Agatha Christie

Evil Under the Sun

A Hercule Poirot Mystery

Dedication

To John

In memory of our last season in Syria

Map

One

When Captain Roger Angmering built himself a house in the year 1782 on the island off Leathercombe Bay, it was thought the height of eccentricity on his part. A man of good family such as he was should have had a decorous mansion set in wide meadows with, perhaps, a running stream and good pasture.

But Captain Roger Angmering had only one great love, the sea. So he built his houseâa sturdy house too, as it needed to be, on the little windswept gull-haunted promontoryâcut off from land at each high tide.

He did not marry, the sea was his first and last spouse, and at his death the house and island went to a distant cousin. That cousin and his descendants thought little of the bequest. Their own acres dwindled, and their heirs grew steadily poorer.

In 1922 when the great cult of the Seaside for Holidays was finally established and the coast of Devon and Cornwall was no longer thought too hot in the summer, Arthur Angmering found his vast inconvenient late Georgian house unsaleable, but he got a good price for the odd bit of property acquired by the seafaring Captain Roger.

The sturdy house was added to and embellished. A concrete causeway was laid down from the mainland to the island. âWalksâ and âNooksâ were cut and devised all round the island. There were two tennis courts, sun terraces leading down to a little bay embellished with rafts and diving boards. The Jolly Roger Hotel, Smugglersâ Island, Leathercombe Bay, came triumphantly into being. And from June till September (with a short season at Easter) the Jolly Roger Hotel was usually packed to the attics. It was enlarged and improved in 1934 by the addition of a cocktail bar, a bigger dining room and some extra bathrooms. The prices went up.

People said:

âEver been to Leathercombe Bay? Awfully jolly hotel there, on a sort of island. Very comfortable and no trippers or charabancs. Good cooking and all that. You ought to go.â

And people did go.

II

There was one very important person (in his own estimation at least) staying at the Jolly Roger. Hercule Poirot, resplendent in a white duck suit, with a panama hat tilted over his eyes, his moustaches magnificently befurled, lay back in an improved type of deck chair and surveyed the bathing beach. A series of terraces led down to it from the hotel. On the beach itself were floats, lilos, rubber and canvas boats, balls and rubber toys. There was a long springboard and three rafts at varying distances from the shore.

Of the bathers, some were in the sea, some were lying stretched out in the sun, and some were anointing themselves carefully with oil.

On the terrace immediately above, the nonbathers sat and commented on the weather, the scene in front of them, the news in the morning papers and any other subject that appealed to them.

On Poirotâs left a ceaseless flow of conversation poured in a gentle monotone from the lips of Mrs. Gardener while at the same time her needles clacked as she knitted vigorously. Beyond her, her husband, Odell C. Gardener, lay in a hammock chair, his hat tilted forward over his nose, and occasionally uttered a brief statement when called upon to do so.

On Poirotâs right, Miss Brewster, a tough athletic woman with grizzled hair and a pleasant weather-beaten face, made gruff comments. The result sounded rather like a sheepdog whose short stentorian barks interrupted the ceaseless yapping of a Pomeranian.

Mrs. Gardener was saying:

âAnd so I said to Mr. Gardener, why, I said, sightseeing is all very well, and I do like to do a place thoroughly. But, after all, I said, weâve done England pretty well and all I want now is to get to some quiet spot by the seaside and just relax. Thatâs what I said, wasnât it, Odell? Just relax. I feel I must relax, I said. Thatâs so, isnât it, Odell?â

Mr. Gardener, from behind his hat, murmured:

âYes, darling.â

Mrs. Gardener pursued the theme.

âAnd so, when I mentioned it to Mr. Kelso, at CookâsâHeâs arranged all our itinerary for us and been most helpful in every way. I donât really know what weâd have done without him!âwell, as I say, when I mentioned it to him, Mr. Kelso said that we couldnât do better than come here. A most picturesque spot, he said, quite out of the world, and at the same time very comfortable and most exclusive in every way. And, of course, Mr. Gardener, he chipped in there and said what about the sanitary arrangements? Because, if youâll believe me, M. Poirot, a sister of Mr. Gardenerâs went to stay at a guesthouse once, very exclusive they said it was, and in the heart of the moors, but would you believe me, nothing but an earth closet! So naturally that made Mr. Gardener suspicious of these out-of-the-world places, didnât it, Odell?â

âWhy, yes, darling,â said Gardener.

