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Agatha Christie's Poirot (1989–2013): Season 12, Episode 2 - Hallowe'en Party - full transcript

When Ariadne Oliver and her friend, Judith Butler, attend a children's Halloween party in the village of Woodleigh Common, a young girl named Joyce Reynolds boasts of having witnessed a murder from years before. Joyce's story is heard by all the party, including her strange brother Leopold, the impeccable hostess Rowena Drake, her bookish son Edmund, and the local Reverend Cottrell. Mrs Whittaker, the church organist, and Frances Drake, Rowena's feisty daughter, are dismissive of her story, but later that evening Joyce's lifeless body is discovered face-down in the apple-bobbing bucket. At Mrs Oliver's behest, Poirot travels down to Woodleigh Common to investigate the murder. Although the local police and Joyce's stepmother dismiss the dead girl's claim, Poirot takes Joyce's story seriously. Mrs Goodbody, a gossiping charwoman, tells Poirot there have been a number of suspicious deaths in the village in recent years which Joyce could indeed have witnessed, and that old curses still haunt the village - a claim supported by the affable gardener, Michael Garfield. While Poirot is busy piecing together the facts, another child is found drowned in a river. He realizes that he needs to act quickly in order to save Judith's daughter, Miranda, who is also in danger.


It doesn't have to be a masterpiece, Ariadne.

No, no. I'm going to take my time.
Last one looked like it'd had a stroke.

How're we doing, girls? Grand, grand!

Sharp now. The children are arriving!
You will stay for the party, Mrs Oliver?

Well, I'm not feeling too well actually -

Won't go on long. You know what children
are like. They get so giddy. That suit you?

Erm -

Excellent! First rate! They'll be thrilled
to meet you, I'm sure.

Well, must get on. Time's wing'd whatsit, eh?

- Rather a force of nature, Mrs Drake.
- Hmmm...

It is very good of you to muck in like this,
Ariadne. And your talk tomorrow -

Ah well, I've been meaning to have
a word with you about that, Judith.

I'm not feeling too clever.

I hope you've not picked up Miranda's cold.

Such a shame she couldn't come to the party.
She was so looking forward to it.

- Bless you.
- Thank you.

...which followed President Rosevelt's
speech earlier on today.

That is the end of the news.

- Are you sitting comfortably?
- No...

Good! We wouldn't want that, would we?
Not on a dark and stormy night like this one!

We shall have to keep an eye
on you, Mrs Oliver!

There'll be no apples left to bob with!

My besetting sin, I'm afraid.
I can't resist them.

All this must have set Mrs Drake
back a bob or two.

The year's on the turn, vicar.
Must we freeze yet again?

Alas, I'm afraid the heating at
St Wulfric's packed up ages ago.

Maybe you should try wearing an extra woolly?

It's all right for you in that cassock.

Bet you're got up like Scott of the
bloody Antarctic under that lot.

- Oh, bless you.
- Oh I do beg your pardon.

No, no, no. It's my fault.

I'm always in the way.

Mrs Reynolds. LocaI martyr.

Frances, did you ask Cook
to soak the raisins?

- Of course I did, Ma.
- Do pace yourself, darling.

Sun's well over the yard-arm, mother-mine.

Come on, Edmund. Lend a hand, for God's sake.

I'm rather absorbed as it happens.

Roderick Usher has just found
his sister bricked up.

"We have put her living in the tomb!"
It's awfully good.

Well, I'm more concerned with
the Fall of the House of Drake,

at the moment, so stir your stumps!

Joyce Reynolds! You duffer!
What do you think you're doing?

- Sorry, Miss, I'm sure.
- That's alright.

Look at the poor pumpkin!

Joyce smashed the pumpkin!
Joyce smashed the pumpkin!

Go and boiI your head, Leopold.

Mind out Joyce!

Oh, bravo Leopold!

Now, who's next?
Patience, Cathie. Everyone will get a turn.

- Anny, come on!
- ... it'll be your turn.

Leave that, Mrs Reynolds. The party's not
over yet. You enjoy yourself.

Oh I don't mind. I like to help out.

All right, all right, who's next?

Mrs Drake says you're a writer.
The one who does the murder stories?


- You must make a lot of money out of it.
- A bit.

That's not very polite, is it, Joyce?

And you've got a detective who's
a Finn, haven't you?

- Sven Hjerson.
- Why a Finn?

I've often wondered.

- I saw a murder once.
- Now don't be silly, Joyce.

- I did.
- Oh really?

Of course you didn't see a murder.
Don't say such foolish things, dear.

Has everyone had a go at the apples, vicar?

- Yes, all, it seems, but...
- I did see a murder! I did! I did!

What kind of murder, you ridiculous creature?

She's making it up. Again!

I'm not. I saw one.

We're going to play Snapdragon next.
It's great fun.

It wasn't really till a long
time afterwards, I mean,

that I began to realise it
was a murder I saw.

That's more a Christmassy thing, isn't it?

Well, we Drakes always play it at Hallowe'en.

Why didn't you go to the coppers then?

Because I didn't know at the time
that it was a murder.

Is that the one where you have to
pluck fruit out of a bowI or something?

That's right. Raisins. Soaked in liquor.

- Yes.
- Bit like Frances.

- Ha, ha.
- Then set fire to. In the dark.

Of course, now I'm older,
I know that it was a murder I saw!

Utterly potty. When was all this
supposed to have happened?

Years ago. I was quite young at the time.

- You're young now, you nit.
- Who murdered whom?

I shan't tell any of you now.
You're all so beastly.

Poor Miranda. She's missing a smashing party.

Oh my God! Gave me the shock of my -

Who's there? What is it? Miss Whittaker?

Thought I saw...

Just the wind, I expect.

A feeling of sick dread came over me as
I gazed upon that dreadfuI countenance.

At that obscene parody of a human face.

Even as I watched, his blood-shot eyeball
began to roll down the livid green skin!

"FooI!" he hissed. "Insect!...

Not enjoying it, sir?

The subject matter, Georges.
It is... distastefuI.

...I am eviI!

Poirot has seen much eviI in this world.
It should not be the subject of such mockery.

Oh it's just a bit of fun, sir. I love
a good blood-curdler, me.

And very appropriate for the time of year.

George, at this time of year in Belgium,

it is the custom to light the candles
in memory of the dead.

Not to tell the stories macabre.

I grieve for your carpet, Mrs Drake.
There's water everywhere.

It'll set you back quite
a bit to get it spruced up.

Oh, it's old, vicar. Not to worry.

- Now what?
- Jehovah's Witnesses?

It's Hallowe'en for young and old!

Now, who would like their fortune told?

All the bells and whistles, I see.
Woodleigh Common's very own witch.

Ma won't like this! Mrs Goodbody
was certainly not invited.


Yes, dear, very good. You should be in films.
Now come along.

We don't want any unpleasantness in front
of the children. Now come along.

- No, but I want to stay.
- Come along.

