PORTER: Oh, thank you, Monsieur Poirot.

Well, it was the damnedest thing.

I pop out for a stroll in Mayfair and come back minus a leg and a face fit for a sideshow.

I shall tell you the story.

HE CLEARS THROAT 'One Sunday afternoon two years ago, 'I stopped for a breather 'outside the London pied-a-terre 'of the millionaire Gordon Cloade.

'I'd heard that Gordon had returned to England 'with a child bride, one Rosaleen.

'Irish girl, actress, whom he'd met and married in New York.

'Never having seen her, I was hoping to catch a glimpse.

'Gordon had summoned his brother, Jeremy, 'his wife, Frances, and the rest of the family Cloade 'up from the country to meet this Rosaleen 'for the first time.'

You mark my words, she's a bloody little tart.

- Lionel, darling.

- She is.

You've never even met her.

I don't need to, Adela.

I know the type.

Slack, greedy, and cunning as hell.

PORTER: 'Well, the introduction of Rosaleen 'proved a rather more inflammatory affair 'than any of us had anticipated.'

LOUD EXPLOSION, GLASS SHATTERING Gas.

Someone called to say they'd smelled it.

Blew the front off Gordon's house... ..from the inside.

Gordon and a dozen others were killed instantly.

'The Cloades were sufficiently far from the blast 'to escape unscathed.

'But, miraculously, 'Rosaleen also survived.

'She'd just walked out of the inferno.

'She'd been in the cellar with her brother, 'one David Hunter, choosing wine.

'Poor Rosaleen, hmm?'

Widowed for the second time at the age of what, hmm, 23?

So she was married before?

- Oh, yes.

- Ah.

Bloke called Robert Underhay.

A chum of mine.

Served with him in Mombasa.

Hence my interest.

You see, sometime before all this occurred, Underhay died.

Well, he disappeared into the jungle.

Didn't come back.

HE CHUCKLES JEREMY: Ah, Poirot, there you are.

Sorry to keep you waiting.

Porter.

- Cloade.

JEREMY: Shall we go to dinner?

POIROT: Oui.

Major.

- Ciao.

JEREMY: Porter is an ocean-going bore with his story about my brother Gordon.

He can't have known you were acquainted with us Cloades.

The death of Gordon must have ramifications most substantial for the entire family, no?

It's been an interesting couple of years... financially.

Anyway, Lynn... Do you have news?

She's coming back... to England.

To stay?

Do you know, your niece is a child of who I am most fond.

Child no longer.

She's engaged to be married.

- No.

- Cousin of hers, in fact.

Rowley, farmer.

Pleasant enough.

He's a Cloade.

Lynn told me to invite you to the annual do at Furrowbank.

You can meet Gordon's widow for yourself.

Now, beef.

Well done.

That's how they do it here.

- Er... - And then, er... spotted dick and custard.

WAITER: Yes, sir.

JEREMY: Now, wine.

Two glasses of the house red.

HE SIGHS CAR HORN HONKS SHE INHALES DEEPLY Lynn.

Well, naturally, we were flabbergasted.

I mean, could you imagine Gordon at his age, suddenly getting married?

It was ridiculous.

She's good-looking, I suppose.

She has the most enormous eyes, terrifically blue, and what they call "put in with a smutty finger".

Personally, I think she looks rather half-witted.

Well, Mummy, you're not a man.

I don't suppose Uncle G was after her for intellectual companionship.

I don't suppose he was after her at all.

Quite the other way about.

I think any woman veering too close to Gordon would be vilified by this family as a gold digger.

He was incredibly good to us, darling, all of us.

TAP SQUEAKS Not much has changed in Warmsley Vale while I've been away.

WATER RUNNING LYNN: Four years.

You might have got my taps fixed.

SHE SOBS These are all unpaid.

When your father died, Gordy took me to one side.

He said, "Now, I don't want you to worry about money.

"Anything to do with the household, "just put it in an envelope and send it to me."

Well, you've put it in an envelope.

Dear God.

Can you recall one single instance of extravagance in this house?

Can't whatshername continue the arrangement?

The widow?

All she'd have to do is write a cheque now and then.

She couldn't possibly...

I doubt that Rosaleen would object, but her brother would.

Very, very nasty piece of work, that one.

What's the brother got to do with anything?

He controls her.

Controls what, precisely?

KATHY: Everything.

Her money, her diary, her conversation, such as it is.

He runs Furrowbank as if he owns the place.

Your aunts and I doubt very much that David Hunter really is Rosaleen's brother at all.

LYNN SIGHS, CAR HORN HONKS Oh... that's Rowley.

You've... you've grown.

HE CHUCKLES No, really, you're... Well, you're taller than when I last saw you.

BOTH CHUCKLE When you last saw me, I was a child.

You've seen more of the world than I have, Lynn.

I've seen a lot of sleepy sickness in Africa.

God.

That's not what you mean, is it, Rowley?

You're kissing me and you're thinking, "I don't even know if she's still a virgin."

TELEPHONE RINGING Rosaleen Cloade.

WOMAN MENACINGLY: 'You're not a Cloade.

'You're a slut.

'A filthy, stinking, Irish slut.'

DAVID: What about me?

PHONE LINE DISCONNECTS DAVID SCOFFS They'll stop soon, sister child.

I'll make sure of it.

My good George, all things in my new apartment, they are delightful.

Yet this morning, I am troubled with a draught.

And also... in the matter of the ordering of my books... Quite so, monsieur.

Unacceptable.

I'll have a word.

- Yes.

Further abominations, monsieur?

Or may I serve breakfast?

BUZZER BUZZING My dear monsieur!

POIROT: Madame.

- Shall I sit here?

- Oui.

What marvellously square furniture you have.

Not a curve in the place, madame.

Not strictly true now I've arrived.

Now, I expect you have heaps of questions to ask me.

Merci bien.

Madame... who are you?

- Mrs Katherine Woodward.

KATHY: Lynn's aunt.

Lynn's mother, Adela, and I are Gordon Cloade's sisters.

Did you not get my letter?

- The first post, monsieur.

- Ah.

Merci, George.

- Here.

There we are, that's the fellow.

- Merci, madame.

KATHY: When I heard you were coming to Warmsley Vale to see Lynn, I thought, "Bingo.

Just the man for the job."

You see, the Child of Light has been particularly forthcoming on the subject of Robert Underhay.

Gordon's widow's first husband.

The Child speaks for the dead.

But, of course.

First-class spirit.

Very reliable.

In his punctuality at seance, madame, or the accuracy of his intelligence?

KATHY: Both.

He tells me Underhay is not among the dead.

En bien, Madame Woodward.

How is it that Poirot, he may be of assistance in this matter?

KATHY: You must find him.

This Underhay must be produced.

Ah, je suis desole, madame, but this is a commission that Poirot is not equipped to accept.

But can't you see what it means?

The woman Rosaleen was never at liberty to marry my brother.

She's a bigamist.

That is what we need you to prove, monsieur, or the family's inheritance will be lost.

The tawdry little beast has got her hooks into Gordy's fortune, but she must be stopped.

