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Agatha Christie's Poirot (1989–2013): Season 11, Episode 4 - Appointment with Death - full transcript

Syria 1937. While accompanying her husband on an archaeological dig, the abusive and overbearing Lady Boynton is found stabbed to death.


Lord Boynton!

Lord Boynton! Hey!

Quoi?

Lord Boynton!

- I...
- Don't...

- Don't speak.
- Why not?

You've got sunstroke.

You need to just stay
where you are, be quite still.

Oh, actually what
I need to do is sit up

and drink a lot of water.

Shukran.

I'm dehydrated.

RAYMOND:
I've sent for a doctor.

Already got one.
Sarah King, M.D.

You're the fellow
who's gonna get sunstroke,

walking around without a hat.

I just introduced myself.

Raymond.

Ah, my... my mother needs me.

Well, if you can't
introduce yourself,

perhaps you might introduce me
to your mother?

Unlikely.

Thé au citron,
s'il vous plaît.

- Oui, monsieur.
- Et chaud. Très chaud.

Oui.

Alas, madame, I am desolate.

You have no newspapers
of any description?!

I am so sorry.

You don't know what sorry is.

Got you,
you double-distilled blighter!

Colonel Carbury. Mon vieux.

Poirot.

All these years traveling,

you'd think I'd be used to
creepy-crawlies by now.

Not a bit of it.

I did not know that you were
the enthusiast pour I'antiquité.

For what, old boy?

No, but you are come also for
the exploration of Lord Boynton?

Ah, no, no, no.
Passing through.

Oh, vraiment.
To where do you pass, Colonel?

Here and there.

You know, here, and then,
you know...

There?

Or thereabouts.

Absolutely.

- Can I help you?
- Oh!

Agnieszka, you are such a fool.

I am looking for number nine?

- Oh, this is six.
- Ah.

So sorry, my dear,
for my intrusion.

You are come to follow
the labors of Lord Boynton?

Yes. He's my stepfather.

Truly God has smiled upon you.

Your stepfather
does a great thing, I think.

A great man.

Oh!

So I may remain assured
of your very best services.

Thank you very much.
Too kind, sir.

Americans.

Do know how to arrive, eh?

Utterly outrageous.
Silly little man!

Sir, what about the fare?
Please.

Look here.
Do you know who I am?

I am the son of Lord Boynton.

Son of lord, you pay.

Please.

Thank you, sir.

The son.

Bloody shambles!

Typical. If you...

Hey, Jinny.

It's all right, honey.

It's all right now.

I was being drowned.

It was a dream, baby.
It was just a dream.

It was a memory.

I can't go on like this.

12 minutes.

- You allowed me to oversleep...
- Mother...

- ...by 12 minutes.
- I'm so sorry

Fetch my stick.

Stick!

Ah. Excellent. There you are.

It's Leonard.

Boynton. Your stepson.

How good of you to come,
Mr. Boynton.

Carol, my vitamins.

- Now, Mother?
- Clearly.

Jinny, you look like you're
suffering from consumption.

It's drawing attention
to yourself

in a most unattractive way.

Go to your room and apply color.

Raymond.
Don't sit there. Sit here.

Nanny. Go somewhere else.

You look tired, dear.

We need to discuss
your attitude.

Sulking is like shyness.

It is unacceptable.
It is showing off.

I'm not sulking, Mother.

I merely question the wisdom
of traveling

when the market is so jittery.

Wall Street knows better than to
breathe without consulting me,

wherever I may be,
at whatever juncture.

I forgot my book.
Fetch my book, Raymond.

You think they're a rum crew?

Wait till you meet
the archaeologist husband.

Although he's not
actually psychotic.

More just old-fashioned bonkers.

Theodore Gerard. We have met.

Bonce doctor.

I advised on a case
in Edinburgh.

- Used to have a beard.
- Oh! Yes, of course.

The bonce doctor.

I recognize you, monsieur.

Of course, it's all a sham.

The real object
of the exercise...

...is a reconciliation
of his offspring and hers.

Happy families among the tombs.

There is disharmony?

Where Lady Boynton is,
the music of the spheres

is curiously like
nails down a blackboard.

Now, you must excuse me.
My personal disorder.

Can't help sticking my stupid
face down the lion's throat.

Do you mind if I join you
for a moment?

I can't find
these wretched pills.

Oh, God, Raymond.

She has them.

What?

She has them already.
They're in her bag.

The book she sent me to find,
she didn't even bring to Syria.

Carol, we know these games.

One day, Raymond...

- I swear to God.
- I know.

No, I will take a hammer,
and I swear...

Maybe we should talk about that.

- Don't joke with me, Ray.
- I'm your brother.

I never joke.

The way we let
that woman steal them from us.

- CAROL: Oh, God, Raymond.
- I know.

Well, then, we have no choice.

She has to die.

Hurry up! Hurry!

Now. We're going now.

Please, please.

Yes, sir.
Please. Please, please.

Tickety-boo. Please. This way.

Okay, okay.

Whew!

Looks like Lord Boynton's

expedition has created
quite a stir.

So apart from the family
on a three-line whip,

Dr. King joins us, I suspect,

because she stuck a pin
in a map of the world.

Mr. Jefferson Cope may
actually be a little bit dull.

He might possibly like old bits
of bone and pot and whatnot.

The honorable Leonard,
saddled with

running his father's house
in Dorset on no income

while said father
swans around the Middle East

looking for the head
of John the Baptist.