âBut Mr. Kelso reassured us at once. The sanitation, he said, was absolutely the latest word, and the cooking was excellent. And Iâm sure thatâs so. And what I like about it is, itâs intime, if you know what I mean. Being a small place we all talk to each other and everybody knows everybody. If there is a fault about the British it is that theyâre inclined to be a bit standoffish until theyâve known you a couple of years. After that nobody could be nicer. Mr. Kelso said that interesting people came here, and I see he was right. Thereâs you, M. Poirot and Miss Darnley. Oh! I was just tickled to death when I found out who you were, wasnât I, Odell?â

âYou were, darling.â

âHa!â said Miss Brewster, breaking in explosively. âWhat a thrill, eh, M. Poirot?â

Hercule Poirot raised his hands in deprecation. But it was no more than a polite gesture. Mrs. Gardener flowed smoothly on.

âYou see, M. Poirot, Iâd heard a lot about you from Cornelia Robson who was at Badenhof. Mr. Gardener and I were at Badenhof in May. And of course Cornelia told us all about that business in Egypt when Linnet Ridgeway was killed. She said you were wonderful and Iâve always been simply crazy to meet you, havenât I, Odell?â

âYes, darling.â

âAnd then Miss Darnley, too. I get a lot of my things at Rose Mondâs and of course she is Rose Mond, isnât she? I think her clothes are ever so clever. Such a marvellous line. That dress I had on last night was one of hers. Sheâs just a lovely woman in every way, I think.â

From beyond Miss Brewster, Major Barry, who had been sitting with protuberant eyes glued to the bathers, grunted out:

âDistinguished lookinâ gal!â

Mrs. Gardener clacked her needles.

âIâve just got to confess one thing, M. Poirot. It gave me a kind of a turn meeting you hereânot that I wasnât just thrilled to meet you, because I was. Mr. Gardener knows that. But it just came to me that you might be hereâwell, professionally. You know what I mean? Well, Iâm just terribly sensitive, as Mr. Gardener will tell you, and I just couldnât bear it if I was to be mixed up in crime of any kind. You seeââ

Mr. Gardener cleared his throat. He said:

âYou see, M. Poirot, Mrs. Gardener is very sensitive.â

The hands of Hercule Poirot shot into the air.

âBut let me assure you, Madame, that I am here simply in the same way that you are here yourselvesâto enjoy myselfâto spend the holiday. I do not think of crime even.â

Miss Brewster said again, giving her short gruff bark:

âNo bodies on Smugglersâ Island.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âAh! but that, it is not strictly true.â He pointed downward. âRegard them there, lying out in rows. What are they? They are not men and women. There is nothing personal about them. They are justâbodies!â

Major Barry said appreciatively:

âGood-looking fillies, some of âem. Bit on the thin side, perhaps.â

Poirot cried:

âYes, but what appeal is there? What mystery? I, I am old, of the old school, When I was young, one saw barely the ankle. The glimpse of a foamy petticoat, how alluring! The gentle swelling of the calfâa kneeâa beribboned garterââ

âNaughty, naughty!â said Major Barry hoarsely.

âMuch more sensibleâthe things we wear nowadays,â said Miss Brewster.

âWhy, yes, M. Poirot,â said Mrs. Gardener. âI do think, you know, that our girls and boys nowadays lead a much more natural healthy life. They just romp about together and theyâwell, theyââ Mrs. Gardener blushed slightly for she had a nice mindââthey think nothing of it, if you know what I mean?â

âI do know,â said Hercule Poirot. âIt is deplorable!â

âDeplorable?â squeaked Mrs. Gardener.

âTo remove all the romanceâall the mystery! Today everything is standardized!â He waved a hand towards the recumbent figures. âThat reminds me very much of the Morgue in Paris.â

âM. Poirot!â Mrs. Gardener was scandalized.

âBodiesâarranged on slabsâlike butcherâs meat!â

âBut M. Poirot, isnât that too far-fetched for words?â

Hercule Poirot admitted:

âIt may be, yes.â

âAll the same,â Mrs. Gardener knitted with energy, âIâm inclined to agree with you on one point. These girls that lie out like that in the sun will grow hair on their legs and arms. Iâve said so to Ireneâthatâs my daughter, M. Poirot. Irene, I said to her, if you lie out like that in the sun, youâll have hair all over you, hair on your arms and hair on your legs and hair on your bosom, and what will you look like then? I said to her. Didnât I, Odell?â

âYes, darling,â said Mr. Gardener.

Everyone was silent, perhaps making a mental picture of Irene when the worst had happened.

Mrs. Gardener rolled up her knitting and said:

âI wonder nowââ

Mr. Gardener said:

âYes, darling?â

He struggled out of the hammock chair and took Mrs. Gardenerâs knitting and her book. He asked:

âWhat about joining us for a drink, Miss Brewster?â

âNot just now, thanks.â

The Gardeners went up to the hotel.