For the kiddies! For the kiddies!

Everybody ready, now! Come along!
Yes, come on. Into the parlour.

Come on now. Snap dragon time.

That's it. Quickly.

Take care you don't take too much, Be not
greedy in your clutch. Snip! Snap! Dragon!

With his blue and lapping tongue Many of
you will be stung. Snip! Snap! Dragon!

For he snaps at all that comes, Snatching
at his feast of plums. Snip! Snap! Dragon!

Shut the door!

Oh, dear, you're drenched.

What a clumsy thing you must think of me.

No, no, it can happen to us all.

Mustn't let the children run about
in their stockinged feet.

I'll get a brush. Mrs baker!

Snip! Snap! Dragon!

Very well, every one! That's your last go!

Oh, yes. Come along now, it's ten o'clock!

It's way past most of your bed-times! Time
to go home now. Come along now. Home, home.

Would you all be dears and round
up the little waifs and strays?

Some of the older ones gravitate to the
cloakrooms and what have you.

Whatever for?

What have you, I should think.

Has anyone seen my Joycie?

I'll do a head count.

- Hercule Poirot speaks.
- Oh, thank God you're in!

- My friend Ariadne.
- Yes. Yes, it's me.

But you are breathless. What is the matter?
Something it has upset you?

Upset me? Dear God.

I shall never be able to look
at another apple again.

- Glorious, isn't it?
- Oui.

The leaves are like gold.

No, no. I meant the mucky old window
and the dusty seats!

The pervasive odour of Capstan Navy Cut
and schooI-boys' socks.

I see you have been out of England
some little time, Monsieur.

Fresh off the boat. From Athens. Superb.

But I do miss the old country.

- Heading far?
- Woodleigh Common.

Me too! How very nice. I live there,
as a matter of fact.

- Indeed?
- Mm.

For how long, may I ask?

About three years. Came to do
a garden. Never left.

That's what I do. Gardens. Creation thereof.

A very beautifuI part of the world.

- MichaeI Garfield.
- Hercule Poirot.

- Well, there's a turn up!
- Oui.

- Good to know you, monsieur.
- Je vous emprie.

- On pleasure bent, I trust?
- Indeed, no.

- No?
- Non.


Good God. Poor kid.

Oui d'accord. The murder of a child it
is a crime so terrible, n'est pas?

Have they got anyone for it?

Non. And this little girI Joyce,
she was known to you?

No, no, I couldn't claim to know her but

seen her around the place I expect.

So you'll be coming round to give
everyone the third degree then?


In the mean time, I wonder,
some advice, s'iI vous plait?

Yes. Fire away.

If I were to seek out the locaI,
how do you call it?

The chitter-chatter, oui, the locaI gossip.
To whom should I go?


Tell me. Do you believe in witches?

My God, as it is melancholy.


I mean, clearing up after a party
is always a bit of a chore

but when one's had a murder it
feels so very parochiaI.

- Stop trying to be clever.
- I don't have to try, Edmund.

Stop it, both of you!

- Sorry, Mummy.
- Sorry, Mummy...

It's bad enough that this terrible
thing happened in our house

without you two snapping at one another
like a couple of terriers.

You know who the police will be
straight onto, of course.

What the hell do you mean?

Well, they hauled you in when that grubby
little crook got himself killed.

And they couldn't find anything to pin
on me then either, could they, Edmund?

What are you doing, mummy?

Oh just old clutter.

Lots of things I should have
got rid of long ago.

I'd rather you stayed in, Miranda.
You're still off-colour, and besides -

I know what you're going to say.

There really is a maniac on the loose.
Will you stay indoors? For me?

Of course I will. I have to telephone
Cathie, though -

- Mademoiselle?
- Who are you?

- Hercule Poirot.
- Oh hello.

- Yes. Ariadne said you were coming.
- Madame...

I'm sorry it's under such dreadfuI

Yes, indeed. But it is most kind
of you to accommodate me.

Oh, it's a pleasure. Where are
my manners? Come in, please!


Are you the detective man?

Ah oui. Hercule Poirot.

He is the greatest detective in the world.

- And how do you call yourself?
- I'm Miranda.

Mademoiselle Miranda.

You'll be wanting to see Ariadne, I expect.

I'm afraid she's in bed, poor thing.


You'll stay then? Get to the bottom
of this ghastly thing?

Oui Madame.

"I saw a murder once".
That is what the girI said?

Lots of people were talking but we all
heard her quite distinctly, didn't we?

There was a generaI pooh-poohing.

Did you believe her?

Of course not. She was
showing off, I'm afraid.

It's a rather tiresome age.
It seems unkind to say it -

Non, non, non, Madame.

In a case of murder it is not unkind
to say what the victim was like.

Indeed it is most necessary.

And this girI, she gave no details? No names?

No. She got a bit upset because
people were laughing at her.

Did she say when this murder it occurred?

Years ago, she said. But she said it in
a rather would-be grown up sort of way.

She had not told the police?

No. She said, "I didn't know at
the time that it was a murder".

That is the remark most interesting.

How is it that you come to know
Madame Oliver?

I went on a Hellenic cruise this year.

I managed to prevent Ariadne from
falling into the harbour!

We became fast friends after that.

And you have lived here a long
time in Woodleigh Common?

Oh yes. Years.

And Monsieur Butler?

I'm afraid it's rather a sad story.
Max was a pilot.

He had an accident.

It happened before Miranda was born
so he never saw his little girI.

Ah. Je suis desole, Madame.

But he would have been
of her most proud, I am sure.

What now, Monsieur?

Now it is time for Poirot to make
a visit to the police.

It's a horrible business.

The death of a child is always
a bit of a wrench. But this...

He was probably peeping through the French
windows. That lock's very unsound.

He saw there was a kiddies' party going on,

lured the girI to the library
and then killed her.


Some lunatic. They let all sorts of
people roam the streets these days.

And you have interviewed
all those who were present

at the Hallowe'en party and
established their whereabouts?

Of course.

With what result?

No-one seems to remember when
they last saw Joyce Reynolds.

The murder almost certainly took place
during the game of Snapdragon -

all the lights in the parlour were off.

If anyone came or went, no-one
saw who they were.

And what about what was
said by the little girI?

That she witnessed once a murder?

Utter rot. You know what kids are like.
Always exaggerating.

They'd tell you black was white at that age.

Why? You reckon there's something in it?

I do not know. A young girI boasts
to have seen a murder

and some hours later, that girI she is dead.

It could be cause and effect but if so,
somebody lost no time.

There have been murders
not solved in this area?

Look, I don't mean to be rude, sir.
I mean, I've heard of you, of course.

Who hasn't? But we have very modern
methods of policing nowadays.

I know you're very hot on your theorising.
Your psychologicaI whatnots.

But I think this is better
left to us, don't you?

To the professionals.

- We'll get there, don't you worry.
- Of that I have no doubt.

What are you going to do now, then?

With your permission, I will visit
the scene of the crime.

