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Agatha Christie's Poirot (1989–2013): Season 5, Episode 4 - The Case of the Missing Will - full transcript

A terminally ill man asks Poirot to be executor of his new will but is murdered before he can write it, and it is later discovered the old will has been stolen.


Ten, nine, eight,
seven, six--

- Doctor!

Five, four, three,

two, one...

- To 1926!

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year!

- Now, listen, everyone.

Please, please, please.

I've been a very fortunate man,

especially to have friends
like all of you.

But not many people
went to Australia

and bought a farm
over a copper seam.

- I have, at long last,
persuaded Andrew to make a will

with my wife Sarah's help.

In it there are several minor
bequests to some of us

and a small trust fund
for Violet's education.

- Violet.

- The main part of the estate,
75%,

goes to the Ellen Fort
Medical Foundation.

- Oh, how splendid.

- Dr. Pritchard,
of which you are chairman.

- It'll be used wisely, Andrew,

if you ever die, that is.

- A lump sum of 2,000 pounds,

held in trust
until their 18th birthdays,

will be shared between
Peter Baker and Robert Siddaway.

- Oh, that's so kind of you,
Andrew.

- I think you know how fond I am
of your son.

And they'll be men soon,

with all the responsibility
that entails,

and I'd like them
to have a secure future.

- What about Violet?

- Well, she is your ward,
Andrew.

You dote on her,
but you've left her nothing.

- Sarah, shh.

- Yes, but she'll marry,

someone like Robert or Peter.

Ew!

- She's a woman,
for heaven's sake.

- My God, Andrew.

You had to stop yourself
saying, "only a woman."

- Watch out, whoa!

- Gentlemen.

- Shh, quiet, quiet!

- The motion before us is,
this house believes that women

can never be accorded
equal status with men.

I call upon Mr. Andrew Marsh,
a former president of the union,

to propose the motion.

- Mr. President,
gentlemen...

few people,
if any here today,

would deny
their fellow human beings,

regardless of color, creed,
or gender,

the fundamental right
of respect.

- Ah.
Oh.

- Monsieur Poirot,
it's lovely to see you again,

but we did say 7:00.

- My dear Mademoiselle Violet,
you must forgive me.

You must blame the two-inch nail
who punctured us at Baldock.

I'd like you to meet my
associate, Captain Hastings.

- How do you do?

- Captain Hastings, this is
Mademoiselle Violet Wilson,

Andrew's ward.

Thank you.

- But society, like the family,

is not merely a collection
of individuals

haphazardly thrown together.

In order to function

industrially, politically,
socially,

both must be structured, divided
into those who make decisions,

those who put them
into practice,

those who lead,
those who follow.

- This is Miss Campion,
the principal of my college.

- Mademoiselle.

- We really should hurry.

The debate's under way,
and Andrew's already speaking.

- Such designations are status
and are determined by a woman.

Her name is Mother Nature.

- Gentlemen, I now call upon
Mr. Robert Siddaway

to oppose the motion.

- Mr. President,
the debate so far has ignored

some rather
unpleasant developments

taking place in the real world.

A few months ago,
two leaders of immense status

but with very little respect
for anything,

Adolf Hitler
and Benito Mussolini,

overran neighboring countries.

Now, all people of good sense,
regardless of gender,

can see that war
right across Europe is imminent.

And when it comes,
will we expect women

to merely keep the home fires
burning, Mr. President...

Yes.

Or will be accord them
equal status,

as we ask them to go
onto the land and farm it?

Into the factories
and make munitions?

Join the armed forces
and fight?

- Into the valley of death

rode the 500 members
of the women's--

- If you'll let us work
and die for our country,

why won't you let us join
the union?

Or God forbid,
let us speak in a debate.

- Silence!

Silence!

I will not allow interruptions
from the gallery!

If it persists,
I shall have it cleared!

- Perhaps you're frightened
we'll start talking sense!

Never mind the outcome, Bobby.

You spoke well.

- So did Andrew,

once you ignored
what he actually said.

Congratulations, sir.

A worthy victory.

- Pity the press
won't cover the debate, Robert.

I can see tomorrow's
headlines now:

"New Woman Heckles Hecklers
at Cambridge Union."