Miss Brewster said:

âAmerican husbands are wonderful!â

III

Mrs. Gardenerâs place was taken by the Reverend Stephen Lane.

Mr. Lane was a tall vigorous clergyman of fifty odd. His face was tanned and his dark grey flannel trousers were holidayfied and disreputable.

He said with enthusiasm:

âMarvellous country! Iâve been from Leathercombe Bay to Harford and back over the cliffs.â

âWarm work walking today,â said Major Barry who never walked.

âGood exercise,â said Miss Brewster. âI havenât been for my row yet. Nothing like rowing for your stomach muscles.â

The eyes of Hercule Poirot dropped somewhat ruefully to a certain protuberance in his middle.

Miss Brewster, noting the glance, said kindly:

âYouâd soon get that off, M. Poirot, if you took a rowing boat out every day.â

âMerci, Mademoiselle. I detest boats!â

âYou mean small boats?â

âBoats of all sizes!â He closed his eyes and shuddered. âThe movement of the sea, it is not pleasant.â

âBless the man, the sea is as calm as a mill pond today.â

Poirot replied with conviction:

âThere is no such thing as a really calm sea. Always, always, there is motion.â

âIf you ask me,â said Major Barry, âseasickness is nine-tenths nerves.â

âThere,â said the clergyman, smiling a little, âspeaks the good sailorâeh, Major?â

âOnly been ill onceâand that was crossing the Channel! Donât think about it, thatâs my motto.â

âSeasickness is really a very odd thing,â mused Miss Brewster. âWhy should some people be subject to it and not others? It seems so unfair. And nothing to do with oneâs ordinary health. Quite sickly people are good sailors. Someone told me once it was something to do with oneâs spine. Then thereâs the way some people canât stand heights. Iâm not very good myself, but Mrs. Redfern is far worse. The other day, on the cliff path to Harford, she turned quite giddy and simply clung to me. She told me she once got stuck halfway down that outside staircase on Milan Cathedral. Sheâd gone up without thinking but coming down did for her.â

âSheâd better not go down the ladder to Pixy Cove, then,â observed Lane.

Miss Brewster made a face.

âI funk that myself. Itâs all right for the young. The Cowan boys and the young Mastermans, they run up and down and enjoy it.â

Lane said.

âHere comes Mrs. Redfern now, coming up from her bathe.â

Miss Brewster remarked:

âM. Poirot ought to approve of her. Sheâs no sunbather.â

Young Mrs. Redfern had taken off her rubber cap and was shaking out her hair. She was an ash blonde and her skin was of that dead fairness that goes with that colouring. Her legs and arms were very white.

With a hoarse chuckle, Major Barry said:

âLooks a bit uncooked among the others, doesnât she?â

Wrapping herself in a long bathrobe Christine Redfern came up the beach and mounted the steps towards them.

She had a fair serious face, pretty in a negative way and small dainty hands and feet.

She smiled at them and dropped down beside them, tucking her bath wrap round her.

Miss Brewster said:

âYou have earned M. Poirotâs good opinion. He doesnât like the suntanning crowd. Says theyâre like joints of butcherâs meat, or words to that effect.â

Christine Redfern smiled ruefully. She said:

âI wish I could sunbathe! But I donât go brown. I only blister and get the most frightful freckles all over my arms.â

âBetter than getting hair all over them like Mrs. Gardenerâs Irene,â said Miss Brewster. In answer to Christineâs inquiring glance she went on: âMrs. Gardenerâs been in grand form this morning. Absolutely nonstop. âIsnât that so, Odell?â âYes, darling.ââ She paused and then said: âI wish, though, M. Poirot, that youâd played up to her a bit. Why didnât you? Why didnât you tell her that you were down here investigating a particularly gruesome murder, and that the murderer, a homicidal maniac, was certainly to be found among the guests of the hotel?â

Hercule Poirot sighed. He said:

âI very much fear she would have believed me.â

Major Barry gave a wheezy chuckle. He said:

âShe certainly would.â

Emily Brewster said:

âNo, I donât believe even Mrs. Gardener would have believed in a crime staged here. This isnât the sort of place youâd get a body!â

Hercule Poirot stirred a little in his chair. He protested. He said:

âBut why not, Mademoiselle? Why should there not be what you call a âbodyâ here on Smugglersâ Island?â

Emily Brewster said:

âI donât know. I suppose some places are more unlikely than others. This isnât the kind of spotââ She broke off, finding it difficult to explain her meaning.