Merci.

DOG GROWLING DOG BARKS Madame Leadbetter.

Count.

DOG GROWLS How do you know my name?

I've had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, madame, on previous visits to this establishment.

Hercule Poirot.

You killed what?

Welcome to Warmsley Vale, Mr Poirot.

I'm so sorry, I was engaged with the telephone.

Foreigner, Beatrice.

COUNT BARKS, BEATRICE CHUCKLES Do you remember Mrs Leadbetter and... Count Bismarck?

They're residents.

Indeed, I do.

Then, they require no explanation.

Let me to show you to your room.

POIROT: Merci.

- Damn it!

Damn it!

FRANCES: Let me do it.

What?

Darling, what's the matter?

HE SCOFFS I'm afraid you made a bad bargain, Frances.

Please remain where you are.

If you approach me, I may not be able to continue.

Oh, God.

The whole thing is completely, unutterably bloody.

Is it a girl?

Oh, God, don't tell me it's Edna, the new maid.

- No.

No.

- Fingers like sausages.

I couldn't bear it.

Is it a boy?

It is nothing of that kind.

It is... ..a professional matter.

Money.

Is the firm going smash?

Are we to be bankrupt?

You know, don't you, that I've never cared about money in the slightest?

It bores me to tears.

Would it be helpful if I asked you questions?

You could nod.

Whose money is lost?

Is it ours?

Is it the clients' money?

Is it very much that is gone?

Pensions.

You've spent the clients' pensions?

Jeremy... my father was a baronet.

He was also the most almighty feckless, sponging crook.

My brother Charles is just the same.

In memory, my childhood divides pretty evenly between dining at the Ritz and flitting from rented houses in the middle of the night to escape the bailiffs.

Can we mortgage the house?

Of course, you must have done that already.

Right.

There's only one thing for it.

It'll have to be a touch.

Big one.

Let's see if I really am my father's daughter.

ADELA: Poor old Furrowbank.

I've never seen anything so vulgar in my entire life.

It's as though we're going to an orgy.

The place stands empty all year.

It exists merely for the most occasional party.

A more perfectly disgusting display of extravagance I can't imagine.

- Quite.

But not what you used to say when Uncle Gordon was around.

The Child of Light is adamant.

I see, that's handy.

In what particular... About Robert Underhay.

- Who?

- Rosaleen's first husband.

The Child is never wrong, and he insists Underhay is still alive.

I fear for Rosaleen.

She's guilty of the sin of bigamy, and when she dies, her soul will burn in hell for eternity.

The Child's quite unequivocal about that.

Aunt Kathy, if you mention this hurtful nonsense tonight, I shall be very cross with you.

KATHY: Oh, really.

ON PIANO: 'RHAPSODY IN BLUE' INDISTINCT CHATTER - Another drink?

- No, I won't, thank you.

INDISTINCT CHATTER Can you feel it?

What?

The hatred.

I think you're David Hunter.

Long-lost Lynn, yes?

DAVID SCOFFS What is it that we're all hating?

Me.

And my sister.

But mostly me.

I'm the one that keeps her little purse snapped shut when you lot are about.

What's the noun, I wonder, for a bunch of Cloades whose train has just run out of gravy?

I don't know.

A wilderness.

A wilderness of Cloades.

SHE CHUCKLES That's very good.

BOTH CHUCKLE Why are you marrying Rowley?

He's such a thug and a bore.

Look at him, trying not to stare at us, worrying what I might be saying to you.

As he should.

LYNN: Your sister, Rosaleen, tell me about her.

Well, er, she's not very bright.

But then you can see that for yourself.

You're like me.

WHISPERS: You see everything.

SHE SCOFFS I don't think I'm like you at all, Mr Hunter.

David, my dear, you're very pretty, but you need beefing up.

You absolutely must try these.

Why?

Have they got the poison in?

What?

BOTH LAUGH BOTH CONTINUE LAUGHING Look, there's no elegant way of saying this, so I'm just going to say it.

Jeremy's up a gum tree.

I shan't bore you with the details, but a substantial amount of money that wasn't strictly his has been... mislaid.

SHE SIGHS You find this embarrassing, Rosaleen?

Imagine how I feel.

How much do you think you're going to need?

But to administrate an entire hospital in the heart of the jungle?

Now that is a thing of some consequence, I think.

- Your letters sustained me.

- No, no.

They really did.

Gave me strength.

But your father, he was a good friend, and I promised to him that I would observe your progress through life.

He did not know, of course, that your progress would be conducted several thousands of miles away.

But he would be most proud of you, mademoiselle.

GLASSES CLINK Most proud.

Rosaleen, I have absolutely no doubt that you have saved my marriage.

I shall dedicate every moment I possess to making certain that you are happy and fulfilled... ..and welcome in Warmsley Vale.

SOLITARY APPLAUSE Brava.

Brava.

Rosaleen, you could do worse than getting a few professional tips off this one.

She's a natural.

- If you'll excuse me, David.

Ah, now don't rush off.

Let's discuss... inhabiting the character.

- Motivation.

Plot.

- You're in my way.

That's because my intention in this scene is to prevent you from leaving... until I have asked a question.

How much?

How much?

Whatever has happened between Rosaleen and myself is of no concern of yours.

HE CHUCKLES SARCASTICALLY Now, that's a silly and untruthful thing to say, and if I hear you say it again, I shall make myself very disagreeable to you, Frances.

And you won't like it.

How much?

Your sister has seen fit to lend me £10,000 of her own money.

GUESTS MURMURING DAVID LAUGHS Oh, it's all in the detail, isn't it?

The LEND is particularly good.

I shall repay in full at the first opportunity.

Well, that's now.

Give her back the cheque, or she cancels it.

The bank manager won't like it.

It won't look good at all.

But the choice is yours.

Uh-uh.

As you so rightly say, it's not my money... it's Rosaleen's.

WHISPERS: You give it back to her.

I'm so sorry, Frances.

Oh, that's quite all right, my dear.

I shan't forget the kindness you have tried to show me.

Nor, David, shall I forget this.

Oh, that's right, Frances.

You won't.

HE SNAPS FINGERS, PIANO RESUMES PLAYING ADELA: Quite the most extraordinary evening.

Good night, Rowley.

- Good night, Adela.

Don't be long, darling.

So that was David Hunter.

Not my cup of tea.

The answer to the question you asked earlier... What question?

Oh, God, Lynn, I never for a moment... - ..is "yes".

Still a virgin.

Not through lack of opportunity but because I never forgot that I love you and you love me and that we have an appointment with a vicar.

Which is when, by the way?

Any ideas?

- Oh, Lynn.

ROWLEY EXHALES ROSALEEN: I want to go home.

Real home.

DAVID: As you have been told, I cannot sell the house until the death duties are signed off.

And that shall be soon, but in the meantime... ..enjoy the discomfort of your new family.

Bloody parasites, the lot of them.

They've had it too easy for too long.

It's time they learnt to shift for themselves without darling Gordy sprinkling cash like confetti.