Good day to you, Inspector.

This is Mrs Drake's famous garden.

But it is exquisite.

I'll have to tell Mrs Drake Ariadne
can't give her W.I. talk this afternoon.

Though under the circumstances...

Ah oui. Vraiment. Oui.

She's assumed command magnificently.
She's rather good at that.

Madame, s'iI vous plait? Merci.

- All right?
- Oui, merci. C'est formidable!

And yet people very rarely visit here.

And why is that?

- Monsieur!
- Ah! Monsieur Garfield.

Mrs Butler.

So, what do you make of my little kingdom?

Ah! So this was the garden that you came here
to execute? C'est vraiment superb.

Of course, officially I finished it ages ago.
But beauty always draws me back.

I'm a bit like that dauber they used
to drag out of art galleries

because he'd still be re-touching his
paintings years after they'd been sold!

"Another five minutes,
and it'll be a masterpiece!"

We really shouldn't keep Mrs Drake waiting.

- Non. Monsieur.
- Monsieur.

My poor Joyce. It's God's will, I suppose.
He moves in mysterious ways.

They say He gathers those close to him
who he cannot bear to be parted from.

Now all I've got is my Leopold. Thank you.

Mrs Butler. And this must be -

Hercule Poirot. Enchante Madame.

This is Mrs Reynolds - and Leopold.

Master Leopold.

I am so very sorry for your loss.

- Thank you. You're the detective, are you?
- Oui, Madame.

It's very good of you, I'm sure,
to come down here and help us.

De rien. I do not wish to distress you.

I only wish to ask of you
a few questions perhaps?

- Oh, of course. Please, do sit down.
- Merci, Madame.

No Mrs Oliver?

I'm afraid she's come down
with Miranda's cold.


Madame, you saw no-one leave the room
during the game of the Snapdragon?

No, no, no. It was pitch black, you see.

And there was an awfuI lot
of to-ing and fro-ing.

Yes. No wonder nobody noticed him.

Noticed who, Madame?

The killer. The police think it was a tramp
or something, don't they?

Oui but... You know this remark that
was made by your daughter?

That she once witnessed a murder?

God forgive me for saying this, but we
all know what my Joycey was like.

She loved to tell a tall tale.

She'd have been showing off to try
and impress that London person.

Perhaps. But if she did witnessed
such a thing then...

Are you sure you're going about
this the right way, Monsieur?

Shouldn't you be looking for Joyce's
killer in the here and now?

"Old sins cast long shadows", Madame.

Madame Goodbody... I am told that you have
the knowledge unrivalled in this village.

- Nosy in other words!
- No, no, not at all -

I don't mind what people think.

You'll always get the truth out
of Mother Goodbody, mister.

More than from most others round here.

I's always been on the outside me,
looking in.

That ways, you get to see things different.

I sees things all the time.

Sometimes with me eyes,
sometimes in the leaves.

- Comment? The leaves?
- Tea leaves, my duck.

You can see a lot in 'em. Past, future.
Sometimes just tea.

Mebbes our little Joyce might
have seen things too.

Quite so.

- Let me see. Deaths in the village.
- Oui.

How far back?

Well, Madamoiselle Joyce said
the murder took place

when she was quite young so, perhaps,
in the last five years or so?

Well of course, there's plenty has had their
three score and ten and died naturaI.

But as far as I can see there's
only three possibles

for this "murder" what Joyce said she saw.

And they are?

- Beatrice White.
- The madamoiselle?

Monsieur Lesley Ferrier.

Monsieur Lesley...

Ferrier. So.

And Mrs Llewellyn-Smythe.

Alors. Let us take them then in
the order of their deaths.

Mrs Llewellyn-Smythe went first.
Two and half years back.

She was Mrs Drake's old aunt.

I used to char for her. Then she got rid
of me and got herself a whatsit.

An opera girI.

An opera girI? Ah! An au-pair girI.

That's what I said. Olga Seminoff.

Foreign, she was. The vicar arranged it.

I always thought that Olga was
a right little gold-digger.

Mrs Llewellyn-Smythe was rich, you see.

Rich as Croesus.

So there was some suspicion
surrounding her death?

Well, she had a bad heart.

Nobody said there were anything
unny about her going like that.

But it was sudden.

So therefore it is possible that
she was poisoned by this Olga?

But then how would little Joyce know
of a thing like this?

Oh, it's possible, in't it?

Oui. And the next name? Lesley Ferrier?

Solicitor's clerk here in the village.

They never got who did it. But the point is,

he and Joyce were under the same roof!
He was Mrs Reynolds' lodger!

Ah! So there is certainly
the connection there.

And this Lesley Ferrier did he have
any other associates?

He was courting a girI in the village.
That tarty piece. Rowena Drake's daughter.

And yet the little Joyce said that...

"I did not know at that time
it was a murder".

So this does not fit in with
a crime of such violence.

Alors, the last name,
this Madamoiselle Beatrice White?

She was Joyce's schooI teacher! Drowned.

Accident they reckoned. Apparently,
she had been drinking.

Ah. This Poirot likes better.
It is much more likely.

The thing is you see there'd been
mutterings about her.

From the parents. About her suitability.

She was very thick with the church
organist, Elizabeth Whittaker.

Very thick.

I see. Alors, you have been of the greatest
assistance, Madame. Merci beaucoup.

'Evening, vicar.

Oh, Miss Whittaker.
I was just shutting up shop.

Mrs Reynolds is thinking of
"Before Jehovah's AwefuI Throne"

for the funeraI and I'm a bit rusty.
Thought I might do some practice?

Be my guest.

You've had another one, then?

- Yes. Good evening.
- Good evening.

Tell to me if you please Ms Fullerton...

Were you satisfied with Ms Lesley
Ferrier as an employee?

He had his points.
Handled clients well. But...


He'd been in bother with the
police when he was younger.

I gave him the benefit of the doubt.
Took him on here.

It didn't really work out, though, alas.


I rather suspected he was
snooping into private documents.

I was on the point of giving him
a formaI warning when...

- He was stabbed to death.
- I'm afraid so.


Now I am given to understand
that Ms Lesley Ferrier

was close to Mdms Frances,
the daughter of Madame Drake?

I believe they were
stepping out together, yes.

And I wonder, Monsieur Fullerton,

did you ever act on behalf of
the late Mdm Llewellyn- Smythe?

I did indeed. Nothing fishy
about her passing, I'd say.

She was a good age. No, the queer
business was what happened afterwards.

- With the will.
- The will?

As you are aware, Louise Llewellyn-Smythe's
last will and testament

has remained unaltered for severaI years now.

Legacies for Frances and Edmund
then the bulk of the estate

passed on to yourself, Mrs Drake,
and to your late husband.

Come on, Fullerton. Don't drag it out.

A few weeks ago, however,
I received the following letter

from Mrs Llewellyn-Smythe which
contained the following document.

It is a codiciI to the originaI will,
drawn up in her own hand.