Poirot!

How are you?

- Andrew, my dear friend.

I missed your speech;
please forgive me.

- Oh, but you've heard the gist
of it many times before,

starting back as far as
The Cavendish Clinic.

- Oh, mon dieu,

in such adversity are born
the lasting friendships,

n'est-ce pas?

We were there, Hastings,

for the mutual pulling
of the wisdom teeth, huh?

- It was not a pretty sight.

Damn doctor of mine never offers
me anything for this wheezing.

- Perhaps because you tell him
it does not bother you.

- Blasted man can see it,
now, surely.

- Uncle Andrew's
had a wonky heart for years.

It leaves him short of breath,
though not of voice.

- This room is a place
most industrious.

Do you not agree, Hastings?

- Certainly, yes.

- I run a magazine, monsieur,
called New Prospects.

I'm hoping to expand it
once I graduate.

- Merci.

- Do you have any money?

- Oh.

- Violet.

- If you won't invest,
Uncle Andrew, I understand that,

but somebody will.

- Have you tried one of the
banks, Mademoiselle Violet?

- Were I a man, they would
give me a loan tomorrow.

- Well,
I told you the reason for that.

Women in business
are just begging

to be taken advantage of.

Right, Hastings?

- Ah, can't say I really know
any women...

oh, in business, that is.

- Point proved;
motion carried.

Three against one, eh, Poirot?

- No, mon ami.

Two against two.

Look, I know you've booked
into a hotel, Poirot,

but why don't you join us
for a few days at Crabtree?

Come over tomorrow for lunch.

- Well, we should be delighted.

- You will permit me,
Mademoiselle Campion.

- Thank you.

- You like for your students
to have the views

of the very strong,
n'est-ce pas?

- I positively encourage it,
Mr. Poirot.

- John, before I forget,
our meeting tomorrow,

could we make it a little later?

- Why don't we meet for lunch?

My office at 12:30.

- It affects you, Martin.

I'm afraid I'm changing my will.

- It's your money, Andrew.

- Is Violet to be mentioned
in your new will, sir?

- Setting aside
your impertinence, Robert,

I could've sworn
the debate was over.

Perhaps you feel
I didn't win it convincingly.

- I'm sure he meant no harm,
Andrew.

- You don't merely encourage
the young, Phyllida,

you overindulge them.

- I apologize, sir.

- Robert.

- I'll talk to him,
Mrs. Siddaway.

- Robert!

- Sarah,
will you please not fuss?

- Robert!

Robert, wait.

- I'm sorry, Violet,

but just because he won
a stupid debate

doesn't make his attitude right.

- Look, he is what he is, Bobby,

and we'll never change him.

And I'm not sure that I want to.

- Well, you can tell your dad

I'll leave
a sack of seed potatoes

up by your front drive,
all right?

- Yeah.

Thanks for the lift.

- Andrew, it's been marvelous,

but I've quite
an afternoon ahead of me.

- Well, I'm sorry I was rough
on Bobby.

I'll straighten things out
with him later.

- Before I go, Andrew, I'd like
to give you the once-over.

- Oh, good God, man.

Fuss, fuss, fuss.

- You've had a couple
of strenuous days.

Now, jacket off and sleeves up.

- Mrs. Siddaway,
would you be so kind

as to bring my stethoscope
through to the library?

My bag's in the hall.

- Afternoon, Mrs. Siddaway.

- Peter,
what are you doing home?

- Fortnights leave,
then we're off to Palestine.

There's no one at the cottage
and Dad's on duty.

I don't suppose Mother's--

- Yes, your mother's
in the kitchen.

Why don't you go and find her?

- Mother!

- Peter!

- Entrez.

Ah, mon ami.

The good doctor,
he tells you to get some rest,

and you ignore his advice.

You do not change.

- Oh, I've changed, all right,
Poirot.

You'll think me an old
hypocrite, I'm afraid,

saying one thing, doing another.

- I should not dream
of such a thing, mon ami.

Please, do sit.

Even though,
after all the things I've said

about my health over the years,

never taking anyone's advice,

well...

My specialist tells me I--

Oh, damn it,
I'm not afraid of it.

I'm just afraid
of upsetting others.