âIt is romantic, yes,â agreed Hercule Poirot. âIt is peaceful. The sun shines. The sea is blue. But you forget, Miss Brewster, there is evil everywhere under the sun.â

The clergyman stirred in his chair. He leaned forward. His intensely blue eyes lighted up.

Miss Brewster shrugged her shoulders.

âOh! of course I realize that, but all the sameââ

âBut all the same this still seems to you an unlikely setting for crime? You forget one thing, Mademoiselle.â

âHuman nature, I suppose?â

âThat, yes. That, always. But that was not what I was going to say. I was going to point out to you that here everyone is on holiday.â

Emily Brewster turned a puzzled face to him.

âI donât understand.â

Hercule Poirot beamed kindly at her. He made dabs in the air with an emphatic forefinger.

âLet us say, you have an enemy. If you seek him out in his flat, in his office, in the streetâeh bien, you must have a reasonâyou must account for yourself. But here at the seaside it is necessary for no one to account for himself. You are at Leathercombe Bay, why? Parbleu! it is Augustâone goes to the seaside in Augustâone is on oneâs holiday. It is quite natural, you see, for you to be here and for Mr. Lane to be here and for Major Barry to be here and for Mrs. Redfern and her husband to be here. Because it is the custom in England to go to the seaside in August.â

âWell,â admitted Miss Brewster, âthatâs certainly a very ingenious idea. But what about the Gardeners? Theyâre American.â

Poirot smiled.

âEven Mrs. Gardener, as she told us, feels the need to relax. Also, since she is âdoingâ England, she must certainly spend a fortnight at the seasideâas a good tourist, if nothing else. She enjoys watching people.â

Mrs. Redfern murmured:

âYou like watching the people too, I think?â

âMadame, I will confess it. I do.â

She said thoughtfully: âYou seeâa good deal.â

IV

There was a pause. Stephen Lane cleared his throat and said with a trace of self-consciousness.

âI was interested, M. Poirot, in something you said just now. You said that there was evil done everywhere under the sun. It was almost a quotation from Ecclesiastes.â He paused and then quoted himself: âYea, also the heart of the sons of men is full of evil, and madness is in their heart while they live.â His face lit up with an almost fanatical light. âI was glad to hear you say that. Nowadays, no one believes in evil. It is considered, at most, a mere negation of good. Evil, people say, is done by those who know no betterâwho are undevelopedâwho are to be pitied rather than blamed. But M. Poirot, evil is real! It is a fact! I believe in Evil like I believe in Good. It exists! It is powerful! It walks the earth!â

He stopped. His breath was coming fast. He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and looked suddenly apologetic.

âIâm sorry. I got carried away.â

Poirot said calmly:

âI understand your meaning. Up to a point I agree with you. Evil does walk the earth and can be recognized as such.â

Major Barry cleared his throat.

âTalking of that sort of thing, some of these fakir fellers in Indiaââ

Major Barry had been long enough at the Jolly Roger for everyone to be on their guard against his fatal tendency to embark on long Indian stories. Both Miss Brewster and Mrs. Redfern burst into speech.

âThatâs your husband swimming in now, isnât it, Mrs. Redfern? How magnificent his crawl stroke is. Heâs an awfully good swimmer.â

At the same moment Mrs. Redfern said:

âOh look! What a lovely little boat that is out there with the red sails. Itâs Mr. Blattâs, isnât it?â

The sailing boat with the red sails was just crossing the end of the bay.

Major Barry grunted:

âFanciful idea, red sails,â but the menace of the story about the fakir was avoided.

Hercule Poirot looked with appreciation at the young man who had just swum to shore. Patrick Redfern was a good specimen of humanity. Lean, bronzed with broad shoulders and narrow thighs, there was about him a kind of infectious enjoyment and gaietyâa native simplicity that endeared him to all women and most men.

He stood there shaking the water from him and raising a hand in gay salutation to his wife.

She waved back calling out:

âCome up here, Pat.â

âIâm coming.â

He went a little way along the beach to retrieve the towel he had left there.

It was then that a woman came down past them from the hotel to the beach.

Her arrival had all the importance of a stage entrance.

Moreover, she walked as though she knew it. There was no self-consciousness apparent. It would seem that she was too used to the invariable effect her presence produced.

She was tall and slender. She wore a simple backless white bathing dress and every inch of her exposed body was tanned a beautiful even shade of bronze. She was as perfect as a statue. Her hair was a rich flaming auburn curling richly and intimately into her neck. Her face had that slight hardness which is seen when thirty years have come and gone, but the whole effect of her was one of youthâof superb and triumphant vitality. There was a Chinese immobility about her face, and an upward slant of the dark blue eyes. On her head she wore a fantastic Chinese hat of jade green cardboard.