Your aunt states clearly her desire
to leave her entire estate

and fortune to Miss Olga Seminoff.

- What!
- There must be some mistake.


The notion that she would disinherit
her own flesh and blood

and leave everything to
a virtuaI stranger, well...

And the family Drake they
contested the codiciI?

No need in the end. A forgery.

A forgery. D'accord. And what
became of Olga Seminoff?

Upped and left soon after.

Just so.

Well, if that's all...

Yes, of course. Merci beaucoup,
monsieur Fullerton.

Chere Madame, you should not work,
you should rest.

I have deadlines, Poirot.
In sickness and in health.

And my child of an editor is pressing me for
another draft of 'I'II Huff and I'II Puff'.


Sven Hjerson solves a murder
in a hot air balloon over Abyssinia.

Anyway, how are you getting on?
With the reaI murder?

Eh bien, I have verified what was
told to me by Mdm Goodbody.

And there appear to be three deaths
which might possibly be

the "murder" which was referred
to by Joyce Reynolds.

I've been thinking about that.

It seems to me Joyce wouldn't
have said what she did,

had she known who had actually
committed this murder she saw.

Poirot has considered this also.

Either that or she did not recognise that the
murderer was present at the Hallowe'en party.

It is most intriguing, non?

Ready when you are, monsieur!

Madame, I must now take my leave.

I attend the morning service here
in the church in the village.

What's the matter?

It is my feet. They cause me the pain.

It's those silly patent leather shoes
of yours. Ludicrous for the country.

Now why don't you get yourself a nice pair of
those buckskin ones? With the rubber soles?

Madame. Chere Madame, I do not know
that I agree with you.

"And they brought unto him also
infants, that he would touch them.

But when his disciples saw it,
they rebuked them.

But Jesus called them unto him, and said,
Suffer little children to come unto me,

and forbid them not: for of such
is the kingdom of God...

verily I say unto you, whosoever shall not...

You must come to luncheon today, monsieur.

I should be delighted, Madame,
but alas, I have...

Excellent. Shall we say one o'clock?


Don't worry, M. Poirot. We can spare you.


But Jesus said: unless you converted
and become like children,

you shall not enter the kingdom of heaven.

You must wrap up, Miranda. It's nippy
out there. It's nippy in here.

"Only sleeping". Do you think
that's true, Mummy?

Well, as a gardener, I'd have to say no.
I favour turning into compost.

We're not used to seeing you here,
Mr Garfield. Have you seen the light?


Well, it's not a bad idea, is it?
To return to nature.

I was wondering if we could go and take
tea sometime soon? The three of us?

- Oh yes!
- No. I'm afraid not.

Why not?

You've been poorly, my darling. That's why.

She's not made of glass, you know.

- M'sieur.
- Lovely morning!

Cheerio Mr Fullerton.

Inspector, you progress
in the hunt for the lunatic?


Master Leopold is it not?

Ah, c'est tres jolie.
It is a present, perhaps?

- Pocket money. I saved up.
- Most perspicacious.

I wouldn't pay much attention to
what Joyce said if I were you.


It was all a lot of hooey. Who on earth
would she see murdered?

I suppose you expect me to be all sad and
boo-hooing about the place but I'm not.

I know she was my sister and
all that but I didn't really like her.

An extraordinary woman, Mrs Reynolds.
Quite extraordinary.

Not the girI's flesh and blood,
of course but still so very stoic.

It's Monsieur Poirot, isn't it?

Yes, indeed, Reverend Cottrell.

- Pardon, but not the girI's flesh and blood?
- Step-mother.

Tell to me if you please, about the child
Joyce Reynolds, what was she like?

Well, one hates to speak ill of the dead but

she was rather given to embroidering
things, I'm afraid.

Always telling tall stories.

I remember her uncle had
been to India on holiday

and she had us all believing
that she'd been there.

Went on about a Maharajah and shooting
at tigers and elephants and so on.

And the stories got added to every time.
There were more tigers.

Far more tigers than were remotely possible.
And she hadn't even been there!

But this does not mean that
every story she told was a lie.

Excuse me, if you please.

Mademoiselle Whittaker?

Oh, you must be Monsieur Poirot.
I heard you were here.

Madamoiselle. If you please tell me
about your poor friend Mms Beatrice White.

What do you mean? Beatrice? What for?

Well, it might be relevant to the
death of the child Joyce Reynolds.

But how could it? There was nothing
suspicious about Beatrice's death.

It was an accident. The inquest
said it was an accident.

But at this present time
no-one is suggesting otherwise.

She meant to you a great deaI.

Beatrice was the finest person I've ever met.

I cared for her very deeply, monsieur.

And I only discovered how much she cared
when it was too late. Good day monsieur.

Miss Whittaker! Are you all right?

Yes. Quite all right, thank you.

This is where it happened, isn't it?
Your poor friend.

I know what it's like. To lose someone.

But the pain does pass in time. Believe me.

I... I just can't help thinking of what
might have been.

- Do you understand?
- Of course.

So many of us have lost loved ones,
haven't we? Poor Mrs Reynolds now.

Oh, that woman. She rather
gives me the horrors.

Putting it all down to the Almighty
and his impenetrable plans.

Well, I suppose we all cope in our own way.

Wants us all to think
she's the modeI Christian.

But there's not a lot of charity
in that heart, I can tell you.

Reynolds wanted Beatrice out
of the schooI. Well, she got her way.

Mm. You can't keep away!

Monsieur. Madame Butler she has told to me
that this garden, it is open to the public.

And yet, this, this place
of beauty it is deserted.

Oh yes, it's supposed to be unlucky. It's old
superstitions left over from the CiviI War.


Oh yes. The Witchfinder GeneraI.
Very active round these parts, he was.

Lot of poor old hags were dunked to death.

Comment? Dunked?

- Dunked, yes. Drowned.
- Oh!

There was a pond somewhere over there
and they used to put the accused 'witch'

on a ducking stooI and plunge
her into the water

and if she floated she was guilty,
and if she sank she was innocent.

- So a bit of a no-win situation, frankly.
- Oui.

It is curious to consider, is it not,
that this garden so beautifuI

of Mdm Llewellyn-Smythe was nearly
inherited by someone else.

What do you mean?

The claim of the au pair? Olga Seminoff?

Oh that! Yes, yes, that was
funny. Very like her to aim high.

- So you knew her?
- Oh yes.

Ever so popular with the
young men of Woodleigh Common.

You are suggesting she was
possessed of the loose morals?

Well, that is one way of putting it.
Young Olga was a raven-haired beauty.

You were an admirer of hers, Monsieur?

- No, no, no, no, not my type at all.
- Oh!

You off to the house?

Oui. I have a luncheon appointment
with Madame Drake.

You will only survive if you look at her
reflection in a polished shield!


"Sven Hjerson narrowed his eyes
and surveyed the room.

'You do realise, of course, that the killer
was in the balloon the whole time?'