They hate me.

HE CHUCKLES Indeed, they do, sister child.

And you've just got to learn to take it.

Take it.

Now... ..what are you going to do?

Everything you say, David.

And everything will be?

Peaches and cream.

And so it shall.

And so it shall.

LEADBETTER SNORING SHE GRUNTS - Morning.

- Morning.

I'm looking for a place called Furrowbank.

TELEPHONE RINGING TELEPHONE CONTINUES RINGING Yes?

WOMAN MENACINGLY: 'Do it with your brother, do you?'

Say your name.

Say it.

'You'd do it with a corpse!'

DAVID: Who was it?

What, again?

Did you open anything?

What's this?

It came by hand.

- I didn't open anything.

DAVID: See who brought it?

You spend enough time staring out of the bloody window.

- Can I go now?

- No.

Yes, yes.

You must go to London.

Now, Rosy.

Go and get the driver.

Go.

- Mr Hunter, isn't it?

- Mm-hm.

How can I help you?

Well, a guest of yours has invited me to call upon him this fine day.

KNOCKING ON DOOR Come.

Anything I can get you, Mr Arden?

I'm fine.

How about you, Hunter?

I think we're both fine.

DAVID: "..call on me this afternoon "to learn something of interest "concerning the husband of your sister Rosaleen."

Doesn't say which husband.

Only one husband, old boy.

Robert Underhay.

HE SCOFFS I tell you what.

You say whatever it is you have to say, Mr Arden, or I'll tip you out on the pavement on your scrawny arse.

Old boy.

HE CHUCKLES ARDEN: I'm afraid old Underhay's in a bit of a bad way.

People often are when they've been dead a few years.

He needs pretty continuous medical supervision.

Unfortunately, that can be rather expensive.

There!

That was it.

The word we've all been waiting for.

Now, tell me... ..where does all this... unfortunate expense take place?

That's the information I'm keen to keep from the Cloades.

But naturally, if your sister feels unable to contribute to the cost of my... my friend Underhay's treatment, I'll be compelled to lead the whole pack of them to his door.

- Naturally.

- I'm only thinking of him.

I see that.

You, of course, have never actually met Underhay, have you?

Perhaps I should just cut out the middle man, speak to Rosaleen myself.

What's your view on that?

I think we should try not to distress the ladies.

ARDENT: Mm.

£20,000.

In cash.

Why don't you have a little think about it?

Come back and give me your decision.

LEADBETTER: This establishment, Beatrice Lippincott, is a sewer of prurience and depravity.

Get away from that door.

TELEPHONE RINGS, COW MOOS ROWLEY: I'm coming.

Keep your hair on.

Whoa.

Slow down, slow down.

You're gabbling.

Yeah, I've seen him, he came round the farm.

Er, paunch, soft hat.

Did he, now?

Wait a minute, this is... Christ, you're sure he actually used the name Underhay?

And the bloke's still there, yes?

And Hunter's gone?

Bloody right, I'm gonna wanna have a word.

So will Jeremy.

I'll scoop him up, and we'll be straight round.

Rowley.

Wants you.

Very agitated.

DOOR CLOSES That boy.

Come round to my side, Mr Rowley, bit more private.

Don't speak, listen.

Call the bank and tell them you wish to withdraw £20,000.

I'll come up tonight to get it.

Because a man's turned up threatening to produce Robert Underhay alive.

He may actually be Underhay.

God knows.

I never met the bugger when you married him.

The situation is not gonna be improved by you asking questions, Rosaleen.

There is no alternative.

Our future depends on it.

Everything depends on it.

Now, go call the bank.

There's my good girl.

FOOTSTEPS APPROACHING It's my moon.

Do you like it?

A hunter's moon.

A good moon to hang by.

You frightened me.

You're trespassing.

HE SCOFFS DAVID: Forgive me.

LYNN: What are you doing here?

Romantically enough, I'm trying to catch a train.

The 7:02 to London, if you really wanna know.

- This place is not on the way.

- It's on the way to you.

HE SIGHS HEAVILY What were you thinking?

Just now, here on your own... ..looking at the sky.

Don't prepare your answer.

Tell me.

LYNN: I was...

I... don't know.

I was... ..thinking about the horror of drifting.

Do you know what it is about a woman that really arouses me?

It's a very rare physical quirk.

It's when she tells the truth.

Not here.

I have to catch my train.

My sister is in London.

She's expecting me.

BOTH BREATHE HEAVILY I'll call you... as soon as I get there.

The moment I arrive.

Go in to your mother.

TELEPHONE RINGING Warmsley Vale 1139.

WOMAN: 'I have a call from London.'

Hello?

Hello?

TELEPHONE RINGS DAVID: 'I'm here.

Can you talk?'

I don't know.

I can listen.

David?

'You must marry Rowley Cloade.

'And do it quickly.

'Forget about me.

'I shall make it my business to forget about you.'

I don't believe you.

'You and I... we'd tear each other to pieces... '..destroy each other.'

You're lying to me.

Why... why are you lying to me?

'I'd certainly destroy you.

'It's in my nature, Lynn... '..to desecrate the things I cherish.

'And I love you too much for that.'

BEATRICE HUMMING Mr Arden, are you decent?

Breakfast!

BEATRICE SCREAMS LYNN: Those are my gardening gloves.

But, mademoiselle, it is essential for the great farewell that it not be overdressed with ceremony, eh?

SHE CHUCKLES You see, you are happier this morning, eh?

Quite the reverse.

But this morning, I see things more clearly, which is useful.

Well, bien alors, of all the virtues, the English, they value usefulness.

ROWLEY: Monsieur.

A man calling himself Enoch Arden has been murdered.

Last night in the pub.

I think he was Robert Underhay.

God help me, monsieur, but you must come and sort this out.

Please, you must come now.

HE TUTS SPENCE: Here's a bit of luck, then, anyway.

You being here.

You'll be able to show me how it's done, this detecting caper.

Superintendent Spence.

- Superintendent.

- Even better, I believe you're acquainted with the Cloades?

How is that better, superintendent?

Prickly bunch.

Handy for me to have a man on the inside.

KNOCKING ON DOOR Dr Lionel, come in.

- Ah, Monsieur Poirot.

POIROT: Doctor.

Well, this, erm... presumably, is the patient.

You know the woman Lippincott is telling all and sundry that this is suicide?

Dear Beatrice.

Not the most efficient way of dispatching oneself, smashing in the back of one's head with a set of fire tongs.

Now... the time of death.

Between six and nine last night.

- I agree.

- I'm so glad.

SPENCE: And Beatrice heard Arden at half past eight, which narrows it down quite nicely.

LIONEL: I will fill in the certificate, but if you don't mind, I must be getting along.

I have other patients to attend to.

Unlike this poor fellow, their treatments are billable.

Mr Cloade, there you are, good.

Is this yours, by the way?

I found it upstairs in the bedroom.

Not my colour, superintendent.

Quite right.

Definitely one for a brunette, though.

He must have had a woman up there.

Yeah.

Where were we?

You were upstairs looking at the dead man.