There was that about her which made every other woman on the beach seem faded and insignificant. And with equal inevitability, the eye of every male present was drawn and riveted on her.

The eyes of Hercule Poirot opened, his moustache quivered appreciatively, Major Barry sat up and his protuberant eyes bulged even farther with excitement; on Poirotâs left the Reverend Stephen Lane drew in his breath with a little hiss and his figure stiffened.

Major Barry said in a hoarse whisper:

âArlena Stuart (thatâs who she was before she married Marshall)âI saw her in Come and Go before she left the stage. Something worth looking at, eh?â

Christine Redfern said slowly and her voice was cold: âSheâs handsomeâyes. I thinkâshe looks rather a beast!â

Emily Brewster said abruptly:

âYou talked about evil just now, M. Poirot. Now to my mind that womanâs a personification of evil! Sheâs a bad lot through and through. I happen to know a good deal about her.â

Major Barry said reminiscently:

âI remember a gal out in Simla. She had red hair too. Wife of a subaltern. Did she set the place by the ears? Iâll say she did! Men went mad about her! All the women, of course, would have liked to gouge her eyes out! She upset the apple cart in more homes than one.â

He chuckled reminiscently.

âHusband was a nice quiet fellow. Worshipped the ground she walked on. Never saw a thingâor made out he didnât.â

Stephen Lane said in a low voice full of intense feeling:

âSuch women are a menaceâa menace toââ

He stopped.

Arlena Stuart had come to the waterâs edge. Two young men, little more than boys, had sprung up and come eagerly towards her. She stood smiling at them.

Her eyes slid past them to where Patrick Redfern was coming along the beach.

It was, Hercule Poirot thought, like watching the needle of a compass. Patrick Redfern was deflected, his feet changed their direction. The needle, do what it will, must obey the law of magnetism and turn to the north. Patrick Redfernâs feet brought him to Arlena Stuart.

She stood smiling at him. Then she moved slowly along the beach by the side of the waves. Patrick Redfern went with her. She stretched herself out by a rock. Redfern dropped to the shingle beside her.

Abruptly, Christine Redfern got up and went into the hotel.

V

There was an uncomfortable little silence after she had left.

Then Emily Brewster said:

âItâs rather too bad. Sheâs a nice little thing. Theyâve only been married a year or two.â

âGal I was speaking of,â said Major Barry, âthe one in Simla. She upset a couple of really happy marriages. Seemed a pity, what?â

âThereâs a type of woman,â said Miss Brewster, âwho likes smashing up homes.â She added after a minute or two, âPatrick Redfernâs a fool!â

Hercule Poirot said nothing. He was gazing down the beach, but he was not looking at Patrick Redfern and Arlena Stuart.

Miss Brewster said:

âWell, Iâd better go and get hold of my boat.â

She left them.

Major Barry turned his boiled gooseberry eyes with mild curiosity on Poirot.

âWell, Poirot,â he said. âWhat are you thinking about? Youâve not opened your mouth. What do you think of the siren? Pretty hot?â

Poirot said:

âCâest possible.â

âNow then, you old dog. I know you Frenchmen!â

Poirot said coldly:

âI am not a Frenchman!â

âWell, donât tell me you havenât got an eye for a pretty girl! What do you think of her, eh?â

Hercule Poirot said:

âShe is not young.â

âWhat does that matter? A womanâs as old as she looks! Her looks are all right.â

Hercule Poirot nodded. He said:

âYes, she is beautiful. But it is not beauty that counts in the end. It is not beauty that makes every head (except one) turn on the beach to look at her.â

âItâs IT, my boy,â said the Major. âThatâs what it isâIT.â

Then he said with sudden curiosity.

âWhat are you looking at so steadily?â

Hercule Poirot replied: âI am looking at the exception. At the one man who did not look up when she passed.â

Major Barry followed his gaze to where it rested on a man of about forty, fair-haired and suntanned. He had a quiet pleasant face and was sitting on the beach smoking a pipe and reading The Times.

âOh, that!â said Major Barry. âThatâs the husband, my boy. Thatâs Marshall.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âYes, I know.â

Major Barry chuckled. He himself was a bachelor. He was accustomed to think of The Husband in three lights onlyâas âthe Obstacle,â âthe Inconvenienceâ or âthe Safeguard.â

He said:

âSeems a nice fellow. Quiet. Wonder if my Times has come?â

He got up and went up towards the hotel.

Poirotâs glance shifted slowly to the face of Stephen Lane.

