Agatha Christie's Poirot

Oh!

Lucy.

Hello, darling.

The Lord is my shepherd.

I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.

He leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restores my soul.

Merci.

Santé.

Santé.

Alors.

Mlle. LeMarchant?

For starters, M. Poirot, that is not my name.

Pardon, but I understood it was…

Mlle. LeMarchant that I was to meet.

That is the name I was given as a child.

My real name is Crate. Lucy Crate.

Crate. Now, I seem to remember…

Yes, my father was Amyas Crate, the artist.

And my mother was…

- Caroline… - Caroline.

Crate.

That's right.

Yes, yes.

A story most tragique.

But it was a long time ago, yes?

Fourteen years.

Fourteen years?

You know…

I saw a picture that your father painted

in the Tate.

"Girl in Shadow."

"Girl in Shadow." That was the one.

It was a composition most striking.

Yes, he was a great painter.

His reputation is, yes, considerable.

I'm not here to discuss his art, M. Poirot.

I'm here because I want you to investigate his murder.

I was 7 at the time.

Too young, really, to know anything about it.

We lived in Devon in a house called Alderbury.

My parents were very much in love,

and in many ways, it was an idyllic childhood.

But then one day, I was suddenly taken from my home

and sent to relatives in Canada.

And finally, when I turned 21,

they were obliged to tell me the truth.

For one thing, I came into my own money.

And then, you see, there's the letter.

The letter?

Which my mother wrote me just before she died.

That was the first I knew

that my mother was hanged for killing my father.

What did she write?

Quite simply that she didn't do it.

She's innocent, and that I could always be sure of that.

That is what I want you to prove.

But why Hercule Poirot, mademoiselle?

I've heard about you.

The things you've done.

The way you work.

It's psychology.

It's your forte, n'est-ce pas?

C'est vrai.

My success, it is founded on psychology,

or the why of human behavior.

It is this that I use.

Mademoiselle, it is so long since it happened.

Secrets and lies, monsieur.

The past keeps pulling me back.

It won't let me be.

And until these ghosts are laid to rest,

I can't move on.

Bon.

I am honored by your faith in me.

But…

…I cannot, you understand,

accept your assurance of the innocence of your mother.

Eh bien, if she was guilty, what then?

I have to know the truth, monsieur.

And if the truth is not what you wish to hear?

I have to know.

From there to a lawful place of execution,

where you will be hanged by the neck until death.

Not one of my greatest successes, I have to say.

The defense was suicide, yes?

Didn't go down too well, I'm afraid.

Amyas Crate simply wasn't that kind of chap.

Wine, women, beer

the lusts of the flesh, you know?

The idea of his killing himself out of conscience, well,

frankly, I don't think he had one.

So, in your opinion, Sir Montague,

Caroline Crate, she was guilty?

I rather thought we were taking that for granted.

Did she ever admit as much?

M. Poirot, she didn't need to.

I knew we'd lost

as soon as she stepped into the witness box.

She certainly had motive.

Amyas Crate was always getting mixed up

with some woman or other,

but this was rather different.

The girl, Elsa Greer, just turned 18.

Quite the looker, I must say.

She knew what she wanted, and that was Amyas Crate.

She got him to paint her.

He ended up falling for her.

Caroline Crate was overheard to say

that if he didn't give her up, she would kill him.

What was the evidence against her?

She stole some poison from a neighbor

who dabbled in herbs and the like.

She hid it in a scent bottle.

And when the police found it in her room,

she claimed she meant to kill herself.

What she couldn't explain was why the bottle was empty

and only her fingerprints were on it.

We contended, of course,

that Amyas Crate had used it to kill himself.

But if he had,

his fingerprints would have been on it as well.

And how did she give it to him, this poison?

Used a pipette to spike his beer.

Pardon, monsieur. Spike?

Uh… tamper.

Took him a bottle while he was painting.

The police found the pipette

crushed near the scene of the crime.

Oh, the prosecution had a field day.

So.

She put the coniine in into the bottle

before taking it to him?

No, there's no coniine in the bottle at all.

Only in the glass.

I see.

Was that you being inscrutable, M. Poirot?

No, no, no, no. No, pardon.

But there were, I believe, other people present at the time?

Oh, yes, there were… Let me think

five, if memory serves.

Philip Blake, a stockbroker, one of Crate's best friends.

Meredith, his elder brother,

lives across the estuary

from the house where the murder took place.

Elsa Greer, of course.

Currently a late edition,

though nowadays she spends most of her time

in the gossip columns and the divorce court.

There was a governess, Miss Wilson?

Williams, that's it.

Very capable, but not exactly a barrel of laughs.

Then, of course, there was Angela,

Caroline's half sister.

Oh, she'd been packed off for school

by the time of the trial.

Poor thing.

She had, perhaps, some problems?

There was a rather unfortunate incident when she was a toddler.

Caroline Crate, as a young girl, threw a bit of a tantrum.

I did argue that she was not of sound mind,

but

fascinating creature.

I'll never forget her, you know.

She had a quality one couldn't help but admire.

Somehow she was above it all.

What people will do in the name of love.

It makes fools of us all, n'est-ce pas?

Eh bien, I thank you, Sir Montague.

You have been most helpful.

Pleasure meeting you, Poirot.

Tell to me, if you please, if, as her daughter hopes,

Caroline Crate did not kill her husband…

But she did, old boy. Take my word for it.

Well, but then, it makes the logic

that one of these five people must have done so.

There's no reason why any of them should.

No, but all the same, I think I should pay to them each a visit.

Get five different versions of the same event.

Thank you, Hollinghurst.

Pleasure, Mr. Blake.

Perfectly good egg, old Hollinghurst,

even though he does bat for the other side.

Tallyho.

Tallyho.

Well, who'd have thought it?

Raising a glass with the famous Hercule Paro.

Poirot, monsieur. Hercule Poirot.

Poirot, Paro.

Could never get my tongue around French.

Let's keep the old entente cordial, eh?

But I am Belgian, monsieur, not French.

So, what can I do for you?

The Crate case, monsieur.

It is that which I wish to discuss with you.

What the hell for?

Because I have accepted a commission, monsieur,

to review the case.

From whom?