No, no, no, that doesn't work, does it?

He couldn't have been there if he
had to sign the poison register -

Miranda, dear, are you listening?

Oh, yes. Sorry. Sorry, Mrs Oliver.
Where were we?

I've just realised I've got to cut
one of my favourite ideas.


Does that happen a lot?

More than you'd think! But hey ho.
One often has to sacrifice one's babies.


Sorry. Sorry, I didn't mean that to sound, oh
dear, here's me going on about my silly book.

I'm perfectly alright. Honestly.

It is awfully nice having
you here, you know.

Really? I can't say I've been
exactly effervescent company!

Even so.

It's always just been the two of us.
I think Mummy must get awfully lonely.

Please put that book away, Edmund.

But... yes, mummy. Sorry.

How are you finding us here in
Woodleigh Common, Mr Poirot? Common?

Indeed most uncommon, mademoiselle Frances.

Frankie, please. I mean, fancy saddling your
daughter with a name like Frances Drake.

I've told you a thousand times, it's only
ignorant people who make a joke out of -

Yes, but it's me who has to live with it.

I've heard them all. Armada this,
game of bowls that.

I've even been begged to throw down
my raincoat over a puddle

for some queen or other. I forget his name.

That was Raleigh, not Drake.

Shut up, Edmund.

You have lived here long time?

Ten years or so. My late husband and
I came here to be with my aunt.

We were the only family she had.

- Ah yes. Madame Llewellyn-Smythe?
- That's right.

- And then poor Daddy died.
- Oh!

Run down by a motor car.

Some youths going at a reckless speed.

And when Aunt Louise passed
away, the house came to us.

Although there was a moment
when we feared it wouldn't.

All that fuss with that wretched Babushka?
What was she called? Molotov?

Don't pretend you don't
remember Olga's name.

Poor ignorant girI.
I felt rather sorry for her.

- I didn't! What a bitch!
- Language, Frances!

At least Olga was genuinely
fond of Aunt Louise.

Unlike you! You were always snapping at her.

She thought you were a snivelling
little mummy's boy -


- I'll fetch the port.
- Madame.

Not entirely sure where it's got to,
now we no longer have a man about the house.

Mrs Baker!

How is your investigation going, Mr Poirot?

Do you really think Joyce
was telling the truth?

Eh bien, there is still a murder not solved
here in Woodleigh Common, eh?

That of M. Lesley Ferrier,
the clerk to the solicitor.

And I believe that he was a close
acquaintance of yours, mademoiselle?

Lesley had certain attractions
but he was deeply unsuitable.

You spent most of the time consumed by
the green-eyed monster, didn't you, sis?

Anyway, it was all over between
us when it happened.

All over. Yes. I can still hear
the smashing of crockery!

Success! A vintage tawny. Bottled
the year of Queen Victoria's jubilee.

What do you say, monsieur? A quick snifter
and then a bracing stroll in the garden?

It's a deviI to keep up,
but Aunt Louise loved it so...

- Oh, really, it's intolerable.
- Mother -

He loiters. It's unnerving. Well, I
shan't stand for it any longer!

Mummy! Don't!

You! Get away from this house!
You are not welcome here!

I beg your pardon?

I've made it perfectly
clear to you, Mr Garfield,

on numerous occasions that I do not approve
of you hanging around in this fashion.

I'm afraid I can't help it.
It's such a lovely view.

So, if you don't mind, I think I might go
and tend my Aster oblongifolius.


There's something I don't like about that man.

Something uncanny.
I wouldn't be at all surprised if...

No, no Madame. MichaeI Garfield is not
responsible for the death of Joyce Reynolds.

e was in Athens at the time.

Poirot he has already checked. And the
sources of Poirot, they are impeccable.

Oh. It's you.

Not surprised you'm jumpy.
Not surprised at all.

- Can I help you?
- Jeyes' fluid?

You can't have got through
the last lot already?

Well, I daresay I could
make it go a bit further.

That foreigner's been to see me.
Asking questions.


He was particularly interested
in that Olga of yours.

Hardly mine.

Well, you was the one that organised
all them girls to come over here.

And there hasn't been
one since. Has there?

I discontinued the scheme. Olga let me down.

She let us all down.

I always wondered, though.
What you got out of it?

What on Earth do you mean?

Well, putting all them waifs into service.
What was in it for you?

My Christian duty. Nothing more.

Obviously there were one
or two minor expenses.

I'll bid you good night, then. Sweet dreams.

Oh and if you can remember
that disinfectant, vicar.

This old place needs a thorough clean out.

It's this wretched fever.

That's why I've only just remembered.
About the Hallowe'en party.

Je vous emplore, Madame! Calmez-vous
and tell to Poirot what has occurred.

Well, it was during that
silly Snapdragon game.

Great fun, I'm sure but I was dead on
my feet by then and it got awfully hot... I went out into the hall.
And there I saw Mrs Drake.

- Oh you're drenched!
- What a clumsy thing you must think me.

No, no. It could happen to us all.

Mustn't let the children run about in
their stockinged feet. I'll fetch a brush.

What do you think had happened to startle her?

She saw something. Must have done.
But here's the thing.

She was looking towards the library.
You understand?


Where Joyce was found not long after.

Maybe she saw someone
she didn't expect to see.

- And did you yourself see there anyone?
- No.

It is strange because Mdm Drake
she does not strike me as

a woman that could be startled easily.
You concur?

I most certainly do.

It ain't me you should be scared of, missus!

Look to yourself!
Bloody curse there is on you!

Come on, Leopold.

First your husband. Then your little girI.
Even your lodger!

All dead and mouldering in their graves.
Who's next? Hey?

Madame Drake, I understand that
during the party, you met with an accident?

- Accident?
- The vase that was dropped?

Oh, that! That was very irritating.

I'd noticed earlier that
the flowers needed water.

The party was in full swing so
I took the vase down

to the downstairs cloakroom and filled it up.

Next thing you know, it had
slipped out of my hands!

DreadfuI mess all over the hall.

Very stupid of me. I felt an awfuI fooI
in front of our guest of honour.

- Madame Oliver?
- Yes.

It was she that thought that
something startled you

or it was something unexpected that you saw?

No, I didn't see anything unexpected.

What would there have been to see?
Everyone was playing Snapdragon.

You did not see perhaps someone
to open the door of the library?

The library door? No, of course not.

You are certain Madame? It is unwise
to conceaI matters from Poirot.

I am not accustomed to being
accused of Iying, Monsieur.

Non, non, non, pas du tout,
Madame pas du tout...

There may be an explanation
quite innocent for all of this.

But you must realise Madame,
that if you glimpsed someone

in the library at that moment,

you may well have seen the murderer!

And by remaining silent you would be placing
yourself in the periI most considerable.

I am touched by your concern,
Monsieur Poirot.

But rest assured, I am in no danger.
No danger at all.

D'you know, I think it's turning chillier.

I don't know how you can stand to be in here.

