Agatha Christie's Poirot

A man may labour and toil to attain a certain kind of leisure in retirement,

and then find that, after all, he yearns for the old busy days...

and the old occupations he had thought himself so glad to leave.

I had already begun to miss the daily toil of my previous employment...

when "tout à coup", I was flung back into the midst...

of the most perversely fascinating work that there is in the world,

the study of human nature.

A journal came into my possession...

in which a murderer had taken the trouble to record for posterity...

the thoughts that had accompanied a crime most dastardly.

Rarely have I come across such bitterness,

such envy and contempt of others,

such haughtiness misplaced.

Our village, Kings Abbott, is I imagine, very much like any other English village.

A chilly medieval church stands at the top of a single street of stone-built cottages.

At the bottom of the street, a bridge crosses a stream...

where the snotty-nosed offspring of the poor...

perfect the most advanced skill they will ever possess.

Although to the casual observer Kings Abbott is a friendly place,

everything is not as it seems.

Just scratch the surface...

and you will find more jealousies and rivalries than Ancient Rome.

- Parker. - I'm calling next door at Mr Poirot's...

My little book is about the murder of Roger Ackroyd...

the events leading up to it, the subsequent numbskull investigation,

and the final revelation to you alone, dear reader, of the guilty party.

Hello?

Now I give up on you.

You shall torment me no longer.

I will kill you!

Sacré!

My dear doctor! I beg of you a thousand pardons!

But these vegetable marrows, they have driven me to the edges of barbarity!

Please to forgive me. I am ashamed. I prostrate myself.

What's the trouble, Poirot?

Ah, you know, Doctor,

it is my desire to grow a vegetable marrow of the proportions gigantesques.

And you have seen how I nurse her.

Each day I give to her water,

each day I weed around her with my very best tweezers.

And when those little flowers of hers they show themselves, I remove them all,

but one, so that her strength, it may be conserved.

Does she appreciate this cosseting? No.

She grows to a size that is merely conventional,

then she rests upon her laurels.

You mustn't upset yourself, Poirot.

No. No, you are correct.

But you can figure it to yourself, James.

When one retires, one hurls oneself into new pursuits.

Oh. Pardon, Monsieur Parker.

What can I do for you?

I've come to take you to the factory, sir.

But it is just struck ten o'clock.

My appointment was not until eleven.

Yes, but Mr Ackroyd hoped you wouldn't mind it being earlier.

He's got a bit of a busy day.

Our only captain of industry is the vulgarian, Mr Roger Ackroyd.

The factory from which Ackroyd's ill-gotten wealth emanates

encapsulates the life we lead here,

ferment and turmoil.

- Have you got a penny, Poirot? - Oui.

Thank you.

Show Monsieur Poirot what your acid can do, Ted.

It is here that he lines his pockets by combining unlikely chemicals...

to make unnecessary products,

while befouling the very air we breathe.

He likes to think of himself as a scientist.

I'm afraid the noise was a bit too much for you, Poirot.

Not at all.

I envy you, mon ami.

Who would have thought those experiments at the back of your little shop would lead to this?

Your country house but a mile or two away, and yet here,

we have the challenges and triumphs of great industry.

I'm eternally grateful to you for that first loan, Poirot.

And you can't say you're not without your own triumphs.

And now you've got your reward, the peace and quiet of the country, your garden.

You don't regret retiring down here, then?

Oh, no, no. Not at all.

For thirty years I was exposed to the dark side of life, huh.

- It takes its toll, you know. - I'm sure it does.

And now, as you say, I have my reward.

Excuse me, Mr Ackroyd.

What is it, Raymond?

Mr Paton is here, sir.

Mr Paton?

Your stepson, sir.

I know who Mr Paton is, thank you, Mr Raymond. Let him in!

Why is it I can't stand that fellow?

Eh bien. Now I must return to Kings Abbott.

Thank you very much, my friend, for showing to me your factory magnifique.

I can't understand why you haven't been before.

You've been here nearly a year now.

But all in all, this has been a good week for me.

