good to me anymore.

I let him take what he wanted.

Seemed a harmless enough chap.

Oh, Roddy,
you're such an innocent.

Doesn't it occur to you that
he might be after Norma's money?

You know, since my wife d*ed,

I've spent many a lonely night
in your company, Mrs. Oliver.

Oh, that last one
was a work of genius.

"Lady, Don't Fall Backwards."

Ah. That's funny.

I could have swore I locked that
when the police were done.

Thank you so much, Alf.
You're a dear.

I won't be long. I promise.

He, Poirot, may be content
to sit and do nothing.

I, Oliver, am not.

m*rder.

Fiddlesticks!

If a woman in one of my novels

wanted to hide a note
where it would be found...

...wanted to hide
a su1c1de note...

...where someone
was bound to look...

Where someone was bound to look.

Where someone was bound to...

Where would a woman consider...

...an obvious place...

...to look?

"To be given to the police
in the event of my death."

It's her.

It's the third girl.

Can I help you?

Un moment, s'il vous plaît.

I wonder if it might be possible

for me to see
a M. Andrew Restarick.

Hercule Poirot.

Take a seat.

Merci.

Ticket inspection.
All tickets, please.

Ticket inspection.
All tickets, please.

- I need to get off.
- I need to see your ticket.

- I'm tailing someone.
- Pardon, madam?

I said I'm tailing someone.

Not without a ticket you're not.

Yes, dear?

Bath bun
and a cup of coffee, please.

Sorry?

Bath bun
and a cup of coffee, please.

M. Hercule Poirot.

M. Restarick.

You're the chap
who called on Uncle Roddy,

pretending to know him
from the w*r.

Ah. I wondered
if he was just being polite.

And I am aware, of course, that
he does not care for visitors.

But not in your case, of course.

I'm a busy man, Poirot.
State your business.

I am come to talk with you

about the visit rendered to me
by your daughter.

- You've met Norma?
- Oh, yes indeed.

She asked me to save her.

Save her? From what?

Well, that I do not know.
Do you?

Hello.

I'm afraid I can't stay
very long.

I have somebody coming
to the studio. A portrait.

Oh, but I thought...

You said you had something
you were going to show me.

Norma...

I want you to stop worrying

about what happened
to Nanny Seagram.

What on earth makes you think
you could k*ll somebody?

Now, I know that you're
a rather wealthy young woman.

Which means you must be careful.

- Sir?
- Careful?

Sir?

I should go.

But you'll hear from me
again soon, Norma.

Trust nobody.

Not even me.

Waitress! Waitress!

My bill. Quickly.

My daughter, Norma, has
often needed psychiatric help

since her mother d*ed.

She can get
hysterical, melodramatic.

Fact is, it's all my fault.

Norma's mother, Mary,
also found life difficult.

I see. How sad.

Plain truth is I left my wife
when Norma was five.

I never wanted the life
you see me leading now.

I was always a traveler.
Itchy feet.

So one day I decided to start
a new life in Southern Africa.

That is a story most common, no?

But Mary never got over it.

She became
more and more disturbed.

And then one day...

...when Norma was seven...

on her seventh birthday,
in fact...

...my wife k*lled herself.

Sapristi.

On the birthday of her child?

Don't think she intended
to k*ll herself.

In fact, the letters I got
from old Nanny

made that pretty clear.

Think she intended
to be found and...

...saved.

Tell to me, monsieur,

who was it
who actually discovered

the body of your wife?

- Norma did.
- Oh.

Imagine the effect
that had on her.

Such an occurrence
would be distressing

to the mind of an adult.

But to that of a child...

May I ask, monsieur, what it was

that brought you back
to England?

A year ago my brother d*ed,
leaving no heirs.

I had to return from my travels,
take over the business.

So here I am.

Tied to a desk.

So until last year
you have not seen your daughter

since the funeral of your wife?

No, no. I was up-country
when that happened.

The letters
never reached me in time.

So you did not attend
the funeral?

No.

So the reunion with your
daughter, when it happened,

must have been full of emotion
for you both.

Do you have children,
Mr. Poirot?

Mais non.

Then you cannot possibly imagine
how painful it was.

Nothing's been right with her.

She's so full of rage.

An urgent call for M. Poirot.

For me?

Shall I put it through?

I'll let you be private.

Merci.

AIIô?

It is I, Poirot, who speaks.

It's Daphne from
The Merry Shamrock tearooms.

I think perhaps you have
the wrong number, hein?

Oh, Mrs. Oliver said
I was to speak only to you.

So your Mr. George
gave me this number.

I've tracked you down,
Mr. Porry.

I'm to tell you something
urgently.

Tell to me what?

"The third girl...

is in danger...

from the peacock."

Ah. The peacock.

And I was to tell you
that Mrs. Oliver

is now tailing the peacock
to his studio.

I understand.
Thank you very much.

Nothing serious I hope.

No, no, no, no, no.
Nothing serious at all.

I wish you good day, monsieur.

Mademoiselle.

Good day.

Is everything all right?

Have dinner with me tonight?

Excuse me.

Goodness.
I'm really not good at this.

- You're not, are you?
- Oh, goodness!

Oh, you startled me.

I had no idea you were there.

- You were following me.
- Yes. I'm afraid I was.

You see, I-I write books.
I write detective stories.

And I just got it into my head
to see what it would be like

to tail a real-live person
in real-live life.

And how was it?

- What?
- Tailing a real-live person.

Oh.
It's much harder than you think.

You're probably
frightfully angry.