I was here being treated as though I'd killed him.

- Did you?

- I did not.

I told you.

Beatrice rang me up.

She'd overheard this Arden character lobbing a colossal blackmail demand at Hunter, I reckoned I should confront the bloke.

- So, around you duly popped?

- Wouldn't you?

And what did he say to you, this Arden?

Well, he didn't seem particularly surprised.

In fact, he tried it on with me, the bugger.

How much will the family pay for definite proof that Underhay's still alive?

I'm afraid, at that point, I rather lost my rag.

Told him if Underhay were still around, we were...

Pardon.

What is "lost my rag"?

- It's when you lose... - Lose one's temper.

Thank you.

So I told him if Underhay was still around, we were perfectly capable of establishing the fact ourselves.

We're not, of course.

That's why I came to you.

At what time did you "lose your rag", Mr Cloade?

I don't know.

Too busy storming off.

Ask Bea.

I have.

She says half past six.

Then I expect that's when it was.

I also expect Bea told you that Hunter came back here just after I left, which makes him the last person to see Arden alive.

We shall have to speak to Monsieur Hunter and his sister.

- They're in London.

- Tiens.

Superintendent, will you be good enough to make the telephone call and to give to them the invitation most pressing to come today this afternoon to my apartment?

I'll get a car to take us to London.

- Merci.

- Johnson.

Yes, sir.

And George, the guests, Monsieur Hunter and Madame Cloade?

Already here, monsieur.

Er, monsieur.

- Oui?

Ah, merci.

They've, erm... made themselves comfortable.

Good pictures.

Poirot you already know.

- Madame.

And judging by the cheap shoes... some policeman.

Superintendent Harold Spence.

HE EXHALES SHARPLY Superintendent Harold Spence.

It is so good of you both to come at such short notice.

Look, Poirot, you may have time for small talk, but Harold here is working... and I'm easily bored.

What's going on?

Enoch Arden's dead.

You interest me, actually, Harold.

Go on.

You know the man I'm speaking of, and you're not surprised to hear that he's dead?

That about sums it up, yes.

Are you working on this?

No, the superintendent, he searches for the murderer.

Hercule Poirot searches for Robert Underhay.

But the information we discover may be of mutual benefit.

You don't deny discussing Underhay with the man calling himself Arden?

I haven't had the chance to deny anything, Harold.

I can't get a word in edgeways.

Robert is dead.

Just for the sake of form, Mr Hunter, why don't you tell me where you were between the hours of six and nine last night?

For the sake of form, why don't I refuse to answer?

Because a refusal to co-operate will incriminate you.

I can only incriminate myself if I'm actually guilty of a crime.

He's not very bright, is he?

You should work alone.

Monsieur Hunter, what did Arden want?

I've made it my job to intercept and destroy every crooked attempt to relieve my sister of her fortune.

And I've heard some very pretty tales of hardship and misery, mostly from the Cloades.

But to use Underhay... for blackmail... ..that takes the cake.

Frankly, I was looking forward to seeing what sort of "Underhay" this fellow would produce because it wouldn't be a live one.

However, to protect my sister, I decided to pay the man off.

Why open old wounds, eh?

SPENCE: Beatrice Lippincott says you paid a second visit to Arden that evening.

Why?

To tell him he'd get his blasted money.

And when I talked to him, he was alive.

Madame Cloade.

The man Arden claimed that he knew your first husband, pauvre Robert Underhay.

Therefore, it is possible that you knew him perhaps by another name?

So if you would be so kind... - Slow down, Poirot.

I'm not gonna have Harold drag my sister off to see some battered corpse.

"Battered," monsieur?

ROSALEEN: Very well.

Can't you see what they're suggesting?

They're saying that this dead man could be Robert.

I must find out for myself.

How can I not, David?

Please.

Well, forgive me, but I have little faith in that exercise.

Under the circumstances, is she likely to identify the corpse as Underhay?

S'il vous plait.

Oui.

Merci beaucoup.

Superintendent, you have been most kind.

Au revoir.

The afternoon of the murder, Rosaleen Cloade telephoned to her bankers to arrange the withdrawal of £20,000... in cash.

God.

Bloody hell, we've got him.

You construe this as evidence against David Hunter?

Hunter made her do it because he'd decided to pay.

Yes, I'd call that evidence with knobs on.

Non.

It is evidence corroborating the existence of blackmail.

It is not evidence of the intent to commit murder.

No, you cannot have it both ways, my friend.

Either Monsieur Hunter, he was preparing to pay, or he was preparing to kill.

Ach, ma foi.

This whole case, it is entirely the wrong shape.

And above all else, the dead man, he is also wrong.

Enoch Arden.

Not even an anagram.

ROWLEY: No, he's a character in Tennyson.

- Mm?

- I looked him up.

Bloke goes off and comes back to find his wife's gone and married someone else.

Erm, I can't remember what he does next.

BUZZER BUZZES What you need, Monsieur Cloade, is a witness who is independent, who has no connection with the family, who knew Robert Underhay, and can point to the dead man and say, "Yes, that is Robert Underhay," or "Non, that is not," and you will have, without doubt, the truth.

Yes, obviously, but where are we gonna find such a convenient individual?

- Ah, Monsieur Cloade, have you or have you not engaged the services of the greatest detective in the world?

Viens.

Come and meet your star witness.

Major Porter, greetings.

I, er... ..don't suppose you've got a smoke, Monsieur Poirot?

I seem to have run myself dry.

- But of course.

- Oh, most kind.

Mm.

ROWLEY: But, Lynn, don't you see?

If this Porter character can identify the dead man as Rosaleen's husband, he was still her husband when she embarked on a bigamous and unlawful marriage to Gordon.

That means Gordon's original will still stands.

- Uh-huh.

- Yes, exactly!

And that means quarter share of the entire estate to Jeremy, quarter to Kathy, quarter to your mother, and a quarter to me.

Now, if we all work to ginger up proceedings, we could have the money in our pockets by next year.

I won't have you pig it, Lynn.

You had enough of that in Africa.

In fact, I reckon I've had enough of it here, too.

- What will they do?

- Who?

Rosaleen and David.

HE SIGHS You're a good woman, Lynn.

You won't gloat in victory.

I've a great deal to learn from you.

Personally, I think Hunter's going to swing.

God, I'd pay good money to see him kick.

PAN CLANGING Lynn.

Lynn!

I didn't do it.

We both know I can make you believe that.

WHISPERS: But I want you to believe it freely.

Because it's true.

I can't believe I've had to come back to this bloody place.

There has to be an inquest, Rosaleen.

It's only one day.

It'll all come out... ..about me.

Nothing will come out.

Because nothing will come out of here... ..that has not come out of here.

And that is how all shall be well.

Now, come...

..I have something for you.

SHE SOBS GAVEL TAPPING Thanking you, thanking you.

Next.

Call... David Hunter.

GAVEL BANGS Mr Hunter, you received a letter from the deceased summoning you to the public house, The Stag?

Yes.

- Do you still have the letter?

- No.