I'm incurably morbid. Or hadn't you heard?

What are you reading?

Fascinating stuff. The Old Religion.

What about it?

Some practices haven't died out like
they have in the cities, you know.

Practices? You mean the way Joyce was...

"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!"

Oh. Hello. Monsieur Poirot.

Ah! Mademoiselle Butler.

Now, you should not be out here
on your own. Your maman -

Oh, I'm perfectly safe. I love it here.

Oui. It is glorious.

Nobody knows where I am, you see, when
I come here. I sit in the trees and watch.

I like that. Watching things happen.

And what is it that you watch, Madamoiselle?

- Birds and squirrels and that sort of thing.
- And people?

Sometimes. But not many people come here.

What is it, mademoiselle?

- Well, I was just thinking about Joyce.
- Ah.

I'll miss her. We used to share secrets.

But she never told to you about
the "murder" that she saw?

No. Joyce never told me she'd seen a murder.

One codiciI.

Merci. It is most kind of you, Inspector.

Kindness doesn't come into it.

Seems like you've got friends in high
places. Friends at the Yard.

It is just as was told to Poirot.

Madame Llewellyn-Smythe leaves the whole
estate to the au pair Olga Seminoff.

FarcicaI, of course. It's a forgery.
Not a very good one at that.

And the signatures of the witnesses,
a Mr and Mrs James Jenkins.

- The odd-job man and his missus.
- Ah?

Emigrated to Australia just
after the old woman died.

And were they contacted?

- No point.
- Non?

The signatures were checked.
Forged. Like the rest of it.

It is possible for Poirot to examine
the belongings of Lesley Ferrier?

Why not? It's like bloody
Liberty hall round here.

Such disarrangement.

Yes, that's the codiciI all right.
The forgery.

- Non, Monsieur. You are mistaken.
- I can assure you -

Non, non, non, Monsieur. This is the
codiciI that was given to me

by the Inspector Raglan
and it was this document

that was examined by the experts
and declared to be the fake.

What's this then?

That is the codiciI that I discovered
amongst the personaI

belongings of your former
employee Lesley Ferrier.

Were you aware, monsieur... Fullerton,

that amongst the other petty
misdemeanours of Lesley Ferrier,

one of his convictions was a three month
sentence in prison for forgery?

Good Lord. So Olga Seminoff
got him to forge the codiciI?

It certainly appears so.

- Now this is odd.
- Pourquoi?

I'm no expert but it seems
to me that Ferrier has made

a far betterjob on this one than
the one he sent to me.

- Good evening Mrs Drake.
- Good evening.

You idiot! You scared me half to death!

Guy Fawkes night is almost upon us,
Mrs Drake.

That's all. There's no need to be scared.

Oh God! Oh God!

Just like his blessed sister.


Do you still search for your lunatic
who has escaped?

All right, Mr Poirot. I give in.
Help me out, will you?

So now you wish to involve Poirot
in your detection 'modern'?

I'II listen to anyone right now.

- Un moment.
- Of course.


A discovery most distressing, n'est pas?

Brought it all back. Beatrice.
This is where they found her.

And the death of madamoiselle Beatrice White,
it was not an accident, was it, mademoiselle?

I've told you before.
Beatrice wasn't murdered!

Non, non, non. Not murdered.

But Poirot he has considered what
you told to him in the churchyard.

I cared for her very deeply, monsieur.

And I only discovered how much she
cared when it was too late.

"When it was too late". How did
you discover her feelings?

- I...
- There was a note, was there not?

And she took her own life?

God knows I thought she was happy enough.

But Beatrice... Beatrice could
never reconcile herself

to her true nature.
Could never love me the way...

I didn't tell the police about the note.

I wanted to save her from the finaI indignity.
An unconsecrated grave.

I thought I could do that for her at least.

If only we could have been left alone.
Left in peace.

Job, Reverend Cottrell. Job was afflicted...
by the Lord. Just like me.

He had everything taken away from him.

Indeed, dear lady. These things
are sent to try us.

It's His will. First he took
my Albert from me, then Joyce.

Now dear Leopold has been called to him.

Reverend Cottrell. Madame. You have my...

"The fire of God is fallen from heaven,
and hath burned up the sheep,

and the servants, and consumed them;
and I only am escaped alone to tell thee. "

Isn't it dreadfuI? Quite dreadfuI.

Yes, indeed.

- Reverend Cottrell, a word with you if I may.
- Of course.

Madame Goodbody tells to me
that you were responsible

for the presence of Olga Seminoff
here in Woodleigh Common.

Olga? Yes. I started a little scheme.
Sort of missionary work in reverse!


I visited Czechoslovakia some time ago
and forged links with some churches there.

Various families were eager that their
daughters should better themselves.

Seek opportunities in this country.
I was happy to help.

And Olga Seminoff, she was one of them?

Yes. I managed to find a position for
her with Mrs Llewellyn-Smythe.

That is most worthy of you, monsieur.

Well, I did my best.
Tried to keep a pastoraI eye on her.

And this scheme of charity,
it no longer operates?

No. Olga's disappearance rather brought
it to a shuddering halt.

Her parents are still writing to me!
Blaming me for heaven's sake!

Blaming you?

Well, she's never been in touch, you see.
Never returned home.

Two years, it's been now. Hardly my fault.
The girI was trouble, monsieur.

Why do you say that?

Well, I can't claim to know all the details
but Mrs Llewellyn-Smythe

did come and see me one
night in a terrible state...

It's all because of Olga, you see.

My dear lady, what has she done?

There is so much wickedness in the world.
It's really most upsetting.

Whatever's the matter?

Can it be true? If it is then
I have no choice.

I'll have to involve the police.
But, oh, the scandaI.

Would you like me to speak to her?

No. No, forget I came to you.
I'll deaI with it in my own way.

At the time I didn't know
what she was on about.

But when all that business about
the forged codiciI came to light,

Olga was a wrong 'un. That's all
there is to it.

I wonder where she is now.

I... I didn't know what to do, you see.

Yes. You're right. It was me.

Sacrifices are sometimes necessary.

I see that now.

There's someone at the door.

- Mrs Drake's just heard. About poor Leopold.
- Ah...

I shall never forgive myself!
Of course you were right, Monsieur.

I ought to have told you what I saw.
But I thought... I thought...

Calmez-vous, Madame. Tell all to Poirot.

I thought I was acting for the best!
You must believe me.

And now... if only I'd told you,
maybe we could have saved him.

Begin at the beginning, Madame.

I did see something. That night.
In the hallway.

The library... door opened rather
carefully... and I saw him.

- Whom did you see Madame?
- Leopold.


Of course, it startled me. I though the was
playing Snapdragon with the others.

And what's more... he had such
a queer look on his face.

He was always rather a strange boy.
Not quite right, you know.

The way he looked, it upset me.
And that's why I dropped the vase.

Oh dear, you're drenched.

What a clumsy thing you must think me.