But there's really no need.
I'll just toddle...

You were at the party,
weren't you?

Boring everybody stiff about
the decline of the modern novel.

And then you were
in the café, too.

Well, don't you want to see
where I was going?

Don't you want to follow me
all the way to the end?

Why not toddle up there, hmm?

Oh.

Thank you.

Come in. Don't be shy.

Welcome to my humble abode.

Oh. Is this yours?

"Girl Demanding an Abortion."

- What do you think?
- Oh, dear.

Ah. You're all ready.

Keen as ever, I see.

Mrs. Oliver.
Our paths cross again.

Miss Cary. I'm so sorry.

I didn't recognize you at first
without your...

Without any...

- Without my clothes on?
- Yes.

Completely naked.

Mrs. Oliver kindly came 'round
to the apartment

to leave a novel
for Norma to read.

Did she?

That was kind.

What a series of coincidences.

And there I was in the tearoom

when Norma and David
were having a cup of coffee.

Were you really?

Yes.
We were, as a matter of fact.

Extraordinary coincidence.

And then she decided to see what
it would be like in real life

to follow someone.

And of all the people in London,
she chose me.

Well, that's not quite how...

And how are you enjoying

your slice of real life,
Mrs. Oliver?

Do you know,
it's absolutely fascinating.

Well, I don't want to take up
any more of your time.

Can I offer you a drink?

Thank you so much,
but I don't drink.

Oh. The lady doesn't drink.
Who'd have thought it?

- Do you know where you are?
- Yes, yes. I'll be fine.

Oh, your paintings
are really very good.

Terribly impressive
draftsmanship.

Oh, and I like the title, too.

"Girl Demanding an Abortion."

I think the public will respond.

Right or left?

Yes, George?

The concierge finally answered
the telephone, sir.

He hasn't seen Mrs. Oliver
since earlier today

when she left Borodene Court.

She left in a great hurry,
he says.

Les femmes.

That will be Mme. Oliver now,
George.

Please to show her in.

GEORGE:
Come quickly, M. Poirot!

Can you save me?

Please.

M. Poirot.

Good morning, mademoiselle.

Am I in your apartment?

Oui. Bien sûr.

You know, my doctor gave to you
only the little sedative,

and you have slept
for 14 hours.

Who knows I'm here?

No other person,

except of course for my doctor
and mon valet, George.

You are quite safe,
Mlle. Restarick.

But why did you feel the need
to see me

about the m*rder
of Mlle. Seagram?

You believe me, then?

Nobody else wants to.

I have no doubt
that she was m*rder*d.

But tell to me, mademoiselle,

why do you feel
that it was you yourself

who m*rder*d Nanny Seagram?

Has anything of this nature
ever happened to you before?

No.

I'd like to leave now.

No, no, no.
I implore you to stay.

You came looking for my help.
That is what I am giving to you.

I don't want your help.
I want to go.

But to go where?

I can assure you
there is no other place

that is safe for you just now.

Do you feel close to your
great-uncle, Sir Roderick?

He used to have time for me,

but now he only has time
for Sonia.

Ah.

And how long has she been his...

...companion?

She arrived at Crosshedges
about six months ago.

I see.

When did Sir Roderick
lose his sight?

It was never good.

It failed completely
about 10 years ago.

Excuse me, sir.

Parfait!

George, mon valet,
is also the chef exceptionnel.

Please to eat, mademoiselle.

We need you to be strong
over the next few days.

Why?

Just eat,
and we will talk some more.

Catch the peacock.

Tell the police
in the event of my death.

You've been hit
on the head, Mrs. Oliver.

- Who are you?
- Who?

Who?

Who hit you on the head?

Who are you?

Ah, I know who you are.

Couldn't mistake
those mustaches anywhere.

What are you doing here?
Where am I?

I warned you to be careful,
chère madame.

Oh. My head aches.

You've been hit
with a blunt instrument, madam.

And the contents of your handbag
have been stolen.

By the peacock.

- She's delirious.
- No, I'm not.

I assure you this is how she is.

Tell to me, madame...

Did you actually see the peacock
strike you?

This is important.

She may have difficulty
remembering things for a while.

Nonsense!

I remember everything vividly.

There was a girl
demanding an abortion.

Who was this girl?

Though it didn't look
like that to me.

It was the second girl.

There were two girls
demanding abortions?

Did you actually see the peacock
strike you, madame?

No. I didn't see anything.

All flew by so quickly.

Can you remember
what was in your handbag?

I think I'll go to sleep now.

Bon.

I bid you good day.

Was it the peacock
that flew by quickly?

They jump, don't they?

- You have a visitor, sir.
- Shh, shh, George.

Sir Roderick Horsfield.
And his secretary, sir.

- Sir Roderick?
- Indeed, sir.

Oh. Thank you, dearest.

A great pleasure to see you,
Sir Roderick.

Mademoiselle.

M. Poirot.
A delight to see you again.

Wonderful thing, the telephone.

Rang a friend...
top brass, Scotland Yard.

Told me all about you.

I am gratified that you even
remembered my name.

Please to sit.

Sonia remembered it.

Little chap, big mustache.

Apparently you're
our number-one sleuth.

I have not been entirely
unsuccessful in my profession.

That's the ticket.
Got a job for you.

But I regret that my time, it is
fully occupied at the present.

Looking after Norma, aren't you?

Ah.
I do not remember saying that.

You asked questions about her.

You can't fool Sonia, you see?

No, indeed.

Anyway, don't think you can
solve the Norma problem.