I can't see the point in saving unsolicited messages, can you?

Do you suppose it's sensible for a man in your position to adopt such an insolent tone?

What do you mean, my position?

I've never had a position in my life.

CROWD MURMURING, GAVEL BANGS JUDGE: This is very ill-advised, Mr Hunter.

We are trying to establish the cause of death of a person to whom you...

Precisely, and you've already done that.

Heavy object, skull, bonk.

The man, whoever he was, is dead.

Somebody killed him.

But you have no mandate to speculate on the matter, no authority to harass witnesses.

You're a doctor on expenses.

CROWD MURMURING But since you are clearly so fascinated by the lives of people more interesting than yourself...

I shall enlighten you.

While murder was being committed in The Stag...

I was elsewhere.

And that can be vouched for by a lady.

JUDGE: Does this lady have a name?

Obviously.

But you're not gonna hear it from me.

JUDGE: Call Major Porter.

Major, is it correct you have been taken under supervision to view the body?

- Yes, sir.

And were you able to identify the man you saw?

I was indeed, sir.

HE SCOFFS You sound very certain, Major.

PORTER: Absolutely no question about it, sir.

The man I saw was Bobby Underhay.

Yes!

SHE SNIFFS Now, Mrs Cloade, Major Porter has identified the deceased as Robert Underhay.

"Absolutely no question about it."

What do you say to that?

I say the Major is mistaken.

CROWD MURMURING JUDGE: But he is adamant.

He served with Underhay in Mombasa.

He messed with him, paraded with him...

If the Major was a close friend of my husband's... then why did Robert never introduce him to me?

Every morning for two years, I watched Robert Underhay take a bath.

I listened to him sing Your Baby Has Gone Down The Plug-Hole.

I slept beside him in his bed.

Did Major Porter do these things?

I loved Robert.

I knew him.

He died.

It was awful.

It is beyond madness to suggest that he has somehow been resurrected and brought from Africa to Warmsley Vale and that I should not know him.

CROWD MURMURING SPENCE: 'Plucky girl, Rosaleen.'

On top of everything, she's been getting telephone calls.

Usual filth.

Someone doing a voice.

There's nothing we can do about it.

Superintendent, if you please to help me with the English idiomatic.

When Monsieur Hunter professes himself to have no position... does that mean he considers himself to be a gentleman of leisure?

Probably.

Though by trade, he's a road builder.

Monsieur Hunter, he is a navvy?

No, no.

Engineer.

Least he was till little sis hit the jackpot.

Tunnels through mountains, that sort of thing.

He's an expert.

Now, that is information that is most intriguing.

Whatever he is, he's up the creek if this lady doesn't pipe up on his behalf and pretty sharpish.

Because I'm gonna have him... and he's gonna hang.

Humbug?

- Er... non.

CHURCH BELLS TOLLING VICAR: Nice to see you.

ROWLEY: And you.

Thank you.

Great service.

Er, monsieur?

Sorry, have you got a moment?

- Oui.

Erm, bit off accosting you like this among the graves.

I'm not entirely sure where we go from here.

I asked you to find Underhay, and as far as I'm con... well, we're all concerned, you found him.

- Oui.

- What remains now is to prove the fact in court.

Rowley's worried, monsieur, that the money being used to retain your services should now be spent on barristers.

Ah.

Eh bien.

Poirot, he waives his fees.

It is my wedding present.

That is so kind, monsieur.

Isn't it, darling?

So generous.

Thank you.

Monsieur Poirot always knows what it is people need, even if they don't know it themselves.

Well, in my experience, mademoiselle, people always know but are sometimes reluctant to admit it.

Excusez-moi.

ROSALEEN SNIFFS Do you know when the priest he is buried, he is always facing his parishioners?

Oui.

Because when the Day of Judgement, it comes, and the dead they all arise... ..he can greet them... and lead them through the gates of Paradise.

HE CHUCKLES It is a beautiful idea.

He shan't be leading me.

You must not say that, ma chere.

SHE SNIFFLES Despair is a sin.

I'm cut off from the mercy of God.

No, no, no, no, no.

Nobody is cut off from the mercy of God.

Ever.

- I try to pray... - Hm.

..and it feels like...

..I'm gonna choke.

God is patient.

I'm just a simple farm girl.

I never wanted any of this.

Holy Mother and all the Saints, sir.

But I'm a wicked bitch.

SHE SOBS You have told a lie?

SHE SOBS The man you saw was Robert Underhay?

- No.

- And your brother, he killed him?

- No.

That is what the police believe.

I am not the enemy, madame.

And I believe I can help you... if you will allow me.

I...

It's David.

I need...

I need David.

INDISTINCT CONVERSATION ROSALEEN: David.

- My God, look at you.

Church must have been a riot.

Oh, erm... ..the constable and I have become... somewhat attached.

Come on, Mr Hunter.

No.

David, I need this to stop now.

David, please.

- It's only just started.

Constable.

DAVID CHUCKLES Monsieur, I hoped that you'd come.

I wanted to talk to you earlier...

But I couldn't.

- Oui.

I noticed at the church you were not happy.

I've changed, monsieur, and I don't quite know how to cope.

No, mademoiselle, you have not changed at all.

You went to Africa because you wanted to get away from England, huh?

Because what was England to you?

Your school that was cold, the food was grey, your climate was dismal.

- All of that.

No.

You left England because you wanted to escape from Rowley Cloade.

And you still do.

- You've been talking to David.

- Non.

But you have.

He spoke of you in court, did he not?

You're a devil at knowing things, aren't you, monsieur?

That is my metier.

We talked for... ..what, a couple of minutes.

Here, in this garden.

I thought... ..this man...

..I need him.

Even if he beat me, I would kiss his hands and love him.

And David Hunter has placed his life at your disposal.

Do you know why?

To force your hand.

For to save him from the gallows you must stand up and say, "Yes, it was I.

"I was with him at that time."

And Rowley Cloade, he will discard you.

David's trying to protect me from a loveless marriage.

Oh, perhaps.

But perhaps he plays with you the games most dangerous and cruel.

But he's made you his alibi and... you must stand up.

HE SNORES I say?

- Madame?

- How was church?

We don't go, of course.

Lionel's an atheist, and I converse regularly with Joseph of Arimathea, so I really have no need.

Sit.

Let me see your eyes.

But, madame, I do not wish to disturb... KATHY: Oh, he's always nodding off.

LIONEL SNORES Mm.

You have a lot of unresolved indigo in your aura.

Yes, I know.

It is a problem.

LIONEL SNORTS Right.

How can I help you?

See?

Never very far away.

No.

Er, monsieur le doctor, could you tell to me... if the medical aspects of this case are entirely satisfactory?

- Kathy.

- Hmm?

- Shove off.

- Mm.

Righto.

Can't be in the room when he discusses blood and horrors.

I'll go and powder my... you know.

HE SIGHS You don't suffer from your bowels?

Mercifully, non.

Sound constitution and a clear conscience.

I'll tell you what's wrong with the medical aspects of this case, Poirot.

The murder weapon is not what killed him.