As for the Polish nun,

she gives me the heeby-jeebies,
personally.

No problem. No, no.
No problem.

Don't be afraid. No problem.

Abdullah! Muhammad!

No problem. No problem.

COPE: Hm.

What have we here, I wonder?

A mobile tollbooth?

Dame Celia Westholme.

Sorry to hold up
the bus, everybody.

Camel was on loan.
Had to go back.

Has Boynton made any significant
progress, does anybody know?

Have you read
any of her books, monsieur?

Oui.

It's her fault I'm here.

She makes travel sound
so thrilling.

Ah.

Welcome, welcome, welcome!

Did you have a nice journey?

I know.
It's ghastly, isn't it?

Hello, little blossoms.

Hot showers and cold beer
for everyone.

Even you, Nanny,
you raving old dipsomaniac.

- Leonard. Dear boy.
- Father.

Ah.

My child bride.

Dinner's in the pavilion
at 8:00.

Everyone's invited.
Come along.

Raymond.

Utter bonanza
of crippled personalities.

I'd have paid extra for this.

Making yourself useful, Leonard?
Good man.

Coming along.

That blind chap
down in the Arab camp...

Every night I hear him tell
a variation on the same story.

I've heard it all over Syria.

The daughter of Herodias

brought John the Baptist's
severed head to this land.

She buried it where the river
meets the mountain.

Now, I've been every damn place
in Syria

where any river meets anything

that could possibly be construed
as a mountain,

from Krak to Aleppo.

This is the only place left.
It has to be here.

Come along, then. Chop-chop.

Oh, mon Dieu.

And these words...
Do they speak of John?

No.

It tells a different story.

A man is sitting in a tavern
in Damascus.

He looks up from his wine

and sees Death staring at him
across the room.

He cries out...
"But this cannot be my time!"

He flees Damascus.

He rides his horse fast,

right across the desert
to Samarra.

When he arrives, he is thirsty.

Standing before him at the well
is Death.

Hm.

You're nodding.

Upon seeing Death
for the second time,

the man, he cries out...

"This cannot be!
For I escaped you in Damascus."

And Death, he lays his hand

upon the shoulder of the man
and says,

"I also was surprised to see..."

"...to see you in Damascus.

For my appointment with you,

it was always to be here
in Samarra."

Try as one might,

one cannot escape
one's rightful destiny.

Oui.

I know you're here, Johnny.

I can almost smell you.

Sugar, Raymond?

To put sugar in one's tea is
indicative of weak character.

Raymond doesn't take sugar.

Good morning.
You look dreadful.

Thank you. I feel dreadful.

You should see a doctor.

DR. GERARD: I just did.
He told me I had malaria.

DR. KING: Oh, Lord.

I've dosed myself up, inasmuch
as it makes a difference.

Well, you shan't come
on the expedition today.

If I have an attack
on the way to the river,

I'll most probably die.

The obvious solution
is to remain here all day

with Lady Boynton.

- You'd better come with us.
- Not a difficult decision.

The sun is up.

I shall spend today
observing from the platform.

Good idea, poppet.
Cracking view of the casbah.

You can keep a beady one
on Leonard and myself.

You assist with the digging,
monsieur?

Oh, I would assist
with digging the drains

if the alternative
were enforced social intercourse

with my father's
ghastly 10-ton wife.

You won't come down
to the river, Lady Boynton?

By all accounts, the vista of
the casbah is very fine.

Did the boy bring my Times yet?

No, Mother.

Dismiss him.

Sorry. Might have been stung.

Ah! I am stung!

Yes, there's the bugger there.

Oh, goodness.
Let me look at you.

Do not touch me.

Never touch me.

You're always looking at me.

- Golly, am I?
- All the time.

I turn 'round
and you're just looking at me.

Why?

Perhaps I like
the shape of your face.

It's a very pretty face.

Do you mind?

I certainly shan't do it
if you mind.

I don't mind.

S'il vous plaît, M. Cope.

Do not allow Poirot
to detain you.

Oh, I'm in no hurry.

The place has been there
a few years.

It's not going anywhere.

You are acquainted
with the family Boynton?

One can't live in New York

and fail to be acquainted
with the Boyntons.

Lady B. is
a pretty big financial noise.

I like her.

If I may say so, monsieur,

it would appear that your amity
it is not reciprocated.

Oh, she hates everybody.
Everybody knows that.

She just doesn't give a damn.

I think it's quite stylish.

You have the outlook
most benevolent, monsieur.

I'm easily pleased.

Out in the sun yet again
without a hat.

Some people never learn.

Raymond, let me read you
what Mr. Baedeker has to say...

"The monumental edifice
known as..."

Excuse me. Thank you so much.

I thought that,
free from the appalling mother,

I might be permitted
the smallest amount

of anodyne conversation
with Raymond.

But no.

Evidently the family has decided
that I'm a gold digger

and all overtures of friendship
must be stamped on.

Frankly, it's rather insulting.

But I'm not having it.

Ladies and gentlemen.

Now we may rest.

We are arrived.

God is good. God is glorious.

If you want
my professional opinion...

which you don't, but you should,

so I'm gonna give it
to you anyway...

Your family
would do well to hear

what Herr Freud said to me
at a conference last year.

"To be American is bad enough,"
he said,

"but to put money...

and to..."

- Take a little...
- Oh, oh.