- He tells you that your life
draws to its close?

- En diable.

- You know, ten years ago,
I made a will.

- I have, at long last,
persuaded Andrew to make a will.

- In it,
I left several small bequests:

250 pounds to my lawyer,
John Siddaway,

and his wife, Sarah.

Phyllida Campion
receive 500 pounds,

which she immediately pledged
to her college for improvements.

My housekeeper, Margaret Baker,

and her husband, Walter,
the local police sergeant,

were already provided for
by an earlier endowment.

Their son, Peter Baker,
and young Robert Siddaway

were left 1,000 pounds each
to give them a start in life.

But I left the bulk
of my fortune to Dr. Pritchard,

as chairman of the
Ellen Fort Medical Foundation.

- If you ever die, that is.

- There was some consternation
that night

that I had excluded Violet
from my will,

but tomorrow
I'm going to put that right.

I intend to write a new will,
leaving everything to Violet.

Truth is, I've been so proud
of her achievements at Cambridge

over the past three years.

She deserves it.

I'd like you to be executor
of that will, Poirot.

Say you'll do it for me.

- But of course.

Why this urgency?

- Who the hell is that
at this time of night?

Look, we'll--we'll talk
more tomorrow.

- Oui, bien sur.

- Good night.

- Bonne nuit, cher ami.

Hello?

What, now?

Couldn't this have waited?

- Morning, Poirot.

- Good morning, Hastings.

Bonjour, mademoiselle.

- What do you think of Samson?

- I think that he is large, and
you should take care, Hastings.

- We'll join you for breakfast,
Monsieur Poirot.

- What a charming folly.

- Andrew restored it
about 15 years ago.

He comes here to think.

Race you back.

Come on.

- Wait a minute, Violet.

Andrew?

Violet, go back to the house
and get Sergeant Baker

and Poirot too.

- Sergeant Baker,
you permitted I make a search.

- My men have done that, sir.

Found nothing.

- Perhaps a postmortem
will tell us more.

- There's no call
for a postmortem.

I've examined the body.

Andrew died
about eight hours ago.

I'll give you
the death certificate.

- Heart failure?

- What's wrong with that?

- It says nothing.

I've yet to see a corpse
whose heart still beats.

- Poirot, the leading heart
specialist in London

would tell you that Andrew--

- His illness and I
were well-acquainted,

Monsieur Doctor.

- It's a bit odd
to be walking around here

in the middle of the night,
though, don't you think?

- He often had a late stroll,
Captain.

It helped him to sleep.

- There you are, Walter.

- Last night, Andrew tells me
he was to make a new will.

Half past midnight
he gets a telephone call.

This morning he is dead.

No, this is not coincidence,
Hastings.

We must make the search.

And Hastings,
leave not a rock unturned.

- As your know, Monsieur Poirot,

it's not usual to read
a will before the funeral,

but in this case
I've made an exception,

hoping to dispel your fears
concerning Andrew's death.

- Thank you.

- Ladies and gentlemen,
perhaps we should be seated.

- Thank you.

- It wasn't a complicated will,
Mr. Poirot.

We were all present
at the witnessing,

ten years ago now.

- The will, Monsieur Siddaway.

- It doesn't appear to be here.

- Don't be absurd, dear.

It must be.

- It's got to be there
somewhere, sir.

Just a matter of finding it.

- Madam and monsieur,

Andrew Marsh was a good friend
to all of us here in this room,

and yet it seems that you wish
his death to pass unquestioned.

- Not all of us, Mr. Poirot.

- And now we have
a disappearing will,

and still you do nothing,
Sergeant.

- With respect, Poirot, I think
you're reading too much into it.

- Indeed.

The new will that Andrew Marsh
intended to write

would have left everything
to Mademoiselle Violet

with Poirot as executor.

Very well;
I will execute.

But beware, mes amis.

For in so doing,
with or without your help,

I will unravel
the mystery of his death.

This is intolerable, Hastings.

We are dealing
with a close-knit community,

where the business of each
is known to all,

except to Poirot.

Yet.

- Just a second, Poirot.

That missing will
could be a godsend.

It'll mean Andrew died
intestate.

- Thank you for
that note of optimism, Hastings.