Smothered in gore and blood and hair.

But...

It is the wrong shape.

Clever you.

Monsieur le doctor... where were you at the hour of the murder?

Here.

I was called out to Cecily Leadbetter which means having to listen to her rant for an hour.

But she pays well.

LEADBETTER SNORES Check if you like, wake her up.

But you'll need your tin hat.

If you please to excuse me, Doctor.

Oh... just one thing.

Madame Rosaleen Cloade.

What about her?

POIROT: I think she is not well.

Be kind enough to call upon her and... send to me the bill?

Of course.

LIONEL: 'The murder weapon is not what killed him.'

POIROT: 'It is the wrong shape.'

Not so fast, sir.

Madame.

I know jolly well what you are, sir.

You're a pimp, sir.

That's what you are.

I've seen the floozies... traipsing.

Floozy?

Up and down the stairs the night that idiot was killed.

I saw that vinegar-faced doxy with her hair tied up in an orange scarf.

SHE CHUCKLES I know your game, sir.

This woman in the scarf, madame.

She was up the stairs or down?

LEADBETTER: She was scuttling down, having leached the vital juices from your customer in number three.

- Enoch Arden?

- What?

Did you report this observation to the police?

The police?

Where?

You direct them to me.

I'll make the stinkers hop.

What you make hop, Madame Leadbetter, are the little grey cells.

And they speak to Poirot.

Allo?

It is I, Poirot.

INDISTINCT CONVERSATION IN THE DISTANCE Merci.

Are we really seriously under suspicion for bludgeoning a man to death?

I call it a bit thick.

I mean, if it were Underhay, we would have prostrated ourselves at his feet.

He'd have been our saviour.

- Well, yes, indeed.

The position most desirable for the dedicated blackmailer, no?

Mesdames, there is strong evidence that the murderer may have been a woman.

You are not obliged to tell to Poirot anything, but... it may spare you the less delicate intrusions of the police.

Very well.

Fine.

I was here, with Adela, playing... - Hangman.

- ..hangman.

Well, there you are, you see.

That was not so painful, huh?

SHE CHUCKLES NERVOUSLY Alors.

Oui.

Poirot, he must fly.

Would you please tell to your daughter that I'm sorry to have missed her?

And, oh, one thing before I go.

The last word that hanged the man, what was it?

Adze.

It's a sort of... ..tool.

POIROT: Oh, yes, of course.

A cross between a hammer and an axe.

Au revoir.

HE CLEARS THROAT GERALD: Anything I can help you with, Major?

No, thank you, Gerald.

That's what I ordered.

- Sir.

HE EXHALES Bit of news.

Bit of a blow for the Cloades.

Have to find someone else to identify Underhay to the judge.

GUNSHOT POIROT: 'Punctilious in life and yet so indiscreet in death.'

And why not leave to me a message?

There is a message.

But it's not addressed to you.

"Dear Gerald", club servant, "Sorry to cause you extra bother.

"Have a drink with me.

Chin-chin."

With the note was a hundred quid.

Even under the circumstances, that's a big drink.

I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, monsieur.

Jeremy isn't here, I'm afraid.

But Poirot, he has come to see you, Madame Cloade.

Oui, he has some information that you might find distressing.

Oh?

Were it not that you are already, I think, in possession of the facts?

Your brother, madame?

- Charles?

- Oui.

Alas, he is dead.

Oh, that is bad news.

When did you discover that?

I discover it with certainty even now as we speak.

But you have endured this knowledge for many days, no?

Damned if I'm going to cry in front of a stranger.

You're itching to tell us how you know this.

You might as well.

Poirot, he sees things, madame.

It is a habit that he cannot change.

No, it seemed probable that a member of the family Cloade... conjured into being this Enoch Arden.

The guess of Poirot was that an actor had been instructed.

But as he waited for you just now, he looked along the photographs of your family... and he found a space.

A space where a photograph, it has been removed.

FRANCES: Charles.

We were never close.

POIROT: No, but close enough to make him come running to make the imposture, eh?

A charade that cost him his life.

Money, monsieur.

I dangled money.

Half my share of the inheritance.

Oh, he came sprinting on the chance of that, all right.

He was always a deeply venal man.

But plenty of front.

He'd buy a Bentley subject to a morning's trial and swan all over London buying suits, paintings, wine.

Nobody questions your cheques when you arrive in a Bentley.

Master of the swift and heartless confidence trick.

When Hunter ground my face into the dirt, I thought, "Do you know what?

"Charles is the man we need here."

I'm sorry that he's dead.

And Major Porter, madame... ..does your sorrow extend to him?

What?

This morning, he killed himself.

SHE GASPS He left the entirety of his bribe to a servant that he barely knew.

It was the action of a man who was in utter despair at his own faiblesse and corruptibility.

- What bribe?

POIROT: Oh, madame, did you not bribe Major Porter to identify your dead brother as Robert Underhay for £100?

- I did not.

- Then what did you think when he made this claim?

A rank lie that he could not bear to face having to repeat in a criminal court.

SHE SIGHS To be absolutely honest, monsieur... nothing surprises me any more.

The world has gone mad.

CAR HONKS HORN HE LAUGHS - Made you jump, eh?

- Oui.

Think of it as a test for your heart.

No charge.

- Rosaleen... on the other hand.

- How did you find her?

- Erm, run down.

Under the weather.

- Ah.

I mean, nothing that can't be patched up with a few vitamin supplements, you know.

These I have furnished.

You know, effectively, what's wrong with her is... shell shock from the blast.

I mean, living with that bloody wretched brother doesn't help, of course, but there again, that's... that's beyond my remit.

HE CHUCKLES My terms are 30 days.

Comment?

Ah.

La douloureuse, oui.

The tragic moment when one must pay for what one has consumed.

And we've all of us been perfectly bloody to her.

Simpering to her face in the hope that she'll come across with the cash, and then sniggering up our sleeves at the way she talks, the way she dresses.

But your statement, mademoiselle, may have saved the life of her brother.

That is not sniggering up the sleeve.

That is courage.

But Monsieur Rowley, what is his view of your admission?

- He doesn't know.

- Ah.

LYNN: Yet.

I wanted to talk to David first.

That's why I came, I know he's been released.

WOMAN SCREAMS - What is it?

- Non, non, non, mademoiselle.

Mademoiselle, please.

Let Poirot.

Trop tard, trop tard.

Not too late.

She's breathing.

Get sal volatile and call an ambulance.

Smelling salts.

Ambulance.

Now!

Help me get her up on the bed.

- Oui.

SHE RETCHES Get rid of that and get cold water and towels.

Do it now.

Sorry, but in the bush, one has to get a bit shouty to make things happen.

Non, you are magnificent.

May I?

Madame?

You will permit Poirot?

ROSALEEN GRUNTS LYNN: I don't know why that keeps happening.

Huh.

It is like the bilious attack.

It is the result of ingesting too much morphine.

Even for a hardened addict like Madame Cloade, the dose was most substantial and designed to kill her.

Voila.

Fifteen to twenty ampoules.