- Okay, let me look at you.
- I'll be fine.

Mahmoud, this gentleman needs to
return to camp immediately.

Get your hands off me.
I'll be fine.

Ruddy paws off me.

Doctors.
Think you know everything.

- You don't have to carry me.
- I want the exercise.

- Jinny!
- That's my name.

Just need a drink of water.

I can hear the gears grinding
in the old cerebellum.

Not really.

I was just wondering
how Lady Boynton

managed to negotiate
that ladder affair.

It's pretty vertiginous.

Would it kill you
to call her "mother"?

For me?

"Stepmother" would do.

God, it's hot.

Yes, it is.

Perhaps you would be kind enough

to take the lady in question
a glass of water.

Father, look, I'm sorry.

But are you genuinely blind

to the way she treats...
everyone?

Except you?

Now.

I say.

Would you like a drink?

Can we get you anything at all?

To drink?

Like a bucket of strychnine?

Get these buggers away from me.

Perfectly well.

Lie down.

Doctor, what do we do?

What was that?
What did he say?

- He said bugger off.
- Oh.

Right you are. Can do.

Not you.

You stay.

- No, Jinny.
- Oh, God.

- I thought...
- Yeah.

I thought you wanted my company.

I do. Yes. That's...
That's exactly what I want.

Listen to me.

It's not you.

It's not about the conquest.

For me, denial is
a very particular pleasure.

It's not...

People say
travel broadens the mind.

Mainly because people like me
insist on it in their books.

But I have to say
I doubt that it is true.

On the contrary, I suspect
travel narrows the mind.

One becomes so blasé
about the wonders of the world.

The more I travel, the more
clearly I understand that...

...all that ever matters
is the people.

Not the places.

Those Arabs telling stories
over couscous in the camp.

They fascinate me.

This, it's pretty enough, but...

...show me the humans
every time.

I don't much care for her.

The way she hangs around
the younger Boynton girl.

They sniff out weakness...
nuns... and misery,

and they gorge on it.

Bloody vampires in drag,
quite frankly.

Poirot.

How did you find the river?

- Oh, I...
- Good, good.

We haven't turned up
any glories yet.

But we live in hope.

"Nil carborundum" and all that.

And Lady Boynton,
she has enjoyed her day?

Oh, yes, monsieur.

Well, she always does.

The word "boredom"
simply not in the vocab.

Darling?

I-I think it's time
you climbed down from your perch

for a martini.

Poppet?

Shall we say about 10 minutes?

Little minx.

Help! Help!

Et alors.

Ça commence.

Help!

Help!

- You the girl who's a doctor?
- Yes.

Then you've met death.
So have I.

Come on.

Shut her eyes.

Shut them.

I-I'm afraid it's true.

She's dead.

Your appointment with death,
madame.

It was always to be here.

Et maintenant, mon colonel,
you are arrived?

This is an event for which
you were prepared, non?

No. This is something else.

Later. Show me the dead woman.

What happened here?

Excusez-moi,
but do you commission me

to examine this case?

I do.

You two getting married
or something?

Mind if I have a gander
at your patient, Doc?

- You recovered, Doctor?
- I'll manage.

Juicy big hole
where there shouldn't be one.

- Somebody stuck her.
- A knife.

No. Bigger than a knife.
Fatter blade.

A chisel?

Chisel fits the bill.

Whatever the implement,
it was wielded with authority.

It was one blow in,

then vigorously churned about
to create maximum damage.

She can't have been dead
for more than an hour.

Yes, I don't know why
that should be there.

It is wax.

Well, one thing's for certain.

She can't stay here
in this heat.

I'll make arrangements
for the body to be transported.

Un moment, s'il vous plaît,
mon colonel.

Excusez-moi.

Yes.

Already there is so much
about this case that is wrong.

You yourself are wrong.
You are not what you appear.

You are not a policeman, yet you
know a crime it has been committed

before it had been reported.

You bear the rank of colonel,

yet where is it, mon ami,
that you serve?

So enough of these crypticities.

Explain yourself to Poirot
or he cannot accept this case.

Point!

- Crypticities?
- Oui.

Poirot, you're a foreigner.

But I judge you to be a good egg
and therefore trustworthy.

Now, what I'm about to deal you

is a card you must keep
very close to your chest.

Is that understood?

Oui.

You continue with the digging,
monsieur?

I am given to understand

it's what Lady Boynton
would have wanted.

You were, I think...
please to forgive me...

somewhere in this area
this afternoon?

Yes, Poirot,
do you think you could postpone

your interrogation
of the obvious murder suspect

so he can arrange
some necessities

for his distressed father?

Thank you so much.

Oh.

I understand you're looking
for a chisel, yes?

Fill your boots.

WESTHOLME: [ Speaking Arabic ]

Dame Celia. Lord Boynton.

What is it that you read?

I'm cheering the bereaved
with judicious extracts

from "The Perfumed Garden."

Are people saying
that I killed my wife?

Non. Non, monsieur.

We are all united in our desire
to comfort you.

I was always glad
that I was older than Leonora.

I thought,
"At least I'll die first.

I won't have the agony
of trying to live without her."

Nevertheless it must be admitted
the death of Lady B.

Is hardly detrimental
to the community.

But it is not well, monsieur,

that a human being should die
before her time it is come.

En plus, the nanny,
Mme. Taylor,

has the great distress.

All right, all right.
Keep your hair on.