- But all you have to do
is tell the probate court

that Andrew wanted Violet
to have everything.

- And you think
that they will accept that?

The wishes of Andrew Marsh
told to me in confidence

without any witnesses?

- Oh, I see.

- Uh, Poirot.

I wonder if I might have a word.

- Sant.

- Uh, good health.

- I want you to know that
I am the major beneficiary

of Andrew's missing will

as chairman
of the Ellen Ford Foundation,

in case you get the wrong end
of the stick.

- I have no stick by either end,
Monsieur Doctor.

- Yes,
but you might reasonably think

that 75% of the Marsh estate
is worth killing for,

and Andrew was going to make
a new will, you said.

- But you would not have stolen
the old will,

since it favored you.

- Andrew told you he wanted
Violet to have everything,

you said.

- Did he mention nobody else?

- No.

Why is it that you ask?

- Because, for a long time now,

I've believed that Andrew
had a son.

- Belief, Monsieur Doctor,
is good,

but it is not good enough.

- Andrew, John, and myself,
we met at Crabtree one night.

It must've been, hmm,
two years ago now.

Sarah was away, and Robert had
just been accepted at Cambridge.

His father was full of it,
bursting with pride.

- To Robert.

- Robert.
- Thank you.

- I'm very happy for you, John.

- Oh, forgive me, both of you.

I rattle on as if you fellows
had sons to be proud of as well.

- What makes you think I don't
understand your pride perfectly?

You may be my solicitor, John,

but you don't know everything
about me.

Does he, Maggie?

- Andrew Marsh was always
very fond of Margaret Baker.

Maybe Peter is Andrew's son.

- I see.

Doctor, I thank you.

I have been stumbling around
in a darkened room,

and now you have switched on
the light.

You see how things go, Hastings?

I believe that he was killed
for his fortune,

but the question still remains:

who would lay claim to it
once he had died?

- Well, there's that son
that Pritchard talks about.

But then we only have his word
that he exists.

- We find the son, mon ami;
we also find the murderer.

Soon we may have the word
of Madam Margaret Baker.

- You can't ask a woman
a question like that, Poirot.

- Not only can I, Hastings,
I must.

- Met him in Australia, sir.

He hired me as nanny to Violet,
his business partner's child.

And when he came to England,

he gave me the chance
to come too.

- Which is where you met
your husband,

the bobby of the village.

Madam Baker, I truly wish
to cause you no offense,

but Monsieur Andrew Marsh,
he admired you greatly,

n'est-ce pas?

- Well, yes.

- And you were also
very fond of him.

- Yes.

- And perhaps
it would be true to say

that you did not work for him as
a nanny to Mademoiselle Violet

so much as to share in his life?

- I want to hear this.

You're saying I might have
a claim to his fortune,

aren't you, Mr. Poirot?

- Be quiet!

- Dad, you always said Andrew
had an eye for the ladies.

- Yes, well, in my case,
he admired from afar.

After we came back
from Australia,

Mr. Andrew was sent
to fight in France.

You were conceived
while he was away.

By the time Andrew got leave,
Peter was three months old.

- So you worked as the nanny
to Mademoiselle Violet

while Monsieur Andrew,
he was absent?

- Yes.

Well, his other friends
pulled their weight, of course,

but Miss Campion's not much good
with small children,

nor Mrs. Siddaway, come to that,

in spite of being
a children's nurse.

- Ah.

Thank you, madam.

- You got some gall to go
casting suspicions

like that, Poirot.

- I have the gall,
Sergeant Baker,

because a man has been murdered,
and you refuse to investigate.

Very well.

The time has now come for me
to go above your head.

Thank you for coming,
Chief Inspector.

You have met Sergeant Baker,
I see.

- Yes.

I must say, Poirot,
that in spite of your comments,

he seems like
a reliable chap to me.

- This way, Chief Inspector.

Monsieur Marsh was discovered
here, Chief Inspector.

- No marks on the body?

Nothing
out of the ordinary found?

- Rien.

- What's this, then,
if it isn't out of the ordinary?

- C'est incroyable.

- Looks like a medicine bottle
to me.

- I myself searched this area
but meticulously.

- Must've missed it, Poirot.