You can't. No one can.

Poor girl's had a screw loose
all her life.

But Norma will be fine as long
as she can hold on to her money.

And why should she not
hold on to her money?

Because there's a nasty little
blighter called David Baker.

Daubs canvasses.

Sonia and I think
he's after the money.

I want you to find out
as much as you can about him.

I'll pay you handsomely.

I will try.

And in return,
perhaps you might help me.

What does it mean to you,
the name A.J. Battersby?

Why do you ask about her?

She is a woman, then?

Oh, yes.
Yes, she's a woman, all right.

She taught Norma privately
for a few months

when she was a little girl.

Ran her own school after that.

We sent Norma there
after her mother d*ed.

She couldn't stay
at Crosshedges, you see.

Ah, yes. I see.

Merci.

Oh! Ah, yes.

Um, we're having a-a
little house party this weekend.

- Perhaps you'd like to come.
- I would be most honored.

Um, d-do you have
a woman in tow?

- Non.
- Well, bring her along anyway.

Ah.

Can I rely on you, Pierrot?

Yes, of course, Sir Roderick.
Au revoir.

- Mademoiselle.
- Monsieur.

Sir.

SONIA: Thank you.

What is your opinion
of that young lady, George?

Well, sir, if you'll allow me,

I would reply
that he'd got it badly.

Very badly,
if I may say so, sir.

It's not unusual, of course...
gentlemen of that age.

Yes, George,
but what of the young lady?

Oh, well, sir,
she's quite a definite type.

There's never anything
you could put your finger on.

But they know
what they're doing, I'd say.

Ah. Bond Street.

Right, sir.

Well?
What do you make of that?

The little frog's not
nearly as brainy as he thinks.

However, if he can help me stop

that canvas dauber in his
tracks, all well and good.

Who's my clever, clever man?

Now, shall we conclude
the day's business?

I spoke
with your father recently.

You're working for him?
Is that...

No, no, no.
I wanted to meet him, merely.

He told to me that he asked
Mlle. Claudia Reece-Holland

for you to be the third girl?

He didn't have to ask.
The company owns the apartment.

- Ah.
- And Nanny's, of course.

And you and Mlle. Reece-Holland
have become friends?

I have no friends.

I thought I had David.

Ah, M. Baker.

You have fallen very much
in love with him, non?

I was just being silly.

It was naive of me
to confide in him.

You know, Norma,
you really are a lovely girl.

Especially when you smile.

Is my heart
supposed to melt now?

He must have thought me
an easy catch.

I only realized what a fool I'd
been when I went to his studio.

Oh, David.

Norma.
This isn't what you think.

Mademoiselle,
your father told to me

about the day your mother d*ed
and that she k*lled herself

and that the tragic nature of
her death has marked you deeply.

I beg of you, mademoiselle...

Can you tell to me exactly
what you remember

about that day so terrible?

We're late already, Norma.

She was so very insistent.

Your mummy said
very strictly...

Please, please, please.
Just one ice cream.

Mummy won't mind.
It's my birthday.

She wants us to return promptly
to be ready for the party.

Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!

Mummy, look what I got you.

Can you save me?

But I couldn't save her.

How are you today, mademoiselle?
You have not eaten.

You have been very hospitable,
M. Poirot, but I should leave.

But if you left now,
where would you go?

To Crosshedges, perhaps?

Yes, all those happy memories.

Well, surely there were
some happy times,

times when there was a smile
on the face of that little girl?

A little girl
who k*lled her own mother.

Non, mademoiselle.
Your mother k*lled herself.

I could have saved her.

It was my fault for being late.

Nobody ever forgave me.

Is that what you wanted
from Nanny Seagram, hein?

Forgiveness?

When was the last time
that you saw Nanny Seagram?

On the night she d*ed.

Claudia said she'd left
a message to go and see her.

Oh, God.
Norma, I completely forgot.

Miss Seagram... She popped up
to see you this afternoon.

She said she wanted
to talk about your mother.

Talk about my mother?

And can you remember
exactly what happened?

For instance,
did she open to you the door?

I can't remember.

No.

She didn't answer the bell,
but the door was open.

And what did you find?

- I had a Kn*fe in my hand.
- Non.

Do you habitually carry a Kn*fe?

It was in my drawer.

I opened it, and there it was,
just lying there.

Do you remember
putting it there?

No.

So did you take the Kn*fe
with you?

Well, I...

I must have done.
It wasn't there later.

Mademoiselle, can you tell to me
exactly what you found

when you went to the apartment
of Mlle. Seagram?

She's dead, isn't she?
And I had a Kn*fe.

Excuse me, sir.

No, George, please.
Not just at this moment.

Inspector Nelson is here, sir.

- And Mrs. Oliver.
- The police?

Good.

I want to talk to them.
I want to confess.

Non, non, non. Non, non.

Please, I beg of you,
mademoiselle.

Wait for me. Please.

We will talk more of this.

Only trust me.

Ah!

Mme. Oliver.

Inspector.

You are recovered, I see.

Fully. Thank you.

- And my memory has returned.
- Ah.

- The letter.
- The letter?

Miss Seagram's su1c1de note.

I found it behind the mirror
in her flat.

"To be given to the police
in the event of my death."

But, no, no, no.
Pardonne. That cannot be.

Are you saying
that in this letter

she announced her su1c1de?

I didn't have time to read it

before it was stolen
from my handbag.

C'est ça.

How could you possibly know
it was a note of su1c1de?

- What else could it have been?
- What else, indeed?