Certainement, she should have died.

But she did not.

Why?

FOOTSTEPS APPROACHING Oh, now, here's a very pretty scene.

- David.

- Don't speak to me.

Don't look at me.

I never asked anything of you.

Your running to the police earns you nothing.

Do I have you to thank, Poirot, for saving my sister's life?

Tell me, did you actually catch the Marchmont woman in the act?

Poisoning her?

The only act, monsieur, it is yours.

You are the source of poisons here.

I regulate the amount of opiate Rosaleen takes.

And I've done so ever since the blast.

Wherever we go, the filthy stuff is kept under lock and bloody key!

No.

Not today, monsieur.

No!

Your sister, she wished to kill herself.

Who enabled her to try?

Get that woman to step away from my sister.

I want Rosaleen.

Mademoiselle.

HE SOBS SOFTLY Desecration, Lynn.

Everything I draw close...

..I defile.

Make foul.

- Shh.

Shh.

One attempted suicide.

One successful suicide.

One ordinary decent murder.

HE CHUCKLES I don't understand any of it.

KNOCKING ON DOOR MAN: Mr Poirot?

- Oui?

- From Scotland Yard, sir.

Merci.

How I dread the answer that is contained in this envelope.

If it is "no"... ..then Poirot has mistaken this case from the very beginning.

But if it is "yes"... POIROT SCOFFS Poirot, t'es imbecile.

You ordered the newspapers, you read them.

You should whip yourself around the town... ..for not asking this question before.

The answer... it is "yes".

You know who's done our murder?

Mm-mm.

There is no murder at Warmsley Vale.

But it is a place that harbours one who is guilty of the most cynical, merciless, abominable slaughter of many blameless people.

Many.

The carapace is torn away, mon ami.

And the evil... ..it is disclosed.

Rowley.

You've been crying.

I shall probably cry again in a minute.

Is this a good place to talk?

Or shall we go inside?

No, here's good.

In this shit.

I can't marry you, Rowley.

You know that, don't you?

SHE SIGHS It's a relief, isn't it?

What does that mean?

We've each been waiting for the other to say...

I asked you a question!

It means, Rowley, that you and I are not suited to each other, and to pretend otherwise would be to condemn ourselves.

So, who am I suited to?

I'd be fascinated to know.

Somebody who properly appreciates what you're trying to achieve here.

Someone for whom... ..it is enough.

I see.

So, we've established that I am not enough for Lynn Marchmont.

- Don't do this, Rowley.

- Don't tell me what to do!

You have no authority over me now.

So the question is... who is enough for her?

Who is the lucky lad?

David.

Hmm.

I love him.

SPADE CLANGING LYNN: He loves me.

I don't for a minute imagine we'll be particularly happy together, but the funny thing is, I don't care.

Love is bigger than happiness.

You bitch!

LYNN GROANS You bloody bitch!

LYNN GROANS LOUDLY "Love is bigger than happiness"?

Bloody heartless bitch!

SHE GASPS He shan't have you, Lynn.

No, that wouldn't be right at all.

Please.

I've killed two people for the love of you!

What's David done?

What's David done?

- Be careful!

POIROT: Monsieur Cloade!

You will help the lady to her feet.

SHE PANTS Immediately!

It is time for Poirot to speak.

The death of Rosaleen Cloade.

Through whose mind has this thought not crossed, eh?

Could anything be more convenient for the indigent family Cloade?

- She's not dead, Poirot.

POIROT: No, monsieur, she lives.

But if you could have killed her by wishing it, she should have died a thousand times.

And such dissembling.

Such mendacity.

You, madame!

With your great command of the voices from the dead.

Voices that speak miraculously at seance.

Hatred like a sore.

Say your name.

Say it.

You'd do it with a corpse!

Bloody little whore.

POIROT: 'But your sister, she did not approve.

'She tried to get you to desist, but, oh, no, 'you could not.

'And on the night of the killing, 'she found you again.

'And knowing that you would be compromised, 'she offered to you the mutually convenient alibi 'of the game of hangman.'

Adze.

- Buggering Irish dwarf!

LIONEL: Katherine.

There's words for her.

Snivelling slutbucket!

LIONEL: Katherine!

- F-Frothing little frigger!

LIONEL: Katherine.

SHE CHUCKLES NERVOUSLY That's enough.

Bien sur.

The good doctor, who, on the night of the killing, attended to Madame Leadbetter.

For how long, Madame Leadbetter, for one hour?

An hour?

Ten minutes at the most.

Charged me for an hour, the sewer.

The physician, whose own digestive system is crippled by the colossal quantity of morphine to which it is subjected every day!

Bon sang!

No wonder this household is in need of funds.

And then, Poirot, he sent you to examine Rosaleen Cloade.

Et voila!

What you had suspected since the day of the trial, when you saw in her your own symptoms of... intoxication.

'It was confirmed.'

Good.

Good.

POIROT: 'A fellow addict with a treasure trove of morphia.'

Good.

POIROT: 'C'est marrant, eh, doctor, 'that your self-serving theft 'actually saved the life of the patient?

'For in her attempted suicide... '..she had consumed, what, 15, 20 ampoules?'

But only a handful of these contained the morphine because the rest you had emptied most hastily and refilled with the castor oil.

The vitamin supplement for which you wish to charge Poirot 20 guineas, huh?

Monsieur.

I'm sorry, but... you are damaging this family by saying things that can never be unsaid.

It has to stop.

I can't pretend that I never thought about bumping off the widow.

But I killed Arden.

- Oui.

Charles.

Bea summoned me here, told me the whole damned thing before I even set foot in the room.

'I felt I had the advantage, 'but he just stood there so revoltingly supercilious, 'oozing corruption.

'And I just felt the red mist coming over me.'

POIROT: 'For not only had you already met this man... 'but you had seen his photograph in the house of your aunt.'

Ever since I was a bloody child, nobody in your generation took me seriously, trusted me.

But you knew that they were scheming, this pair, independently, to get the money of Gordon for the family.

- Why didn't you tell me?

- Et bien.

Your temper, it was gone.

And you struck him.

Oh, I struck the bugger like it was going out of style.

ROWLEY GRUNTS ROWLEY: 'Straight down.

'He whacked his head on the stone thing round the fire.

'Funny, I knew immediately that he was dead.'

POIROT: 'And you saw your opportunity.'

'You dragged the body to the centre of the room and... '..you killed him for the second time?'

But you remembered to clean the fire curb of the blood, monsieur, oui.

'But you only cleaned one side.

'Poirot, he sees.'

I was... pretty confident that with Bea's enthusiastic account of what she'd overheard, that this whole affair would be laid squarely at Hunter's door.

That suited me well enough.

I knew Lynn had fallen in love with him.

Knew it before you did.

And then came the pretty little comedy of the poor Major Porter.

How do you know it was me who set him up?

Don't suppose you've got a smoke, Monsieur Poirot?

I seem to have run myself dry.

POIROT: 'Because Major Porter, he did not include you 'in the cadging of the cigarette.

'Because he already knew that you did not smoke.'