Any of the local quacks
reported one of these missing?

- No, sir.

Sorry, sir.

I'll get onto it right away.

I'll ask Dr. Pritchard.

- Pritchard?

- He's the chairman for the
Ellen Ford Medical Foundation.

Dr. Martin Pritchard.

- Listen, Poirot.

Don't tell people
I'm in the neighborhood yet.

I shall need to see
the coroner's officer.

I want a postmortem.

I want to know what was in this.

- Miss Campion, could
you spare us a few moments?

- I am rather pressed for time,
Robert.

- Please, Phyllida.

- It's about my mother,
Miss Campion.

About me.

About my father too, I suppose.

- Two years at King's and
you still don't make any sense,

my dear boy,
like so many before you.

- You won't laugh when
you know the reason, Phyllida.

Robert needs your advice.

- I think Andrew Marsh
was my father, Miss Campion.

- And you're asking me
what you should do about it?

Why don't you ask Mr. Poirot?

- But Robert, why didn't
you mention this before today?

- My mother only told me
about it last night.

It took some guts on her part.

- It doesn't seem to have
upset you unduly, Robert.

- Well, after some thought,
what difference does it make?

- Bien, Monsieur Robert,
I will tell you the difference.

In the will that is missing,
you inherit a small fortune.

If you can prove
you are his son,

you will inherit a vast one.

- And now,
a son by Sarah Siddaway.

We find the son,
we find the murderer, you said.

- Yes, indeed, Hastings.

But it would be unseemly
to unmask him

the day before the funeral
of Andrew Marsh.

- The man had a lot of friends,
Poirot.

- What good are many friends,
mon ami,

when you have one bad enemy?

- Doctor Pritchard.

- You look to be in the rudest
of health, Chief Inspector.

- You have met before?

- Would you care to fill
these gentlemen in, sir,

or shall I?

Very well, then.

We met in London 15 years ago.

Doctor Pritchard here
was running

a so-called humanitarian group
helping the terminally ill...

to kill themselves.

- To end their suffering,
you mean.

- We investigated
his organization,

but couldn't prove anything.

At a rough guess, I'd say
he's up to his old tricks again.

- No.

- Yours, Doctor,
according the manufacturer.

They send them out
with batches of insulin--

all numbered
so they can keep tabs on them.

Because as well
as working miracles,

insulin can also be lethal.

- I don't understand.

- The postmortem found needle
marks in Mr. Marsh's upper arm.

Martin Arthur Pritchard,

I'm arresting you
for the murder of Andrew Marsh.

You're not obliged
to say anything,

but anything you do say will be
taken down and used in evidence.

All things come to he who waits,
Poirot.

I knew I'd get him
sooner or later.

- Just because the solution
to a crime is simple, Poirot,

doesn't mean to say it's wrong.

Pritchard killed Andrew Marsh,
end of story.

- But why would he steal a will
that favored him?

No, Chief Inspector.

Still it has not been found,
nor, I believe, will it ever be.

Did you question other suspects?

Did Sergeant Baker?

- Of course we didn't,
because there weren't any.

- Robert Siddaway
and Violet Wilson.

Monsieur Poirot is expecting us.

- What about that
telephone call, Chief Inspector,

the one that Andrew
received at gone midnight?

- Pritchard, of course.

Honestly, you two, when
you're backed into a corner--

- Miss Wilson and Mr. Siddaway.

- Monsieur Poirot, we thought
you should be the first to know.

We're going to America.

Robert's going to forego
his last year at King's,

and there's a berth on the
Queen Mary leaving on Tuesday.

- Mademoiselle Violet,
Monsieur Robert.

Please, do sit.

Et bien, mademoiselle.

What of the end of term?

What of the graduation ceremony
of Mademoiselle Campion?

- Why the sudden rush,
Miss Wilson?

- What is there to stay for?

Women are treated as equals
in America.

I can forge myself
a decent career.

And a man I've known all my life
is charged, quite insanely,

with my guardian's murder.

- Mademoiselle Violet,
your late guardian

would not have wanted you
to miss the graduation ceremony.

Now, I beg of you,

before you finally
make up your mind,

to give Poirot
a little more time, please.