Stephen Lane was watching Arlena Marshall and Patrick Redfern. He turned suddenly to Poirot. There was a stern fanatical light in his eyes.

He said:

âThat woman is evil through and through. Do you doubt it?â

Poirot said slowly:

âIt is difficult to be sure.â

Stephen Lane said:

âBut, man alive, donât you feel it in the air? All round you? The presence of Evil.â

Slowly, Hercule Poirot nodded his head.

Two

When Rosamund Darnley came and sat down by him, Hercule Poirot made no attempt to disguise his pleasure.

As he has since admitted, he admired Rosamund Darnley as much as any woman he had ever met. He liked her distinction, the graceful lines of her figure, the alert proud carriage of her head. He liked the neat sleek waves of her dark hair and the ironic quality of her smile.

She was wearing a dress of some navy blue material with touches of white. It looked very simple owing to the expensive severity of its line. Rosamund Darnley as Rose Mond Ltd was one of Londonâs best-known dressmakers.

She said:

âI donât think I like this place. Iâm wondering why I came here!â

âYou have been here before, have you not?â

âYes, two years ago, at Easter. There werenât so many people then.â

Hercule Poirot looked at her. He said gently:

âSomething has occurred to worry you. That is right, is it not?â

She nodded. Her foot swung to and fro. She stared down at it. She said:

âIâve met a ghost. Thatâs what it is.â

âA ghost, Mademoiselle?â

âYes.â

âThe ghost of what? Or of whom?â

âOh, the ghost of myself.â

Poirot asked gently:

âWas it a painful ghost?â

âUnexpectedly painful. It took me back, you knowâ¦.â

She paused, musing. Then she said.

âImagine my childhood. No, you canât! Youâre not English!â

Poirot asked:

âWas it a very English childhood?â

âOh, incredibly so! The countryâa big shabby houseâhorses, dogsâwalks in the rainâwood firesâapples in the orchardâlack of moneyâold tweedsâevening dresses that went on from year to yearâa neglected gardenâwith Michaelmas daisies coming out like great banners in the autumnâ¦.â

Poirot asked gently:

âAnd you want to go back?â

Rosamund Darnley shook her head. She said:

âOne canât go back, can one? Thatânever. But Iâd like to have gone onâa different way.â

Poirot said:

âI wonder.â

Rosamund Darnley laughed.

âSo do I, really!â

Poirot said:

âWhen I was young (and that, Mademoiselle, is indeed a long time ago) there was a game entitled, âIf not yourself, who would you be?â One wrote the answer in young ladiesâ albums. They had gold edges and were bound in blue leather. The answer? Mademoiselle, is not really very easy to find.â

Rosamund said:

âNoâI suppose not. It would be a big risk. One wouldnât like to take on being Mussolini or Princess Elizabeth. As for oneâs friends, one knows too much about them. I remember once meeting a charming husband and wife. They were so courteous and delightful to one another and seemed on such good terms after years of marriage that I envied the woman. Iâd have changed places with her willingly. Somebody told me afterwards that in private theyâd never spoken to each other for eleven years!â

She laughed.

âThat shows, doesnât it, that you never know?â

After a moment or two Poirot said:

âMany people, Mademoiselle, must envy you.â

Rosamund Darnley said coolly:

âOh, yes. Naturally.â

She thought about it, her lips curved upward in their ironic smile.

âYes, Iâm really the perfect type of the successful woman! I enjoy the artistic satisfaction of the successful creative artist (I really do like designing clothes) and the financial satisfaction of the successful business woman. Iâm very well off, Iâve a good figure, a passable face, and a not too malicious tongue.â

She paused. Her smiled widened.

âOf courseâI havenât got a husband! Iâve failed there, havenât I, M. Poirot?â

Poirot said gallantly:

âMademoiselle, if you are not married, it is because none of my sex have been sufficiently eloquent. It is from choice, not necessity, that you remain single.â

Rosamund Darnley said:

âAnd yet, like all men, Iâm sure you believe in your heart that no woman is content unless she is married and has children.â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âTo marry and have children, that is the common lot of women. Only one woman in a hundredâmore, in a thousand, can make for herself a name and a position as you have done.â

Rosamund grinned at him.

âAnd yet, all the same, Iâm nothing but a wretched old maid! Thatâs what I feel today, at any rate. Iâd be happier with twopence a year and a big silent brute of a husband and a brood of brats running after me. Thatâs true, isnât it?â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âSince you say so, then, yes, Mademoiselle.â

Rosamund laughed, her equilibrium suddenly restored. She took out a cigarette and lit it.