"Oh, but where are we to find such a convenient individual?"

Your words.

When only hours beforehand you had pressed £100 into the hand of the man that you knew that Poirot would produce.

Told you I'd killed two people.

I did for Porter just as surely as if I'd pulled the trigger myself.

Oui.

Two deaths.

But neither of them were acts of murder.

But today, mes amis, Poirot shall produce a murderer of whose viciousness he stands in awe.

What about the tart in the headscarf?

Ah, Madame Leadbetter, now, that is a question that is most apposite.

- Can't understand her at all.

- No?

But she is here with us now, madame... the cold-blooded murderer of whom I speak.

Superintendent.

Purely for the sake of form, Monsieur Hunter, would you put on this scarf?

You're gonna have to do a little better than that, Poirot.

Very well.

Superintendent, am I correct in assuming that you still have in your pocket the lipstick?

Here.

Eh, s'il vous plait, pass it to Monsieur Hunter.

Again, purely for the... - No!

It's undignified.

Peculiarly lacking in dignity at the time, too.

Then perhaps you might explain to us why you thought it necessary?

HE CHUCKLES Would you mind awfully doing it yourself?

You seem comfortable with the sound of your own voice.

Very well.

At half past six, you return here to say yes to Monsieur Arden... that you will pay to him the blackmail money.

But you find him dead.

And you realise that you are in imminent danger of being chained to a crime you did not commit.

So, oh, no, you must not be here.

You should be in London.

So you... seek out or... No, you CONVERSE with Mademoiselle Marchmont.

And in her statement, we find that you told to her that you had to catch the 7:02 to London.

And that you telephoned her from there soon after ten, huh?

Pas possible, monsieur!

You did not go to London!

You returned here, dressed in borrowed robes, to forge yourself the perfect alibi for the crime you did not commit.

'You leave for the police to find a little clue, 'the lipstick.

'You did everything to create the illusion 'that at half past eight Enoch Arden was still alive...' HE IMITATES ARDEN I've seen you right, sweetie.

There's a good girl.

Off you pop.

POIROT: '..by imitating his voice, 'and making sure that the woman visitor to his room 'was seen hurrying away by Madame Leadbetter.'

Tell us about the telephone call.

That's the bit that intrigues me.

As instructed, at precisely four minutes past ten, Rosaleen Cloade makes the call to Mademoiselle Marchmont.

I have a call from London.

TELEPHONE RINGING LYNN: 'David?'

DAVID: I'm here.

All of which proves that I am alert to the hideous subterfuges to which this family will stoop.

But none of which makes me a murderer.

Then you left unlocked the door to the cabinet containing the morphine.

DAVID: Oh, yes.

That was remiss of me.

Why did I do that?

POIROT: 'You knew that if you gave to her the opportunity, 'she would take her own life.

'The final service for your delectation.'

DAVID: 'Never.'

I would never harm my sister.

Non.

HE CHUCKLES But the lady presently watching you from over there, she is not your sister.

ALL MURMURING Non.

Her name is Eileen Corrigan.

A simple farm girl as she defined herself to me at the church.

And whatever the papers may say... ..she did not die in Mayfair two years ago.

Non.

But the real Rosaleen Cloade... ..she did.

Why?

Because you murdered her.

'More than any Cloade, you hated Rosaleen.

'For in her happy marriage to Gordon Cloade, 'she had excluded you.

'Your first love, your little sister, 'had surrendered herself to another man.

'But you had already made your own arrangements 'to deal with her, 'for you had drawn under your spell 'a parlour maid who was young, Irish... 'and in the service of your sister.

'Her name?

'Eileen Corrigan.

'You had seduced her.'

Had deliberately... ..impregnated her.

And had had the baby disposed of.

SHE GASPS Not true.

True!

Outside the church, Eileen Corrigan told me that she'd been cut off from the mercy of God.

- She miscarried.

- No, monsieur!

She endured abortion.

As it was always your intention that she should.

You wanted to crush the very soul of this simple Catholic girl... To make her so terrified by the state of her own life that she would deliver it to you.

And maintained by morphine... ..ruled by terror... ..Eileen Corrigan would do whatever you told her to do.

Why?

Why?

Because you, monsieur, offered her salvation if she did, and... ..the fires of hell if she did not.

'And what you wanted from her that day was to become, 'in totality, huh?

'The widow of Gordon Cloade.

'But your sister, she had the concern for you.

'She knew that her marriage had upset you.

'She wished to use the occasion of this luncheon 'as a reconciliation.

She wanted to beg 'your forgiveness, to have a share in her good fortune.'

SHE GASPS Dear God, David.

What in hell is happening here?

POIROT: 'But there was no forgiveness to be had.

'You punish her by taking her fortune for yourself, 'and so you'd send to her death most violent, your only sister.'

Cut me.

Cut my face.

EILEEN: 'Cut my face.'

That's what you said, Mr Hunter.

And that's what I did.

And I found pleasure in it.

So your sister, she returned to her husband.

CLOCK TICKING EXPLOSION, GLASS SHATTERING Dynamite.

HE SIGHS There was no accident of gas in Mount Street.

Non.

A letter received today from Scotland Yard contained the expert forensic evidence confirming my suspicions.

There was only the premeditated explosion of a bomb.

A device built and operated by you, David Hunter... ..engineer and road builder.

How depraved and how evil does a man have to be... to cause the slaughter of so many innocent people for the concealment of a single murder?

If God should withhold His mercy from anyone on Earth, monsieur... ..it surely will be you.

One thing you don't know.

How many sticks of the blasting stuff is tick-tick-ticking away around this room?

I can't honestly say myself.

I did it in a bit of a hurry.

But quite enough to blow this dreary little pub half a mile in the air.

HE GASPS, SHE GASPS No, you won't.

You won't do it.

You won't do it.

Because you love me.

You love me, David.

And this time, you will care for what you love.

You will not destroy it.

I don't believe I will.

And besides... ..there is no dynamite.

I had you going, though.

DAVID: ♪ Your baby Has gone down the plug-hole ♪ ♪ Your baby Has gone down the plug ♪ ♪ The poor little thing Is so skinny and thin ♪ s♪ It ought to have been Washed in a jug.

♪ HE BREATHES HEAVILY DOOR OPENS Miss Lynn Marchmont, monsieur.

Ah, bon.

Show her in, George.

This is a pleasure so unexpected, mademoiselle.

So this is for me?

It did not make me popular on the Underground.

Open it.

It happened yesterday.

I suppose you read about it in the newspaper.

Oui.

The members of my rich family still speaking to me keep saying how lucky I am.

And what do you say, mademoiselle, to them?

I say "goodbye" mostly.

So you return to Africa?

It's my home.

But you will come again to see Poirot, eh... sometime?

Don't know.

Might do.

Can't promise.

Bon.

Look, open that, will you?

Before I blub.

I don't want to blub.

Ah!

LYNN: I got her from an Arab.

Her job, apparently, is to watch over your house so that only good things are allowed to enter.

Write me a letter, monsieur.

I like your letters.