For heaven's sake, I was just
trying to lighten the mood.

How did you achieve
your newspaper, M. Cope?

Came with me.

Many thanks.

I'm just lousy
at being intrepid.

Always so hungry
for news of home.

Back at the hotel you couldn't
get a paper for love nor money.

DR. GERARD: I know.

This may help you
in times of stress.

Mon colonel?

Your men...
When is it that they arrive?

Midnight, I should think.

Oh.

Then you must have them
search this area at dawn.

The search most diligent.
All around.

Looking for what?

In the first place, mon ami,
a syringe.

It is instrumental in the murder
of Lady Boynton.

Right. Good grief.

- It will be done.
- Bon.

You see, mon ami,

the voices
of the little gray cells,

they have begun to sing
to Poirot.

Slit throat.

Je ne comprends pas.

It is not the custom du pays

to waste life and the food
in this manner?

Barbarous.

- Monsieur.
- Merci.

Look, Poirot,
sorry to be so standoffish.

Bit grim
seeing one's father cry.

Oui.
Je vous en prie, monsieur.

What do you want to know?

I should like, monsieur,
for you to tell me

if you spoke to your stepmother
yesterday afternoon,

and if so, when?

We spoke. About 1:00.

- Hottest part of the day.
- Bon.

She'd been perched up there
like some evil great pudding

ever since you lot set off.

I say we spoke.

I spoke.

She ignored me.

Nothing unusual about that.

Can we get you anything at all?

To drink?

You know how it was.

One mustn't disturb her when
she was taking the sun, but...

God help you
if you neglected to do so.

- Monsieur.
- Oui?

- We found this syringe.
- Ah!

Where was this discovered?

In the tent
occupied by the old lady.

The nanny.

Merci.

AGNIESZKA: "And the Lord said
unto the servant,

'Go out into the highways

and compel them
to come in to my feast..."'

"That my house may be filled."

It's a beautiful parable.

The word King James
renders as "compel"

is in the Greek "anagkazo."

It means "compel with violence."

The Spanish knew this.

They used this single word

to justify every atrocity
of their Inquisition.

For it is God's own command

that those unwilling
to enter his kingdom

should be persuaded in
with pain.

That's terrible.

Mm.

Compulsion of any kind, my dear,

it can be terrible.

I overheard my stepfather

telling the story
that was written here...

of Death following the man
across the desert.

Something has followed me here
to this place.

Something evil.

God is here to guard you, Jinny.

He lives in every grain of sand.

What is it now?

Sorry, gentlemen.
Sand in the grooves.

Quite. Well, the Arabs
are all accounted for.

Oui.

This case
it is most unsatisfactory.

Still plenty of suspects,
old boy.

Yes, but almost all of them
were outside of the camp

at the time that the murder
it was committed.

And this is corroborated
by a witness who is impeccable.

Me.

They were with Poirot
all of the time.

Raymond wasn't. He came back.

Bien sûr.
Cela je connais bien. Oui.

CARBURY:
Also Lord Boynton and his son.

Yes, yes. And tomorrow we begin
the further interrogations.

Mm-hmm.

That's a queer one.

Without doubt there is more
to M. Cope

than he wishes to be known.

But in that desire
and in this company

he is not unique.

Hold on. Over here. Quickly.

Off in this direction.

- Where did it come from?
- Is anyone out there?

Close all those gates
down there.

- What the hell was that?
- I don't know.

You see anyone moving?

No. Where did it come from?

It's got to be something.

Over there.

Oh, dear.

Get her inside. Quickly.

You men, over here.

Don't let anyone leave.

Sister Agnieszka!

It's okay.

It's okay. Shh. It's okay.

Everything's going to be okay.

Can I help?

Be useful to know
what she's trying to tell us.

She's not trying
to tell us anything.

She's talking to God.

You have Polish, monsieur?

You don't need Polish
to spot a woman at her prayers.

Very pretty needlework, Doc.

Shouldn't we be getting her back
to the hotel?

Ask Dr. King.

You're the
senior physician here.

Yeah, but you're much prettier

and you're handier
with the cutlery.

Besides, the nun's your patient.

I've got my hands full
with the loony nanny.

Well, this, what I've done,
it's only temporary.

- So, yes, we should.
- Ça fait du bien.

It would be helpful to Poirot
for all of us to return.

Ei veniam dare.

Ei veniam dare. That's Latin.

"Forgive him"?

Poirot has little Latin,

but it can also be, I think,
"Forgive her."

- My men can track...
- Non, non. Non.

There is no need to dispatch
your men, Colonel.

The assailant of
Sister Agnieszka has not fled.

There was a man.

He followed me
across the desert.

I woke up and...

...he was putting
a bag over my head.

Slaver. Bound to be.

People think the slave trade
is finished. It's not.

I've seen the waiting caves
on the beach at Mangapwani.

100 souls crammed into a space
hardly bigger than this tent.

I threw myself on the floor
to get away.

When I looked up, I saw...

You saw Sister Agnieszka was
struggling with your attacker?

And, well,
you tried to help her.

And you struck at the man
with what?

A rock.

Well...

And in your terror,
and in the dark,

accidentally you struck
your friend and protector.

Now, you try to get some sleep,
if you can.

Because tomorrow
we face the rigors

of the return journey, hein?

Come close, Jinny.

Let me tell you a story.

This is the legend of Gilgamesh.

- Oh. Shukran.
- Madame.