Oh, you always want to
make everything so difficult.

I'm getting a headache.

Inspector,
have you brought to me

the information
that I requested?

You'll find everything
you wanted in here.

Though what it matters now
I couldn't guess.

Inspector,
something has happened?

It seems it wasn't su1c1de
after all, Poirot.

Results of the postmortem

indicate that Miss Seagram d*ed
of asphyxiation.

Her wrists were cut
after she had stopped breathing.

Sapristi.

What's more, Norma Restarick's
flatmate, Claudia Reece-Holland,

visited me a couple of days ago,
and she told me

Norma had made a clean breast
of the business to her father.

She also said that he believed

the girl had made the same
confession to you, Poirot.

Just curiosity, eh?

It seems
you've been deceiving me.

Je suis désolé.

But to indulge me,
if you please, for one moment.

Can you remember
exactly when it was

that the secretary
to M. Restarick

denounced his daughter
as a murderess?

It was two days ago.

Two days?
That was when I was att*cked.

Do you have any idea
where this girl is, Poirot?

GEORGE:
I cannot allow you in there.

- Please, miss.
- I'm here.

I'm Norma Restarick.

I k*lled Nanny Seagram.

NELSON: Norma Restarick,

I am arresting you
on a charge of m*rder.

Thank you for trying to help me.

I take a very dim view
of this, Poirot.

If you will, sir, the first time
I clapped eyes on her,

I thought the young lady
had birds in her attic.

Thank you very much, George.

Coffee for two, if you please.

Now, then, there are a lot
of things I'd like to know.

Am I to understand

that Norma Restarick has been
with you all this time?

Oui. Bien sûr. Where else?

You seem completely unconcerned
at her arrest.

Not at all. It is unfortunate.

She would have been
much more comfortable

remaining here under my roof.

Ah.

And what is that?

This answers a question
that has been troubling me

ever since I made a visit
to Joshua Restarick Ltd.

And what is
this fascinating question?

Well, simply this.

When I arrived there,

Mlle. Claudia Reece-Holland
was sitting at her desk

repairing her... her maquillage.

And in front of her there was
no correspondence, no files.

And for the duration
of my visit,

the telephone,
it sounded only once,

and that was for me
from Mlle. Daphne on your behalf

from The Merry Shamrock
tearooms.

And so I asked
the good Inspector Nelson

to make the inquiry.

And?

Joshua Restarick virtually
ceased trading as a business

it is now since two years,
after many years in decline.

Oh, do stop.

You're making
my head ache again,

and you know that's bad for me.

Chère madame, have you ever
seen the girl smile?

Smile?

Why, yes.
When she saw David Baker.

And did he?

- Did he what?
- Smile at her.

I mean, did he look her
in the eyes?

He never took his eyes
from hers.

Does it matter?

But of course.

Well, I think he's unreliable.

He was going to show Norma
something at the tearooms,

but of course
that never materialized.

Ah.

And does it still
not occur to you

that she might be
exactly what she appears to be?

I mean, criminally insane.

Chère madame, if you want to
know the real truth

about Mlle. Norma Restarick,

you will accompany me
on a journey.

Thanks to the inquiries
of the good Inspector Nelson,

we will meet
a very old friend of hers.

Would four aspirin would be
too much to take, I wonder?

I was intrigued by
your telephone call, M. Poirot.

- I've heard of you, of course.
- Merci.

But I should like a little more
information before we talk.

Yes, indeed.

Eh bien, Mme. Battersby,

this Mlle. Norma Restarick
rendered to me a visit,

and she requested my assistance

with, well, some difficulties
that she has...

- She's been charged with m*rder.
- m*rder?

Um, so firstly may I ask,

did you like
Mlle. Norma Restarick

when she was here as a pupil?

I like all my girls.

Yes, of course.
But what sort of girl was she?

Not scholastically brilliant,
but adequate.

And before? When you taught her
at Crosshedges?

She was very young,
only five years old,

and my appointment
was a very brief one.

For what reason?

There was an opportunity
to set up my own school.

So you left your employment

in the family Restarick
to set up this school?

Yes.

That was an undertaking
most audacious, no?

It wasn't easy to make ends meet
at first, but, um...

the school soon started
to pay for itself.

Bon.

And tell to me...

Did Mlle. Norma Restarick
ever smile?

I beg your pardon?

I think he means, did she seem
a little neurotic?

I think you're aware, M. Poirot,

that Norma's had to receive
psychiatric assistance

on more than one occasion,
including while she was here.

Which is hardly surprising,
given her home circumstances.

Her father, to whom she'd been
extremely attached,

left home suddenly, and, um...

Well, her mother didn't cope
with that very well, I think.

And then the tragedy
of her su1c1de.

No, since you mention it,

I can't recall Norma
ever smiling after the death.

Her bedroom here became a shrine
to her dead mother.

It seems to me that she has been
blaming herself all of her life.

As do most children, no?

Indeed. When they're not blaming
their parents.

Oui.

Do you yourself have children,
madame?

I've never married, M. Poirot.

Oh, je suis désolé...
mademoiselle.

You say that she kept her room
as a shrine to her mother.

But you also say

that she was extremely attached
to her father.

So there was no shrine to him?

In her heart, yes.

She never gave up hope
that he would return.

Or that a letter would arrive

asking her to go out
and join him.

It never did.

In her heart, oui.

But in reality? In her rooms?

There wasn't a single photograph
of her father,

if that's what you mean.

Her mother destroyed

every single one she could find
after he left.