She said:

âYou certainly know how to deal with women, M. Poirot. I now feel like taking the opposite point of view and arguing with you in favour of careers for women. Of course Iâm damned well-off as I amâand I know it!â

âThen everything in the gardenâor shall we say at the seaside? is lovely, Mademoiselle.â

âQuite right.â

Poirot, in his turn, extracted his cigarette case and lit one of those tiny cigarettes which it was his affection to smoke.

Regarding the ascending haze with a quizzical eye, he murmured:

âSo Mr.âno, Captain Marshall is an old friend of yours, Mademoiselle?â

Rosamund sat up. She said:

âNow how do you know that? Oh, I suppose Ken told you.â

Poirot shook his head.

âNobody has told me anything. After all, Mademoiselle, I am a detective. It was the obvious conclusion to draw.â

Rosamund Darnley said: âI donât see it.â

âBut consider!â The little manâs hands were eloquent. âYou have been here a week. You are lively, gay, without a care. Today, suddenly, you speak of ghosts, of old times. What has happened? For several days there have been no new arrivals until last night when Captain Marshall and his wife and daughter arrive. Today the change! It is obvious!â

Rosamund Darnley said:

âWell, itâs true enough. Kenneth Marshall and I were more or less children together. The Marshalls lived next door to us. Ken was always nice to meâalthough condescending, of course, since he was four years older. Iâve not seen anything of him for a long time. It must beâfifteen years at least.â

Poirot said thoughtfully:

âA long time.â

Rosamund nodded.

There was a pause and then Hercule Poirot said:

âHe is sympathetic, yes?â

Rosamund said warmly:

âKenâs a dear. One of the best. Frightfully quiet and reserved. Iâd say his only fault is a penchant for making unfortunate marriages.â

Poirot said in a tone of great understanding: âAhââ

Rosamund Darnley went on.

âKennethâs a foolâan utter fool where women are concerned! Do you remember the Martingdale case?â

Poirot frowned.

âMartingdale? Martingdale? Arsenic, was it not?â

âYes. Seventeen or eighteen years ago. The woman was tried for the murder of her husband.â

âAnd he was proved to have been an arsenic eater and she was acquitted?â

âThatâs right. Well, after her acquittal, Ken married her. Thatâs the sort of damn silly thing he does.â

Hercule Poirot murmured:

âBut if she was innocent?â

Rosamund Darnley said impatiently:

âOh, I dare say she was innocent. Nobody really knows! But there are plenty of women to marry in the world without going out of your way to marry one whoâs stood her trial for murder.â

Poirot said nothing. Perhaps he knew that if he kept silence Rosamund Darnley would go on. She did so.

âHe was very young, of course, only just twenty-one. He was crazy about her. She died when Linda was bornâa year after their marriage. I believe Ken was terribly cut up by her death. Afterwards he racketed around a lotâtrying to forget, I suppose.â

She paused.

âAnd then came this business of Arlena Stuart. She was in Revue at the time. There was the Codrington divorce case. Lady Codrington divorced Codrington, citing Arlena Stuart. They say Lord Codrington was absolutely infatuated with her. It was understood they were to be married as soon as the decree was made absolute. Actually, when it came to it, he didnât marry her. Turned her down flat. I believe she actually sued him for breach of promise. Anyway, the thing made a big stir at the time. The next thing that happens is that Ken goes and marries her. The foolâthe complete fool!â

Hercule Poirot murmured:

âA man might be excused such a follyâshe is beautiful, Mademoiselle.â

âYes, thereâs no doubt of that. There was another scandal about three years ago. Old Sir Roger Erskine left her every penny of his money. I should have thought that would have opened Kenâs eyes if anything would.â

âAnd did it not?â

Rosamund Darnley shrugged her shoulders.

âI tell you Iâve seen nothing of him for years. People say, though, that he took it with absolute equanimity. Why, I should like to know? Has he got an absolutely blind belief in her?â

âThere might be other reasons.â

âYes. Pride! Keeping a stiff upper lip! I donât know what he really feels about her. Nobody does.â

âAnd she? What does she feel about him?â

Rosamund stared at him.

She said:

âShe? Sheâs the worldâs first gold digger. And a man-eater as well! If anything personable in trousers comes within a hundred yards of her, itâs fresh sport for Arlena! Sheâs that kind.â

Poirot nodded his head slowly in complete agreement.