I didn't think anything of it at the time.
It was only later.

Later, when we found Joyce
that I began to think it over...

And of course you concluded
that master Leopold,

he killed his sister, n'est-ce pas?

God help me, I did.

And then when you came
and questioned me about things

I couldn't say anything. He's so young.

Was so young. He couldn't have
known what he was doing.

I suppose I had a half-baked notion that
I could get treatment for him.

Not have him sent to some
dreadfuI institution.

I understand, Madame.

His being killed must mean
something quite different.

He must have gone in there
and found Joyce dead.

And that must have given him
the most awfuI shock.

Not because he'd killed her
but because he'd found her.

Oh God. Who can have done
these dreadfuI things?

Poirot will discover all Madame.

It will not be long now.

So that's the schooI-teacher out of
the picture. Where does that leave us?

The poisoned old lady?
Or the solicitor's clerk?

- Cocoa anyone?
- Non, merci, Madame.

What do you think, Judith? How much
did Rowena Drake disapprove

of her daughter's liaison with a crook
like Ferrier? Enough to kill?

- Well...
- Or could Mrs Reynolds

have been secretly attracted
to her lodger all along?

And where has Olga Seminoff got to?

It occurred to me the vicar might be shielding her!

Then there's Mrs Goodbody, well, she's just odd.

Je vous implore, Madame! This is not one
of your detective fictions.

We must deaI here only with the truth.

- I'm only trying to help.
- I know you are, Ariadne.

The finaI piece of this puzzle,
it eludes Poirot still.

The victim. One must always return
to the victim. For their personality,

their nature, it is the key.

What has everybody told to Poirot
about Madamoiselle Joyce Reynolds?

She is a liar. A teller of the tall tales.

A boaster. A little liar. So when
she claims to have witnessed a murder,

nobody believes her. And yet, she is dead.


I have been an imbecile three
times over! An imbecile!

- It was there all along! The maharajah!
- What?

Tigers, mesdames! Elephants!

I remember her uncle had been to India...

...The story got added to every time...

And she hadn't even been!

She had not even been!
She appropriated the story.

A murder that was witnessed by someone else!

Someone with whom she shared her secrets!


Your daughter Madame,
she is in the danger most terrible.


- Miranda!
- Sacre! I only hope we are in time!

Are you sure Mummy won't be worried?

Merci beaucoup Inspector.

- He will meet us there!
- Come on, Ariadne!

It's so beautifuI. It's bright as day.

You do look funny.

I don't mind if you laugh. No-one can hear.

Shall we?

You know people used to worship here?
The Sun and the Moon and the stars.

And they used to sacrifice things as well.

I've explained to you about sacrifice,
haven't I?

I have to die so that others might
live. So that beauty can live.

That's right.

What I saw, was that a sacrifice too?

In a way.

And Joyce and Leopold?

Is it time?


And now you and I will drink
to the past and the future...

...and to beauty.

That'll be nice. What does it taste of?

It'll taste of whatever you want it to.
It's magicaI, you see. It's quite magicaI.

You remember what I said, Miranda?
About returning to nature?

Look at the Moon.

And you will be there soon.

Up there amongst the cold stars.


Now you hold the cup and drink.


Drink to beauty, Miranda!

Non! Never! Jamais, Monsieur Garfield!

Catch him!

You're right of course. Joyce just
repeated what I'd told her.

I suppose she wanted to impress everyone.

And, alas, it cost her her life.

But you are now safe, ma petite.

Tell to Poirot what you saw.

I thought it must have been
an accident, you see.

And nobody said anything the next day so
I sort ofjust forgot about it.

I'd been by myself reading in
the garden when I spotted MichaeI.

I was going to wave then I noticed he was
dragging something. It was a body.

But why didn't you tell anyone, Miranda? Why?

I thought it might have been a sacrifice.
MichaeI told me sacrifices are necessary.

It was only today that he guessed. Guessed
that it was me, not Joyce, that had seen him.

The thing is, I never even told Joyce it was
MichaeI. Just that I'd seen a murder.

But whose body was it?

I don't know. I couldn't tell.

But I don't understand. He couldn't
have killed Joyce, could he?

I thought he was in Greece.

Well, my men and I'll be off, Mr Poirot.
Get Garfield down to the station.

Bon, Inspector.

And perhaps it is time we were
all of us in our beds, non?

Yes, it's time. Come on. Yes.

Or perhaps it is time for Poirot to
tell to you a story.

A Hallowe'en story!

"It was a dark and stormy night!"

Is that not how one should begin?

And such, indeed, was the night of the
Hallowe'en Party here in this very house.

A little girI claims "I saw a murder once".

But which murder was this? The stabbing of
Lesley Ferrier, the clerk to the solicitor?

The drowning of the teacher
madamoiselle Beatrice White?

Or could it be that the elderly Madame
Llewellyn-Smythe was in fact poisoned?


But all of those people including
Aunt Louise are Iying in the churchyard!

They're certainly not in our garden!

Precisement, Monsieur Drake.

In fact there is only one person
who has disappeared

from Woodleigh Common and whose
whereabouts are not known.

And Poirot believes that the poor souI who
lies buried in this garden so beautifuI... the foreigner sans amis, without
a friend, the au pair Olga Seminoff!

Nonsense. Olga left the village
after that stunt with the codiciI.

Oui. The codiciI that everyone
thought was a forgery.

And indeed this one, it is.

This one it is the article genuine.

You mean, Mrs Llewellyn-Smythe
did leave everything to Olga?

- Oui.
- Don't be silly.

No, but it is true, Madame.

The Reverend Cottrell told me of
a conversation he had with your aunt...

Whatever's the matter?

Can it be true? If it is then I've no choice.

I'll have to involve the police but,
oh the scandaI...

And what scandaI was this?

Perhaps the au pair Olga Seminoff had
seen evidence of a love affair illicit?

A love affair between Ms MichaeI
Garfield the gardener of her employer

and someone who loved him
with every cell in their body.

Someone who was determined to have this
MichaeI Garfield no matter what the cost.

And it has led this little village
to become the slaughter-house.

Has it not... Madame Rowena Drake?

beg your pardon? Are you seriously
suggesting MichaeI Garfield and me?

Mummy can't stand MichaeI!

Once again, Monsieur Drake, precisement!

And it is this that first
caused Poirot to suspect.

To quote the Shakespeare, "Methinks
the lady doth protest too much!"

You loved him, Madame. You love him still.

And so you set out on your
campaign of butchery!

It's utterly crazy.

You think so? The "reckless youths"
who caused the death of your husband

they were never caught, were they, Madame?

So I wonder what the good Inspector
Raglan would discover

if he searches into the alibis
of yourself and MichaeI Garfield

on the day that your husband he died?

Did you plan to stop there, Madame?

Because now you are the widow hein?

But you are still financially
dependent upon your Aunt.

And you stand to inherit her house

and her garden if this old lady she dies.