Read your newspaper on Sunday morning, Poirot, under Forthcoming Marriages.

You mean your stepson and Mademoiselle Flora?

Please to accept my congratulations.

Ah, Ralph, my dear boy. You remember Monsieur Poirot?

Yes, of course. How are you, Mr Poirot?

I am well, thank you.

I regret I am on the point of departure.

I'll get Parker to run you home.

- See to it, Raymond, will you? - Merci.

- Au revoir. - Goodbye.

What are you doing here?

With his ill-gotten gains,

Ackroyd has built himself a truly ostentatious house,

spending a fortune on architects' and surveyors' fees, no doubt.

He lives there with the former wife of his deceased brother, Mrs Vera Ackroyd,

and her daughter, Flora...

vultures, eagerly awaiting his demise.

- Shall I pour, Mrs Ackroyd? - Yes.

Oh, tea. Wonderful. Hello, Ursula.

- Shall I pour for you too, Miss Flora? - Yes, thank you.

- Isn't this exciting? - Tea?

No, you goose. The forthcoming announcement.

And not before its time, either.

Oh! Um sorry. I'll um... I'll get a cloth.

I really don't know where Roger finds these girls.

Have you spoken to Ralph?

No, Mummy. He's in London.

You'd think he might telephone on the occasion of his engagement.

I er... came down last night.

I'm staying at the White Hart.

Look, er... Father...

What's wrong with Fernly Park all of a sudden?

There's nothing wrong with Fernly Park.

Look, I heard you're going to announce the engagement.

Flora's all for it.

Well, yes. Perhaps she is.

You've been putting it off, and putting it off for three months now.

I've been trying to find a job, Father.

I always told your late mother that I would look after you as if you were my own son.

- I know, but... - No buts. We...

Didn't I say I did not want to be disturbed?

Mrs Ferrars is on the telephone, sir.

Oh.

- Hello? - Roger? It's Dotty.

I've got to see you.

There's something I've got to tell you.

Ralph!

I'll try to come round late this afternoon.

All right, all right! I'll definitely come round late this afternoon.

I'll be there.

The highly-strung and unpredictable Dorothy Ferrars...

is something of an enigma to the villagers.

She lives alone, in considerable comfort,

thanks to the wealth she inherited from her late husband,

a sot who died in suspicious circumstances last year.

Dr Sheppard.

Oh!

In ten minutes.

Who was that?

Inspector Davis.

Now, tell me, Mary, my girl,

why did you come to wake her so early?

Friday was her morning to go riding.

She liked to get out of the house before six o'clock.

All right, Mary. Thank you.

Go and get yourself a cup of tea, eh?

Veronal.

Think it's suicide?

Ask me after the inquest.

It must have been a year since her husband died, isn't it?

Almost exactly.

Did you find a note?

Not yet.

Sheppard. I want to talk to you.

You've heard about Mrs Ferrars.

Yes. I only saw her yesterday afternoon.

Come to Fernly Park tonight. Seven thirty.

- I've been thinking about Dotty Ferrars. - Ah ha?

She must have taken the Veronal on purpose. Remorse.

Remorse?

You never would listen to me last year

when I told you how she'd poisoned that awful husband of hers.

This proves it.

- Oh, hello. Please do come in. - Thank you.

We have a visitor, James.

Oh, pardon Doctor. You are at your luncheon.

Uh, no, no. No. We've just finished.

Hercule's come round with a little job for you.

Oui. Ma pendule de voyage.

Pendule?

Ah! A carriage clock.

How say you, James?

- Perhaps I have over wound her? - No.

Looks as if she just needs a good clean.

Ah.

I'll do what I can with her.

It is good, I think, to have the hobby, no?

You've got your garden, Poirot.

Yes.

- Good morning. - Morning.

Just a little more time. You've got to be patient.

Oh, for heaven's sake!

My dear girl, it's quite on the cards the old fellow will cut me off with a shilling.

Of course he won't!

He's pretty fed up with me the last few years.

A little more would do it.

And we need the dibs.