Really,
when it comes to the mother,

one has to ask oneself,

"In that house,
who was the child?"

Vraiment. Who was the
child, indeed, hein?

And you yourself
could not provide her

with a photograph of her father?

What, me?

Well, from the photographs
you took of the family, I mean.

Oh, I see. Of course.

No. No, I couldn't.

Are we done, do you think?

Oui.

I have all of your novels,
Mrs. Oliver.

And I-I wonder
if you would be so very kind

as to sign my copies.

- I really would be so grateful.
- Oh, yes, of course.

- Do you have a pen?
- Yes.

Thank you. This is thrilling.

Pleasure.

I see from my records

that Norma is about to reach
her 25th birthday.

She's quite a catch for
somebody, given her wealth.

Mary Restarick
was a wealthy heiress,

and she left it all to Norma.

How wealthy was she?

At the time of her death,

Mary Restarick's fortune
was estimated

at £700,000 or £800,000.

And of course
there's Crosshedges house, too.

So the house does not belong
to Sir Roderick?

Oh, no. Sir Roderick lives there
by the grace of Norma.

So if by chance

Mlle. Norma Restarick
was to die?

Well, half the money would go
to her next of kin.

Her father.
Unless she were to marry.

But why only half?

Mary Restarick
loved Crosshedges.

She ensured
that half the family money

would always go back
to the guardian of the estate.

So if Mlle. Norma Restarick
was not to marry,

that would be...

Her favorite uncle.
Old Sir Roderick.

Monsieur.

This Sonia woman
you told me about.

She's obviously hoping
old Roderick

will come
into Norma's mother's money.

Didn't you tell me

Sir Roderick asked you
to flush out David Baker?

- I said, it seems to me...
- I heard you, madame.

I am thinking.
It is my custom.

Oh. Is that all?

What about?

Tell to me, madame,

when you entered the apartment
of Nanny Seagram...

against the advice that
I gave to you most expressly,

but let us overlook that
for now...

how did you gain the entry?

Oh, Alf. The concierge.

He'd do anything for me.
He's my number-one fan, he says.

How gratifying.

- He let you in.
- Yes.

But, in fact, he didn't need to.
The door had been left unlocked.

I see. And once inside, you...

Well, you just discovered
the letter?

- And I didn't tell you how.
- Non.

It was terribly clever,
although I say it myself.

I simply asked myself,
"Where would a woman hide"?

Yes, yes, yes.
But did anything else happen?

Well, for a second,
I had the feeling

that someone was there
in the apartment.

But of course I imagined it.

Anyway, I said to myself,
"Where would a woman hide..."

Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.

Are you sure that there
was there no other person?

Does it really matter?

This is of the utmost
importance, madame.

Oh, you really are
the most maddening man.

I couldn't say for certain
one way or the other

whether someone else
was in the apartment.

I rushed out,
chasing after the third girl.

Ah. Bon.

All is becoming clear.

Ah! Gotcha!

Sir Roderick.

Oh, it's you again.

I've brought
Mr. Restarick's portrait.

Well, come here.

Come on.

Closer.

You know, Sonia thinks
you're a bad egg.

If that refers to me and Norma,

I can assure you I have only
her best interests at heart.

Yes. I can see that now.

You're not going to be
any trouble at all.

You're a good egg!

The maid'll see you out.

And you can leave
that thing here.

Oh! Damn.

Ah. My dear Alf.

This is M. Poirot.

- Oh, Mr. Parot.
- Monsieur.

Tell me, you a fan?

Ah, oui. Naturellement.

You read her latest?

Ah, oui, yes,
I am almost sure that I have.

Well, maybe you could help me.

I've read it four times,

and I still got no bleedin' idea
who done it.

Oh.

No, no, it's genius.
Keep them guessing, eh, Mrs. O.?

Ah, M. Alf?

Tell to me, if you please, how
well did you know Mlle. Seagram?

I used to deliver her gin
for her.

According to Inspector Nelson,
she drank a lot of gin.

I'll say. More and more.

Ah. And since when?

For instance, did her liking
for the drink increase suddenly?

Mm, yeah.
For about the last six months.

I see.

And tell to me,
what else did you do for her?

For instance, did you post
the letters for her?

She very rarely
received or sent letters.

Ah, so for her
they were memorable, perhaps.

And tell to me,
did you, by chance,

post a letter for her
shortly before her death?

Oh, y-yes. I did.

The day before!

And did you notice...
of course by chance...

to whom the letter
was addressed?

And this is most important.

Well, it did catch my eye.

- Ah.
- It was to Mr. Andrew...

- Restarick, no?
- Correct.

Did she receive many visitors?

Well, that funny girl, Norma.

She used to be up there
quite a lot.

Sometimes her father,
Mr. Restarick.

Ah. Bon.

A visitor, sir.

Ah. M. Baker.

I was expecting you.

Merci, George.

I owe you an explanation.

You owe to me nothing.

I'd like you to look at this.

I assure you
that there is no need.

I know what it is.

And it is not I
who needs to see it.

I believe you have had this
in your possession

since we first met that day
at Crosshedges.

You could have shown it
to Mlle. Norma Restarick

at The Merry Shamrock tearooms,
and yet you did not.

She seemed so fragile.

I didn't know
how she might react.

M. Baker,
Mlle. Norma is not her mother!

Norma.

If I told you I was in love
with you, would you believe me?

Sometimes we see
what isn't really there.

Nothing happened
between me and Frances.

I have to show you something.