Will she be all right?

The nun?

Oh, God knows.

Will you?

- I'm not wounded.
- That's debatable.

Seems to be consensus
that you killed your mother.

Is that your view, Sarah?

Heavens.

Five consecutive words culminating
in my Christian name.

If you're going to be as
garrulous as this, Mr. Boynton,

I shall have to ask you
to be less familiar.

- Do you think I killed her?
- No.

No, but what I think
is irrelevant.

He's the one
you need to convince.

You're the authority on stories.

Tell me...

What was it that got loose
when Pandora opened the box?

- All the evils of the world
- That's it.

Mm.

Madness. Greed. Shame.

Those guys.

My stepfather did pretty much
the same thing...

...when he took the cork
out of that goddamn tomb.

And here you are, Poirot,

kicking the contents
all over town.

Did Lady Boynton
harm you physically?

My mother had little recourse
to violence.

She was too smart for that.

Instead, she just prized open
the top of our skulls

and raked her poisonous tongue
through our brains.

No place to hide, Poirot.

Even in your own head.

Ever.

Carol, um...

Carol grew up petrified.

Did her best
to ingratiate herself, you know,

to win approval,
which she never got.

Jinny just was terrified
to the point of madness.

Possibly beyond.

Did you murder your mother,
monsieur?

No.

But only because I lacked
the moral courage.

She was a monster, Poirot.

It was her pleasure, always,
to watch us suffer.

Why was she driven
to be so cruel?

To punish us, I guess.

For what offense?

For being someone else's kids.

It's true. We were adopted.

All of us.

It is no crime against God
or nature to be an orphan.

Oh, but it is, monsieur.

It is a hideous crime.

Lady Boynton...

Mrs. Pierce as she was then...
she...

She wanted
to have children so badly.

But between her and Mr. Pierce,
they couldn't make it happen.

No, for Mom,
adoption was the only route.

But once she'd assembled
her family,

of which there were
many candidates...

Don't! It was an accident.

...and rejected
a great number...

Oh, yes, monsieur, there were
many children who were

presented to us
as new siblings,

only to be removed a day later.

One child stayed longer
than the others,

but the beatings went on
until she also disappeared.

So there we were,
we lucky few...

Raymond, Carol, and Jinny.

Je ne comprends pas.

Mlle. Jinny,
she was not even born.

Who was this other child?

I don't know.

I can't remember.

Who was that little girl?

Unacceptable goods.

Merci.

Who was the child
that you beat, madame?

Can you tell it to Poirot?

Lesley.

Yes. Lesley.

Can you tell to me
about Lesley, madame?

You had to beat her?

She needed to be punished?

I did what was required of me.

I don't think
we're sufficiently sorry.

Not by a long chalk.

Again, Nanny.

God, she was an evil woman.

And Lesley, madame?
What became of her?

She is alive?

Fa... Fa... Father?

I'm not your father, my dear.

But I'll do my best...

- Can you get me that bag?
- Oui.

I'll do my best
to make you comfortable.

All right?

Thank you.

Bog-standard sedative.
Check it if you want, Poirot.

Come on.

There's a good girl. Come on.

Oh. M. Cope.

- Monsieur, do you have a moment?
- But of course.

I, uh...

I-I don't know
if this has any relevance

to, uh, what's been going on,

but it seems I've lost
quite a lot of money.

M. Cope, je suis désolé.

No, no. That's okay.

What's of interest is that the
stock that's gone down the pan

is the Pierce Holding Company.

- Non.
- Yes.

Lady Boynton's outfit.

Fireproof. Bombproof.

The safest bet on Wall Street.

I myself invested substantially.

Seems that while we've been away

there's been this rumor about
the true value of the company.

These things, they come and go.

Lady Boynton'd generally
get up on her hind legs,

tell everyone to shut up
and sit up straight

and it'd all calm down.

But she wasn't there.

The rumor became a panic,

then a stampede to get out.

The whole outfit's bust to hell.

Shares are worthless.

LORD BOYNTON: Oh, God.

Here comes
that ghastly little Belgian,

wringing his hands
like the cowman

come to collect
his Christmas box.

He's being respectful, Father.

He's being a damned nuisance.

Monsieur.

Come for a nightcap
among the bereaved?

Non, merci, Lord Boynton.

Quand même.

Oh, for God's sake,
sit down, Poirot.

You're giving me indigestion
hovering like that.

Merci.

I suppose it is quite proper
that I should be questioned.

I was on the spot at the time.

And I imagine I inherit
my wife's estate, so...

And the estate
of Lady Boynton...

Of what does this
principally consist?

Well, God knows.
I never had charge of the money.

And Leonora just subbed
the digging as it went along.

Do you know, Leonard?

Raymond would have
a clearer idea of value.

But it must add up
to a few quid.

You disagree, monsieur?

Since we have been in Syria,

there has been the financial
collapse catastrophique.

The Pierce Holding Company
is utterly disintegrated.

It seems that the death
of Lady Boynton

was not enough, hein?

It also seems that she has been
obliterated from the earth.

It may surprise you to know,
Mr. Poirot,

that I am not unaware

that Lady Boynton
was not universally adored.

Like many women
who know their own mind,

she found it all too easy
to make enemies.

She did not make an enemy of me.

I loved her.

I am not ashamed to say so.

To you or to my son.

Was it necessary to air that
observation in quite that way?

The methods of Poirot, monsieur,
cannot always be agréable.