- It's all very well,

you saying probate's
a lengthy business, John,

but Robert and Violet are
planning to leave the country.

Do you want that?

- No, of course, I don't.

- Is it that difficult to prove
you're someone's heir?

I mean, what does it involve?

- Surprisingly little.

You swear an oath that you are
who you say you are.

- Don't you need a
birth certificate or something?

- No.

- Would you apologize
to Sarah for me?

She's invited me to dinner
on Saturday,

but I'm going to London.

- I'll tell Sarah.

Theater, concert?

- No.

To see Hercule Poirot,
as a matter of fact.

I need his advice on something.

- Oh, beg your pardon.

- Oh!

- Someone, stop!

- Whoever pushed Mademoiselle
Campion down the moving stairs,

it was not Dr. Pritchard.

He is in your custody.

- Yes, well, we don't know
that anyone pushed her yet.

- But he is not the murderer,
Chief Inspector.

The murderer is still at large.

- Well, they obviously
got her here pretty quickly.

At least we know she survived.

- Thank you, nurse.

- Police.

I shall need to speak
with Miss Campion

as soon as possible.

- Well, you can't;
she's concussed.

Very nasty fall, gentlemen.

Leg's broken in two places.

- She will recover soon?

- I think you'll find
Mrs. Campion's

made of pretty strong stuff.

- She's a miss, Doctor.

Miss Campion.

You called her "missus."

- You, uh, know her well?

- Well...

- No,
but we know she's not married.

- Tell me, Doctor,

did you call her "missus"
out of habit

or a slip of the tongue?

- Look, I'm sorry.

I-I didn't mean to speak
out of turn, but--

- If there's something you know,
Doctor,

it's your duty to tell us.

- Miss Campion has had a baby
at some time in her life...

by cesarean section, no less.

- Miss Lemon,
I have a task for you.

- Ladies and gentlemen...

The end of the academic year

is something
I would never miss,

although this time,
it was a close-run thing.

As you know, this is always
an informal occasion,

because while the university
here at Cambridge

acknowledges the hard work
of its male students,

it doesn't yet see fit to hold
a degree ceremony for women.

So I hold my own.

- Bravo!

- And as you take your places
in society,

I hope that three years here

will have proved you
more than worthy of them.

- Thank you, Hastings.

A smile of triumph,
Miss Lemon.

- Of course.

- Madames et monsieurs...

- Shh.

- To begin,
I think it is fitting

that we should make a toast
to our dear, late friend,

Monsieur Andrew Marsh.

- Andrew Marsh.

- Today would've given him
much pleasure, n'est-ce pas?

And how proud
he would've been of you,

Mademoiselle Violet.

However,
there is someone in this room

who denied to him this pleasure.

- You mean,
his murderer is here?

One of us?

- On the night that he died,

Monsieur Andrew Marsh asked me
to be the executor

of a new will he would make.

I believe he was killed
for that fortune,

and that the old will
was stolen and destroyed

so that he would die intestate.

So my duty, you see,
it has been twofold.

First, to find the murderer,

and then, before this ruthless
murderer could lay claim to it,

to deliver his estate
to Mademoiselle Violet,

according to his wishes.

However, this murderer,
he was at work

even as my dear friend Andrew
told to me his news most tragic.

- My specialist tells me I--

Oh, damn it,
I'm not afraid of it.

I'm just afraid
of upsetting others.

Who the hell is that
at this time of night?

Hello?

What, now?

- And thus, the murderer
lured him from the house...

- Couldn't this have waited?

To a rendezvous at the folly.

- Ah!

- And here,
our murderer administered

a massive and fatal dose
of insulin,

in a cowardly attack upon
a man who was sick and weakened.

And voil.

Hmm.

But then along comes Poirot,
who says that this death

is not a death that is natural.

Oh, no.

It is a murder.

So fearing for their own safety,
the murderer pointed the finger

toward Dr. Martin Pritchard,

by placing
at the scene of the crime

the vial containing the insulin.

Chief Inspector Japp arrives to
help me with the investigation,

he examines the folly,
and he finds it there.

Why was that vial not found
the day of the murder

by Sergeant Baker, huh?

Because it was not there.

No.