Mademoiselle.

I asked you to trust me.

Will you?

Bon.

Merci.

Pull!

Watch this.

I'll do it blind.

Pull!

Look over there.

How are you, Mrs. Oliver?

- Oh. Frances.
- Mademoiselle.

I do hope you've recovered.

Oh, from the bump on the head.

No.

From the shock
of seeing me in the buff.

If the painting in the hall
is anything to go by,

Mr. Restarick's first wife
was quite a looker.

Of course that was
all a long time ago,

as Claudia
keeps reminding everyone.

Perhaps he'll gain a wife,
just as he loses a daughter.

Pull.

Drink, sir? Madam?

- Thank you.
- Andrew.

Who are you?

I said, "Who are you?"

I'm your father, Norma.

What's she doing here?

Norma.

Are you all right?

But I thought...
We all thought...

What did you think?

ANDREW: Darling Norma.

Please, try not
to get overwrought.

Well, well.

Come to spoil another party,
have you?

What on earth are the police
playing at, letting her out?

- Shut up!
- Oh!

- Norma!
- Norma!

I'm sorry, I just...
I just don't understand.

The police let me go, Daddy.
I'm free.

Well, that's...
that's wonderful.

Uncle Roddy will be so happy
that you're here.

Darling girl.

You remind me so much
of your mother.

If only she were here
to see you now.

Who are you?!

- Oh, my God, she's insane.
- Norma!

- Is she all right?
- Parfaitement.

She is dealing with the memories
that haunt her.

But is she strong enough
to go through this?

Let the game be played out.

- Norma.
- Norma!

This is only making things worse
for yourself.

You're wasting your time,
Frances.

You really are insane,
aren't you?

I don't want to talk to you.

I don't want to talk
to anyone anymore!

- Cheers!
- David, darling...

May I... May I interrupt?

Quieten down, please.
Sir Roderick wishes to speak.

Oh. Oh, thank you.

First, I'd like to thank you all
for coming here

on this special day.

Especially Norma,
who is back with us again.

And now the reason
I invited you all here.

Something that will surprise
some of you

and not others.

Two weeks ago
I asked my secretary,

Miss Sonia Benson,
to be my wife.

I-I-I was astonished to find
that she accepted.

Two days ago,

worried perhaps that her
bridegroom might keel over

before she could get him
to the altar...

...Sonia persuaded a very
willing knight of the realm

to accompany her
to a registry office,

where we were married.

That's wonderful.

So raise your glasses.

Raise your glasses,
ladies and gentlemen.

The toast is
Lady Sonia Horsfield.

- Lady Sonia Horsfield.
- Lady Sonia Horsfield.

Are you happy, Sonia?

H-Happy now, are you?

- Very happy.
- Are you?

Because you've made me
the happiest man in the world.

Sacré!

We are too late.

M. Restarick, please allow me
to deal with this immediately.

How could we not
see this coming?

I am so sorry for your loss,
Sir Roderick.

This is indeed
a tragedy most terrible.

I still can't believe it.

Except, of course,
for one person.

And I refer to the person
who had hoped for

and encouraged this tragedy
for a long time.

Who could possibly
wish Norma dead?

Ah. Who indeed, hein?

Perhaps you yourself,
Lady Sonia?

In the terms of the legacy
of her mother,

your new husband
inherits half a portion

of the fortune of Mlle. Norma.

Or perhaps Mlle. Claudia,

who despised her in a manner
that was so obvious

and who had the hope
of marrying her father,

who also inherits a half share
of the fortune of his late wife.

Or Mlle. Frances Cary,

who had become so infatuated
with the young man

who was so loved
by Mlle. Norma Restarick,

M. David Baker,

whose love for her
seemed to increase

the more he discovered
how wealthy she was.

But in order to answer
this question

it is necessary to ask another.

So let us go back
to the very beginning.

Who wished to k*ll
Nanny Seagram?

Oh, please!
This is not the time or place.

Norma confessed to that.

I think that's why she...

And what is all this in aid of?

Sir, I'd ask you to allow
M. Poirot to speak.

Merci, Inspector Nelson.

When Mlle. Norma Restarick
rendered to me the visit,

she said that she might
have committed a m*rder

and asked me to save her.

Now I would suggest that those
are the words not of a m*rder*r,

but of a victim.

Was Nanny Seagram m*rder*d
or was it,

as the police seemed
to assume too easily,

the su1c1de?

I could not be sure
of the answer.

But an inscription on the back
of a photograph...

"Crosshedges, Long Basing.
1917.

The last happy summer.

A.J. Battersby."

...caused me to suspect that
the death was somehow connected

with some trauma in the lives

of Mlle. Norma Restarick
and the Nanny Seagram.

So I made a visit
to Crosshedges,

and I learned there something
crucial to my investigation.

I made the acquaintance there
of M. David Baker.

Why was he there?

Well, according to Sir Roderick,

he wanted some photographs
of the family

because he was about to execute
a portrait

of M. Andrew Restarick
as a young man, oui?

A man of whom he spoke to me
with great cynicism

and said, most revealingly...

I've never met him.

That's a thing most strange to
say, n'est-ce pas, monsieur?

But I digress.
Let us return to Nanny Seagram.

A woman who was old,
who was vulnerable,

who had a problem with drink,

which,
according to the concierge,

increased since the arrival
from South Africa

of M. Andrew Restarick.

I wondered why.

She was, of course,
entirely dependent

on the goodwill
of the company Restarick

for the roof over her head.

But she had no need to worry.