Mesdames.

Excusez-moi, Dame Celia.

Were you acquainted
with Lady Boynton

before encountering her
at the tomb?

Well, I'd seen her about.

And where had you seen her,
madame?

Lady Boynton was pointed out
to me by a man at a party

who then preceded to tell me
rather a lot about her.

About the way, in particular,
she treated her children.

I decided then and there
I had no wish to further

acquaintance with the woman
by introducing myself to her.

She sounded perfectly odious.

And who was this man
that was so well informed?

I didn't catch his name.

I wanted her dead, too.
Just in case you were wondering.

Well, she was
clearly blocking my way.

Raymond couldn't even
look me in the eye

with her still in existence.

So do you commend yourself to me
as a suspect, mademoiselle?

I commend myself to you as one

who has recently invested
a great deal of time

in a relationship that was
always heading nowhere.

I now know that
when I find something I want,

I must act to take it.

WESTHOLME: Bravo.

Sadly, all this resolution has
taken your mind off the game.

It's a little trick I learnt
the other day in Vienna.

You see,
just when you least expect it,

the church comes storming back.

Checkmate.

I didn't know you smoked.

I don't.

I've given up.

Since you threw the cigarette
away, you've given up?

Well, your determination
is impressive.

All six seconds of it.

Well, keep talking.
I could go 10.

If I hadn't spoken, would you
just have kept watching me?

We'll never know.

You're a strange man.

Does that matter?

Not necessarily.

Raymond.

Yeah.

Now is the time to kiss me.

Yeah.

Anybody in here who isn't dead?

Ei veniam dare.

They have him, by God.

They have found
the head of John.

News that is astonishing,
monsieur.

I must return to Ain Musa
immediately.

Is there a problem?

Nanny Taylor
has drowned herself in the bath.

- Suicide.
- Oh, my God.

- That's awful news.
- Oui.

Is somebody dealing with it?

Oui, monsieur.

Because I must...
I-I must get back to the dig.

I can't, you know...

Oui.

Moral of the story being,
if you want your death

to attract the concern
of your employer,

make sure
you're 2,000 years old.

- Ah, oui.
- Oh!

Keep meaning
to give you something.

It's the details
of the immigration you needed.

And on the back here
is a list of employees.

Merci.

As requested,
I've had a word with Mahmoud.

Some of his boys
are privately saying

that there was some character

lurking about
on the ladder that afternoon.

An Arab. Not one of them.

But that was a good hour or so
before the time of death.

This case is a mess, Poirot.

Not so, mon ami.

This case,

when Poirot has almost given up

scrabbling for purchase
on its shell of armor...

Boff.

It opens to him like a flower.

Good Lord.

So, what do we do?

We do what the murderer
least expects Poirot to do.

We return to the dig.

All of us.

This case, mes amis,

it is full of the red... fish.

Herrings, possibly?

Merci.

There are so many diversions,
so many distractions.

Attend well to Poirot

as he peels them away
like the skin of an onion.

Oh, herrings, onions.

Do get a wriggle on.
There's a good fellow.

Lord Boynton.

Your wife,
she funded your expeditions

as you went along, hein?

How much more efficient
it would be

to have the money
all at once, non?

- What?
- There is no money.

Non, vraiment, monsieur.

For you, non,
there never has been.

For the running of Boynton Hall,
alors, is for you

always most arduous.

No, Lady Boynton, she was always
most munificent to your father

but never towards his son.

You can
stare at me significantly

as long as you like, monsieur.

I've done nothing wrong.

Tell to Poirot
what was in the bag.

What bag?

What did you agree to purchase
from the ragged Arab boy?

LEONARD: I remember the boy.

I don't remember what rubbish
he was flogging.

Fortunately, Poirot, he does.

And from it...

...he extracted...

...this.

- Voilà.
- Voilà what?

Well, it's a tooth.

D'être precis,

it is a molar taken
from the upper jaw of St. John.

You will observe
that it bears the traces

of the filling of gold.

For this skull,

it was supposed to masquerade as
the skull of John the Baptist.

But, in fact, it is, as you say,
M. Leonard, rubbish.

What the devil
are you talking about, man?

This wasn't purchased
from a hawker and planted.

This is untouched.

This entire sample
was exhumed e situ intacto.

Forgive me, Poirot, but you're
driveling utter bilge.

Pompous little Belgian.

My father has explained this
object was discovered undisturbed.

It's a perfect fit.

Bon.

I don't understand.

All your life, Father...

...traipsing about
the Middle East,

time after time
finding absolutely nothing

of significance.

I wanted it to end.

You dear, deluded, stupid man.

I never expected
your wife's bloody money.

I never wanted it.

I wanted you
to be free of this need,

to find
what you've been looking for.

You mind
if I step out for a while?

- I'll come with you.
- No, no.

I simply wish to be alone
for a moment.

Is that permitted?

Je vous en prie, monsieur.

Now the three of you.

The litany of cruelties
you have endured, hein?

Well, the ceaseless
humiliations.

You multiply these incidents
by hundreds and thousands,

and the corrosion of the spirit,

it is inevitable
and insupportable.

No wonder you wished
to see Lady Boynton dead.

Indeed, Poirot,
he overheard you, Mlle. Carol,

and you, M. Raymond,

whispering that your mother,
she must die.

And you, Dr. King.

By your own admission,
you also wished to see her dead.