Poirot himself
searched the area,

and Poirot never misses.

So my good friend
the Chief Inspector Japp

promptly arrests
Dr. Martin Pritchard.

And with a man who is innocent
charged for the murder,

the real killer could now
lay claim to the Marsh fortune,

so it was thought,

without suspicion.

But Dr. Martin Pritchard
had already told

to my associate Captain Hastings
and myself

that Andrew had a son.

Peter, perhaps?

- That doesn't mean to say
I'd kill him for it.

- Or you, Robert.

Now, your claim had to it
more substance, n'est-ce pas?

Because you believed that
Andrew Marsh and your mother

were lovers.

- Robert was with me
the night of Andrew's death,

Monsieur Poirot.

- Violet, don't.

- Was the arm that pushed
Mademoiselle Campion

down the moving stairs yours,
Peter?

Yours, Robert?

- Someone, stop!

- Were you afraid
of what she might say to me?

- Theater, concert?

- No.

To see Hercule Poirot,
as a matter of fact.

- And, of course,
the killer certainly knew

of the visit to London
of Mademoiselle Campion

to see Poirot,

because Mademoiselle Campion
had discovered in a conversation

with the lawyer John Siddaway

that for a child to claim
the estate of the father,

the real identity of the mother
need not to be revealed.

But events took such a turn
that did reveal a secret

that she herself had kept
for more than, what, 20 years?

- What Mr. Poirot means is that
the doctor who treated me

saw that I'd had a baby...

when I was a student here.

- It was but a short step
for my secretary Miss Lemon

to discover the name
of that baby.

Please do read it, Miss Lemon.

- "Born on the 17th of July,
1913, to Miss Phyllida Campion,

the daughter whose name
was Violet."

- What's going on?

What on earth is happening?

- Was it necessary to pry
into Phyllida's past, Poirot?

It's Andrew we're interested in.

- Yes, indeed.

But during all this time,

not once did we ask ourselves
this question:

is this son that we seek...

perhaps a daughter?

- So Violet
is Andrew Marsh's daughter?

- Yes.

- So Monsieur Robert,
why did you kill the father

to Mademoiselle Violet?

- I didn't.

- I say you did, monsieur!

Why?

You know that she loves you.

You know that she wants you
to go to America with her.

Why, then?

- He's just told you he didn't!

- No, madam.

Perhaps Robert,
he is not the murderer.

Because, just as we thought the
heir of Andrew had to be a man,

so too did we think
of the murderer.

This killer was someone
who stole a syringe

from the bag belonging
to Dr. Pritchard,

who knew the power of insulin.

And you, I was told,
had been a children's nurse,

Madam Siddaway.

It was you
who convinced Robert

that he was the son of Andrew.

It was Robert who told you
of the visit

of Mademoiselle Campion
to London,

where you followed her,

where you pushed her down
the moving stairs.

- Somebody get help!

- Because you are afraid
that at last

she would reveal
Mademoiselle Violet

as the rightful heir.

- No.

- John, help me.

- There's nothing I can do,
Sarah.

- How did you know about Violet?

- I had a friend
who worked in the clinic.

I met her years later.

There was so little
we had to give Robert.

- But he was mentioned
in the will, madam.

Well, why did you steal
and destroy it?

- Because I wanted him
to have everything!

Why should it all go to Violet?

- Because Andrew Marsh
wished it

as proof
that she was his daughter...

and his equal.

- I think you'd better come
along with me, Mrs. Siddaway.

- Ah!

Mademoiselle Campion,
Mademoiselle Violet.

Your magazine could not
have a name that is better, huh?

The New Prospects,

for these are very exciting
for you both, are they not?

- They certainly are.

And I'm going to use
the inheritance

to start my own
publishing company.

- Ah!

- And you, Monsieur Poirot,
shall be my first subscriber.

- Thank you, mademoiselle.

You know, the companies,
they have a chairman, huh?

But in this instance,
why not a chairwoman?

You already have a chair, I see.

- Not for much longer.

Plaster comes off
a week today.

- And what of Robert?

- I think I can persuade him
to finish his degree.

- That is good.

Alors au revoir, mademoiselle.

Et bonne chance.

- Thank you, Monsieur Poirot.