For you had reason most sound

to be grateful to her,
had you not, monsieur?

For all her service
to the family. Yes.

Oui. Also for helping you to
impersonate a man who was dead.

A man who was dead?

The inquiries
of Inspector Nelson

confirmed my suspicions
only yesterday.

And today I received a telegram
from South Africa,

confirming the death
of M. Andrew Restarick,

it is now since one year.

So, monsieur,

as Mlle. Norma Restarick
demanded of you today,

I, Hercule Poirot,
also demand of you...

Who are you?

My name is Robert Orwell.

Andrew Restarick
was my good friend.

None of this
was ever meant to end in death.

Mm.

You! You are an impostor!

No, Roddy, no. Sit down.

The real Andrew Restarick
has not been seen in England

for 20 years.

His wife, whom he abandoned,

had destroyed every image of him
she possessed

and was now dead
by her own hand.

Sir Roderick, alas,
had lost his sight.

And his daughter, Mlle. Norma,

had not seen him since she was,
oh, five years of age.

There was now only one person
who could give away the game.

Nanny Seagram.

Threatened with eviction
if she attempted to expose you

and bribed with a supply,
seemingly without end, of gin,

she had fallen in
with your plans.

Now you were free
to take over the business.

Now you would sell it
to the highest bidder.

- You're wrong, Poirot.
- Hmm?

The business was worthless.

Oui, d'accord, but you could not have
known this before you left South Africa.

For why else
would you come here?

- I never m*rder*d anyone.
- But you had the motive.

Fearing that Nanny Seagram
was about to expose you,

it was necessary perhaps
to silence her.

Ah, but then,
when Mlle. Norma Restarick

confessed to the m*rder,
you suddenly realized that,

ah, as Sir Andrew Restarick,
you were next of kin.

You would now inherit
half the legacy of her mother.

So you stood by in silence
and let her.

You were now within, what,

inches of becoming
the millionaire.

One might even say
the length of the rope of...

...the hangman.

But now this fortune
will not go to you, monsieur,

an impostor who has been
revealed, but to Sir Roderick.

My husband
doesn't care about that.

He just wants Norma back.

You monster.
How can you do this?

No, one second. Inspector.

There has recently
come to my attention

some information that is new.

There is one other person here

who has the claim to the fortune
of Mlle. Norma Restarick.

The photograph that I discovered

in the apartment
of Nanny Seagram

was taken by the former tutor
of Mlle. Norma Restarick,

a Mlle. A.J. Battersby.

I paid a visit to her school
where she is now the principal.

And I found there a woman
full of emotion

about a child
who had been abandoned

and a man
who had deserted them both.

She never gave up hope
that he would return.

Or that a letter would arrive

asking her to go out
and join him.

It never did.

And a woman, moreover,
who misled me about dates.

She told to me

that she had moved straight from her
employment as the tutor to Mlle.

Norma Restarick at Crosshedges

into setting up
her own establishment.

But that was when Mlle. Norma
was five years of age.

And, well,
that is now since 20 years.

But Meadowfield School,

it was only established
it is now since 18 years.

So, what was she doing
in the two years in between?

And why had she left
her employment at Crosshedges

after so brief a time?

Now, I would like to ask you,
Sir Roderick,

to confirm my suspicions.

The reason why Mlle. Battersby
left Crosshedges so abruptly

was because she had fallen
in love with Andrew Restarick

and conceived by him a child.

Am I correct?

Yes, Poirot.

You are correct.
She left suddenly.

Disappeared for two years.

C'est ça!

So she went away secretly
and bore the child.

A girl.

The half sister
to Mlle. Norma Restarick.

Is that not so, Mlle. Cary?

Or should I call you
Mlle. Battersby?

I grew up dreaming
that one day I'd find my sister.

When I found her,
it was like a miracle.

I knew Claudia
worked for the family firm,

and I couldn't believe my luck
when Norma moved in, too.

I longed to tell her
she had a sister.

And now she'll never know.

Non. And the irony?

With Mlle. Norma...

...gone...

you have a claim that is legal
to her fortune after all.

I see.

But nothing
can bring Norma back, can it?

Non.

Nothing can bring back
Mlle. Norma.

Constable.

Norma.

But you're dead.

- I saw you dead.
- You saw what you wanted to see.

Messieurs-dames, it is
now the time for Poirot

to unveil to you the truth.

When Mlle. Restarick
drew her bath this evening,

Mlle. Cary saw this
as the opportunity irresistible

of replicating the circumstances
of the su1c1de of her mother.

But knowing this was going
to happen, I took a precaution.

You were observed
by M. David Baker

entering the bathroom
with a pillow.

Why? In order to smother her.

This is risible.

Why would I ever do such a thing
to my sister?

What revenge more sweet could you
have on a man who had abandoned you,

than to steal the inheritance of
his daughter who was legitimate?

The inheritance
of your half sister

that was so privileged,
and by you so hated.

When your mother learned that
Monsieur Restarick

had returned to this country,
she went to confront him.

But she found there instead
the impostor, M. Robert Orwell.

And most regrettably, she shared
this information with you.

And recognizing this
as the opportunity

for which you had wished
so long,

you, Mlle. Frances Cary,
unbeknown to your mother,

confronted the impostor,
M. Orwell,

and insisted that he join in
with your plan so terrible.

You wished to steal
the inheritance

of Mlle. Norma Restarick

by driving her to su1c1de
or insanity.