You are a woman
who has wasted time

and is decided and determined
to waste no more.

What do we know of you,
M. Cope?

Me?

Will you show to me
your passport?

Merci.

You choose to use your second
Christian name and not your first.

Yes.

Why have you elected to do so,
I wonder?

My first given name
is ambiguous in terms of gender.

The spelling is different,
but it's also a girl's name.

As a child,
I found that tiresome.

I would suggest that there are
many things about your childhood

that you found tiresome,

M. Leslie...

...Jefferson Cope.

I don't think
we're sufficiently sorry.

The child that was thrashed
so brutally

on the orders of Lady Boynton
was not a girl,

as misremembered
by her daughter Carol, non,

but a boy by the name of Leslie.

If you know all that...

...you'll also know
that I didn't kill her.

Merely to deprive her
of her life, monsieur,

would afford for you
satisfaction most scant.

No, you wanted to make
her life unbearable,

to degrade her,
to hurt the woman,

as... as she hurt you.

Lady Boynton
was a person preoccupied

with station and money,

and you decided
to strip her of them both.

So I may remain assured
of your very best services.

Of what service
did you wish to remain assured?

You have no newspapers
of any description?!

I am so sorry.

The withholding from
Lady Boynton of the newspapers

that would keep her ignorant
of the panic

that you yourself had inspired

to ensure the destruction
of her empire.

I'm just lousy
at being intrepid.

Back at the hotel, you couldn't
get a paper for love nor money.

And like the confidence
trickster so accomplished,

you invested in your own deceit.

You wrote off thousands of
dollars of your own savings

merely to blow smoke
in the face of Poirot.

Oh. M. Cope.

It seems I've lost
quite a lot of money.

Alors.

Poirot has one more red herring
left to fry.

And it is a fish
most substantial.

Le colonel, mes amis,
he is not a policeman

but is retained by
the Foreign Office.

His mission in Syria
was to uncover and destroy

the trafficking
of female slaves,

the abduction and sale of women
for one purpose only.

- Pardonnez-moi, mesdames.
- I knew it.

- Arab women?
- Whatever the client ordered.

- White women?
- Yes.

They wanted me.

Hélas, mademoiselle.

It is the opinion of Poirot...

...that there is a person
who instructed his agent

to search for a young lady
who is Caucasian

and resembled you exactement

with your skin that is pale
and your hair

that is red.

Who is this agent, Poirot?

Is he here amongst us now?

Ah. Certainement.

Mlle. Jinny,

when you struck at your attacker
that night, oh,

you hit your target, hein?

It's okay.

The woman who befriended you
so assiduously,

it was she
who was smothering your face!

Sister Agnieszka!

Rot in hell.

You, Sister,
will face the consequences.

The key to the murder
of Lady Boynton...

It is not who, it is when.

Dame Celia,
do you have any children?

No, I do not.

I urge you to reconsider
your answer, madame.

I cannot reconsider.
I have no children.

Well, then...

madame, you are a liar.

You have a daughter,
and she is amongst us now.

That is a filthy lie.
And in extremely poor taste.

So you disown her now as you did
when she was a baby?

Reclaim her
of your own volition!

You owe to her a debt
of ungiven love.

I had no choice. No choice.

What was your position in
the household of Lady Boynton,

in the days
when she was Mrs. Pierce?

Huh?

- A junior maid.
- Oui. C'est ça.

A servant of the lowest position
whose duty it is to scrub.

Not to become pregnant
by a guest of your employer.

The woman to whom
you surrendered your child

on the day of its birth.

Is it me?

Non, Mlle. Carol.

It is not you.

Oh, my God.

I'm so sorry.

You gave birth to me

and delivered me
up to that bitch?

I came to save you.

How did you know this?

Mademoiselle, Poirot,
he did not know for certain

until this very moment.

Non, non, mademoiselle.

Mon colonel, Poirot,
he is much obliged to you for

the accounts of the household
and the registry of immigration

which shows that three weeks
after the baby, it was born,

Celia Westholme
arrived on the coast of Ireland

to be taken care of by nuns.

Your child,
she had been taken from you.

And so you were now to become
invisible, to nurse your shame.

But you were not to be
the outcast. Oh, no.

You were to recreate yourself
as a free spirit.

A writer, a traveler.
A success!

Dame Celia Westholme.

And every time
you thought of your daughter,

you consoled yourself
with the hope that she...

that she was happy.

But she had not
begun life afresh.

She was not happy.

She remained as a prisoner in
the household of Lady Boynton.

And your regret,
it came flooding back,

to boil in your heart.

Let me tell you a story.

It's the legend of Gilgamesh.

Gilgamesh was the most
beautiful man in all creation.

And so you went in search of
the father of your child, hein?

To Vienna. So out of the way
of your customary travels.

And together with this man,
you agreed to investigate

to see whether the cruelties
of Lady Boynton, they were true.

And you discovered that all of
the children had been tormented.

It was not the hornet
that stung Lady Boynton.

How could it?

Sorry. Might have been stung.

Ah!

The hornet, it was already dead.

You stung her...

...with this.

Ah!

Which you then returned
to Dr. Gerard,

who had prepared it for you.

LADY BOYNTON: I am stung!

He then cleaned it and discarded
it in the tent of Nanny Taylor

to implicate her.

T-This is colossal.

What... What...
What was in the syringe?

A concoction
of your own devising, Doctor,

probably based on morphia.