And her health it is most poor so what
could be more naturaI than her heart

which is exhausted heart giving out?

But in the ointment, there is a fly!

Unbeknownst to you, the au pair Olga Seminoff

who had the devotion most genuine
towards you aunt,

has confided her suspicions
about your love affair.

And Madame Llewellyn-Smythe believes her.

The "wickedness" which she spoke about to
the Reverend Cottrell was yours, Madame!

Is it then that Lesley Ferrier,
the crooked solicitor's clerk

contacts you and tells you
of the news so terrible

that your aunt has disinherited both
you and your children...

of neither of whom she is fond and left
everything to Olga Seminoff.

It is this.

The criminaI Ferrier will make another
version of the codiciI

substitute it for the originaI!

A fake so clumsy that any amount
of scrutiny will discredit

and the claim of Olga Seminoff will collapse.

And of course you and MichaeI
Garfield agree to this plan.

So the plan? And so now you
are free to dispose of your Aunt.

Upon her death, everything
goes according to plan.

The au pair Olga Seminoff
is dismissed as a gold-digger.

That this codiciI is now shown to be a lie.

So was it in desperation, that she
came to you, Madame Drake?

I know it! I know it in my bones!
You did away with her.

With my poor mistress - and with your
husband before that!

You're absolutely raving, girI! For
goodness' sake get a hold of yourself!

You do not deserve to live in this
beautifuI place! It is mine! It is mine...

And this tale of carnage... and horror...

it is not over, no, not even yet.

Lesley Ferrier is never to see
the rewards of his actions.

The concealing of the codiciI. Non!


Mr Garfield.

It's all there I trust?

Pleasure doing business with you.

The pleasure is all mine.

Et alors, enfin, the two of you are now safe.

The house of your aunt, it is yours.
The money of your aunt, it is yours.

And, of course, the garden so
cherished it is your paradise.

But its soiI is drenched in
the blood of the innocent

and its fruit is black and bitter.

And what, two years later,
at a simple party for children

you hear a young girI say that
she witnessed once a murder.

I saw a murder once.

And your heart that is so full of guilt... leaps into your mouth.

Now, Joyce, what's all this about a murder?

- It's true! I really saw one!
- Where?

In... in your garden. I didn't realise
it then. But I know now.

Well, I'll believe you. Thousands wouldn't.

I bet you half a crown you can't get that
last apple out of the bucket!

- Oh, bet I can!
- Show me then!

And only after when this deed
so terrible it has been committed,

you realise that you are soaking wet.

No adult has played the game of,
what, the apple-bobbing.

So at once you realise how
suspicious it will appear.

And so you devise a deception
also very clever

to explain away the soaking of your dress.

Oh dear, you're drenched!

What a clumsy thing you must think me!

You blame the accident on a glance directed
towards the door of the library.

A glance that was staged

and that you will use later to cast
suspicion elsewhere!

MichaeI Garfield he returns from Greece,
you tell to him what has occurred

and once again you consider yourselves
to be safe. Not so Madame.

For you were observed to enter
the library with the little girI Joyce.

Now Joyce, what's all this about a murder?

- Oh, it's true. I really saw one.
- Where?

And Poirot himself has observed that

Master Leopold has unexpectedly become
"flush" with his pocket money

over the last few days. How so? Because
his silence it was being bought.

But Madame you are not sure for how
long and so you decide

to kill Master Leopold

and you use the glance towards the door
of the library to divert suspicion onto him.

He's so young. Was so young.

Another lie so callous to add
to your catalogue of deceit!

You idiot! You scared me half to death!

Guy Fawkes night is almost upon us, Mrs Drake.
That's all. There's no need to be scared.

- Is it done?
- It's done.

Do you still have the receipt?

- Good God.
- Mummy?

Well, really Monsieur! That was
quite a horror story!

Perhaps you will not sneer Madame
when we have exhumed the body

of Mdm Llewellyn-Smythe and examined
the contents of her stomach?

Or when this garden it is torn up to reveaI
the last resting place of Olga Seminoff?

Because this is where she lies, mes amis.
Make no mistake.

In the place where it is not remarkable that
the soiI it is continually freshly turned.

This garden with which MichaeI
Garfield is never satisfied.

His masterpiece!

Or, perhaps your composure
so absolute it will be shaken

when you hear from his very own lips
that MichaeI Garfield never loved you.

It's all over, I'm afraid, old thing.

I've no idea what he's talking about.

Indeed, I doubt that MichaeI Garfield
ever loved anybody but himself.

But he had a secret.

There had been someone else in his life.

nother lover.

Had there not? Madame Butler?

God help me, it's true. I did love him once.

And then I became afraid. His nature.
Even his passion for beauty and creation.

There was a sort of madness to it.
I never told him about Miranda.

Do you not think I guessed, Judith?

My beautifuI child.

No! No! NO! NO!

It's you I should have drowned! You filthy
little beast! It should have been you!

And you never had him! Never!

I'm the only one he ever wanted. Ever loved!

Say it isn't so. MichaeI! Please! Please!

Don't make a fuss, you silly creature.

It's so undignified. It's true.

I did it all for the money.

Of course I did.

And for the garden.

Actually I was thinking about buying
a little Greek island. Start afresh.


I just like pretty things, you see.

- Is that so wrong?
- No!

And one must have money to get
pretty things.

I was very fond of you, Judith.


But even you're losing your looks now.

It is an awfuI shame, do you
not think, Monsieur?

That we must all wither and die?

Get them out of here.


Thank you, Hercule.


It's incredible.

Non. As soon as Madame Oliver told
to me of the dropping of the vase,

my suspicions they were aroused.

Because I knew that the killer of Joyce
Reynolds would have been soaking wet.

DreadfuI woman. I always said so.

Trying to bully me into giving that lecture.

And what about me and MichaeI?

How did you know?

Ah. Your histoire, madame,
it did not fooI Poirot.

Your husband who is dead?

Non, your husband was a figure of fantasy,

a figure tragique, a figure to conceaI
your long ago affair of the heart.

This husband, this pilot,
this Max, so beloved

and yet there was not one single
photograph of him on your mantelshelf.

I wanted to give Miranda some
notion of stability:

a father figure who was loving
and selfIess. Dependable.

Everything MichaeI wasn't capable of.

I hadn't seen him for years, you see. Then,
that day, he turned up in Woodleigh Common.

I tried to stay out of his way. I expected
he'd soon be gone. But he stayed.

I had no idea he and Miranda had become
so close. His influence over her.

There was a bond. A bond that was naturaI.

But even this was not sufficient
to prevent him from attempting

to kill his own daughter and save himself.

- You had a lucky escape, Jude.
- Oui.

- What now? Will you stay here?
- I don't think so.

Hard to believe it all happened.

All those grisly deaths.

It's like a nightmare.

Or a tale of terror.

Poirot he was right.

Hallowe'en is not the time for
the telling of the stories macabre

but to light the candles for the dead.

Come, mes amis. Let us do so.