And in order to achieve
this end,

you had M. Orwell install her
in the building of apartments

that also housed Nanny Seagram,

a woman whose very presence
would remind her

of the guilt she felt
over the su1c1de of her mother.

You calculated the effect
that this would have

on a mind so fragile.

And you, as the actress
with aspirations,

of course you would
play the part

of the friend so loving
and so supportive, hein?

And pauvre
Mlle. Norma Restarick,

who is now so frail,
had became your prey.

You... Oh, of course
you were always there for her.

Norma?

Would you like me to come
and sit with you?

Provoking memories
that were painful.

Hurrah!
Who would like ice cream?

You even planned
to steal away the young man

who tried to give to her
existence real love and hope.

But this campaign

against the psyche
of Mlle. Norma Restarick

reached its climax so inglorious
in the m*rder of Nanny Seagram.

It was no accident

that Mlle. Norma Restarick
felt responsible for her m*rder!

You orchestrated this conviction
with precision!

Your plan...

depended on two knives
that were identical.

The first Kn*fe
you left in her room

where you knew she would look.

And then before the party,

before Mlle. Restarick
could reach her,

you sealed the fate so brutally

of Nanny Seagram,
who was helpless...

...and left behind there
the second Kn*fe.

And then once you had learned

that Mlle. Norma Restarick
had discovered the body,

simply you had to remove
the first Kn*fe,

that Mlle. Norma
had left in her drawer.

And now with her mind
in a state of total confusion,

Mlle. Norma Restarick
was fully convinced

that she had committed the act,

and she was headed now perhaps
towards the su1c1de.

But when she confessed
to the m*rder,

the result would be the same.

She would hang.

And when she was released
from prison this morning,

there was only one option
open to you...

to hurry along her death.

But, I, Hercule Poirot,

had promised to himself
to save her.

And the only way
I could do this...

...was to k*ll her
before you could.

I had no part in this, Poirot.

Liar!

In the m*rder of
Nanny Seagram, monsieur, non.

For, en effet,
you had provided for yourself

an alibi that night.

But I did wonder why someone
wanted to be somewhere else

in a manner so obvious
on the night of the m*rder?

That night you were here, you
knew what was going to happen?

Naturellement. How?

Because the k*ller was his
accomplice, Mlle. Frances Cary.

Excuse me a moment.

Can you explain
why one of them decided

it was necessary to att*ck me?

Ah, oui.

Madame, all this hinges
on a letter

that was written
by Nanny Seagram.

She could endure the pretense
that M. Orwell was M. Restarick.

But the sheer wickedness
of this new conspiracy

proved too much for her.

So she wrote to you a letter,
did she not, monsieur,

threatening to denounce you
if you did not desist.

And in order to protect herself
from your retribution,

she hid a copy of that letter
to be read

in the event of her death

and told to you
that she had done so.

So now in your eyes,
Mlle. Cary,

Nanny Seagram had to die,

and that letter
had to be retrieved.

But Mme. Oliver
had got there first.

It could not have been
M. Orwell or Mlle. Claudia

who had observed Mme. Oliver

retrieve that letter
so incriminating,

for they were with me.

Non, mademoiselle, it was
you yourself who observed her

and called M. Orwell
to inform him of this fact.

And when Mlle. Daphne
from The Merry Shamrock tearooms

telephoned to me to inform me

of the whereabouts
of Mme. Oliver,

you were listening in.

Ah, oui, bien sûr.

I heard the click as you
replaced the telephone receiver

a second or two before I did.

And now you knew
exactly where was Mme. Oliver.

And now the letter
could no longer

get into the hands
of the police.

Now the conspirators were safe.

Whereupon Mlle. Claudia
denounced to the police

the pauvre
Mlle. Norma Restarick.

He took me to dinner
and asked me to do it.

He said
he couldn't bring himself

to denounce
his own flesh and blood.

Oh, God, Norma. I'm so sorry.

It was all his idea.
Can't you see that?

ORWELL: Oh, you're
a terrible actress, Frances.

And I'm a fool.

I warned you that your hatred
would get in the way.

But you wouldn't listen.

CONSTABLE: Miss...

Frances.

We're half sisters.

Look. David found it
in Uncle Roddy's box.

It's our father.

I see no resemblance.

What happened to my father?

An accident while we were
up-country together.

He was a good chap.

I always liked Andrew.

Have you nothing to say
to this poor creature

you tried to destroy?

Is there not one impulse
that is honest...

human, even...
in your heart so black?

What would you have me say?

Did...

Did my father ever speak of me?

Well, M. Poirot wants honesty,

so I'll be honest.

I only ever heard Andrew
mention you once.

He said you were
the little bitch

who'd get all his wife's money.

I knew Andrew
was rotten, but you...

You beggar description!

Norma?

So Sonia wasn't a gold digger
after all.

No.

Nor was the peacock.

How did you know?

Because you told that to me
yourself, madame.

You told me that you saw him smile at her,
that he could not take his eyes from hers.

And the moment I realized
that he was looking

for photographs of the family
to prove M. Orwell an imposter,

well, it was then I knew that
he was acting for Mlle. Norma

and not against her.

You do think of things,
don't you?

Ah.

What a calculating mind.

Tortuous.
That's what I call it. Tortuous.

Am I so calculating, madame?

Am I the solver of puzzles
with a heart that is cold?

Or are we looking
at the greatest of mysteries

that life ever throws up?

The mystery that even I,
Hercule Poirot,

will never be able to solve.

The nature of love.

She smiles.

- Was that a tear?
- No, no, no, madame.

It is merely the breeze.