You can't kill a woman
the size of La Boynton

with a thimbleful of morphia.

As you well know.

Doctor,
you affect to know little

of the administering of drugs,

when, en effet,
you are the expert.

You greet Poirot

and ask him if he remembers you,
hein, from Edinburgh...

the bonce doctor with the beard?

Poirot, he remembers everything.

For when you took
the witness stand in Edinburgh

to speak
on the life of the mind,

the clerk of the court,
he read out your qualifications.

And anesthesia, Doctor,
was your discipline

long before psychiatry.

No, of course you cannot kill
Lady Boynton with such a dose.

But you can remove from her
control of the nervous system.

The power over her movement.
The power over her speech.

And Lady Boynton, who professed
herself a lover of the sun,

was now roasting to death...

...and could say nothing.

Ingenious, monsieur.

And commendably grotesque.

But Lady Boynton
did not roast to death.

She was stabbed!

Your prestidigitation with
drugs, Doctor, was not over yet.

You injected yourself

to simulate the symptoms
of malaria...

symptoms so authentic
that you fooled even Dr. King.

- Let me look at you.
- I'll be fine.

This gentleman
needs to return to camp.

Mlle. Jinny, she attended you.

And how did you repay her
for her kindness?

By giving to her another
sedative of your own invention.

To consolidate your alibi.

Earlier, you had killed a goat

and trapped a quantity
of its blood in a ball of wax.

This object you secreted

in the folds of the clothes
of your victim,

where in due course it would
melt in the heat of the sun.

One can never
have enough sun, huh?

What?

You could have killed her then.

But you wanted her to suffer
for as long as possible.

Speak up, dear.

I can't help you
if you don't speak up.

You used the ball of wax
to confuse the time of death.

And it was this wax that Poirot,

he discovered on the dress
of Lady Boynton

and on the floorboards

and the little piece of pottery
beneath her chair.

Wax which told to Poirot

that there was an accomplice
to the murder.

Et puis you waited patiently.

The wax, it melted.

The blood of the goat,
it began to flow,

suggesting to the naked eye that
she had already been stabbed.

And at last, the cry,
it went up to tell the world...

Help!

...that Lady Boynton was dead.

But she was not dead.

No. Not yet.

- You the girl who's a doctor?
- Yes.

Then you've met death.
So have I.

Come on.

Only now was death
to meet its victim.

And in the sight of everyone...

ah, in the sight of
Hercule Poirot himself...

...you, Dame Celia,

murdered Lady Boynton
with your own hands,

as prescribed by Dr. Gerard
to quench your rage.

It took but a few seconds.

And even Dr. King was deceived
into believing

that Lady Boynton had died
earlier that day.

If you please to empty
the contents of your handbag.

Ah, oui.

And Dr. Gerard,

he encouraged Poirot
to seek for the chisel, hein?

Chisel fits the bill.

Whereas the murder weapon,

it was in your hand
all of the day.

DR. GERARD: Goodness.

We did go
to considerable trouble.

One question.

What makes you think any of this

has any basis whatsoever
in the truth?

Nanny Taylor.

Dear God!

Did I kill her as well?
Or was she one of yours?

You disordered her mind

with a solution of mescaline
so strong

that the very speck of it
made the head of Poirot to spin.

You wanted to
promote in her hallucinations,

to make her susceptible
to suggestion.

You burdened her mind
with so much shame and guilt

that, given the opportunity,

you knew that she would do harm
to herself.

You know you can't go on.

After everything that you did.

Think what you helped her to do
to little Jinny.

What did Nanny Taylor
say to you?

Fa... Fa... Father?

This was not the ravings
of a nervous breakdown.

For you yourself had told to her

that you were the father
of Mlle. Jinny.

Portrait of Mum and Dad.

You'll appreciate now
why I declined

your particular offer
of affection.

Well, well.

This is a pickle.

Set out to save you.
Destroyed everything.

Thank you, Theo.

It's all part of the service.

No extra charge.

I never stopped loving you,
you know?

Be careful with this one,
Poirot.

Digitalis.

The action, as you will
appreciate, is irreversible.

I'm so sorry.

We hoped
it wouldn't come to this.

There, there. There, there.

There, there. There.

No, D-Doctor.

Look to the living.

They pay their bills quicker.

And they make better...

...conversation.

JINNY: [ Sobbing ]

Monsieur.

Ah.

I've just been chatting
to Lord Boynton.

And, um, he pronounces himself
cured of his archaeology.

Chatting.

Oui.

M. Raymond,
in the matter of Pandora,

you will recall that after all
the evils had escaped the box

there was one other creature...

very small, very frail...

that followed them
into the world.

Hope.

Au revoir, la jeunesse.

- M. Poirot.
- Mademoiselle.

Carol and I are going to Egypt
to see the Sphinx.

Oh.

It's not much of an adventure,
but we're doing it on our own.

It's a start.

It was actually my idea.

Lady Boynton would have said I
was constitutionally too feeble,

that my skin was too fair.

But I think it's probably time

I showed my feeble skin
who's boss.

C'est bien, mademoiselle.

Before he leaves,

you will permit an old man
to pontificate?

Alors, mademoiselle,

there is nothing in the world
so damaged

that it cannot be repaired
by the hand of Almighty God.

I encourage you to know this,
because without this certainty,

we should all of us be mad.

Je vous salue, mademoiselle.

Au revoir.

SubRip: HighCode