âYes,â he said. âThat is true what you sayâ¦ Her eyes look for one thing onlyâmen.â

Rosamund said:

âSheâs got her eye on Patrick Redfern now. Heâs a good-looking manâand rather the simple kindâyou know, fond of his wife, and not a philanderer. Thatâs the kind thatâs meat and drink to Arlena. I like little Mrs. Redfernâsheâs nice looking in her fair washed-out wayâbut I donât think sheâll stand a dogâs chance against that man-eating tiger, Arlena.â

Poirot said:

âNo, it is as you say.â

He looked distressed.

Rosamund said:

âChristine Redfern was a school teacher, I believe. Sheâs the kind that thinks that mind has a pull over matter. Sheâs got a rude shock coming to her.â

Poirot shook his head vexedly.

Rosamund got up. She said:

âItâs a shame, you know.â She added vaguely: âSomebody ought to do something about it.â

II

Linda Marshall was examining her face dispassionately in her bedroom mirror. She disliked her face very much. At this minute it seemed to her to be mostly bones and freckles. She noted with distaste her heavy bush of soft brown hair (mouse, she called it in her own mind), her greenish-grey eyes, her high cheekbones and the long aggressive line of the chin. Her mouth and teeth werenât perhaps quite so badâbut what were teeth after all? And was that a spot coming on the side of her nose?

She decided with relief that it wasnât a spot. She thought to herself:

âItâs awful to be sixteenâsimply awful.â

One didnât, somehow, know where one was. Linda was as awkward as a young colt and as prickly as a hedgehog. She was conscious the whole time of her ungainliness and of the fact that she was neither one thing nor the other. It hadnât been so bad at school. But now she had left school. Nobody seemed to know quite what she was going to do next. Her father talked vaguely of sending her to Paris next winter. Linda didnât want to go to Parisâbut then she didnât want to be at home either. Sheâd never realized properly, somehow, until now, how very much she disliked Arlena.

Lindaâs young face grew tense, her green eyes hardened.

Arlenaâ¦

She thought to herself:

âSheâs a beastâa beastâ¦.â

Stepmothers! It was rotten to have a stepmother, everybody said so. And it was true! Not that Arlena was unkind to her. Most of the time she hardly noticed the girl. But when she did, there was a contemptuous amusement in her glance, in her words. The finished grace and poise of Arlenaâs movements emphasized Lindaâs own adolescent clumsiness. With Arlena about, one felt, shamingly, just how immature and crude one was.

But it wasnât that only. No, it wasnât only that.

Linda groped haltingly in the recess of her mind. She wasnât very good at sorting out her emotions and labelling them. It was something that Arlena did to peopleâto the houseâ

âSheâs bad,â thought Linda with decision. âSheâs quite, quite bad.â

But you couldnât even leave it at that. You couldnât just elevate your nose with a sniff of moral superiority and dismiss her from your mind.

It was something she did to people. Father, now, Father was quite differentâ¦.

She puzzled over it. Father coming down to take her out from school. Father taking her once for a cruise. And Father at homeâwith Arlena there. Allâall sort of bottled up and notâand not there.

Linda thought:

âAnd itâll go on like this. Day after dayâmonth after month. I canât bear it.â

Life stretched before herâendlessâin a series of days darkened and poisoned by Arlenaâs presence. She was childish enough still to have little sense of proportion. A year, to Linda, seemed like an eternity.

A big dark burning wave of hatred against Arlena surged up in her mind. She thought:

âIâd like to kill her. Oh! I wish sheâd dieâ¦.â

She looked out above the mirror on to the sea below.

This place was really rather fun. Or it could be fun. All those beaches and coves and queer little paths. Lots to explore. And places where one could go off by oneself and muck about. There were caves, too, so the Cowan boys had told her.

Linda thought:

âIf only Arlena would go away, I could enjoy myself.â

Her mind went back to the evening of their arrival. It had been exciting coming from the mainland. The tide had been up over the causeway. They had come in a boat. The hotel had looked exciting, unusual. And then on the terrace a tall dark woman had jumped up and said:

âWhy, Kenneth!â

And her father, looking frightfully surprised, had exclaimed:

âRosamund!â

Linda considered Rosamund Darnley severely and critically in the manner of youth.

She decided that she approved of Rosamund. Rosamund, she thought, was sensible. And her hair grew nicelyâas though it fitted herâmost peopleâs hair didnât fit them. And her clothes were nice. And she had a kind of funny amused faceâas though it were amused at herself, not at you. Rosamund had been nice to her, Linda. She hadnât been gushing or said things. (Under the term of âsaying thingsâ Linda grouped a mass of miscellaneous dislikes.) And Rosamund hadnât looked as though she thought Linda a fool. In fact sheâd treated Linda as though she was a real human being. Linda so seldom felt like a real human being that she was deeply grateful when anyone appeared to consider her one.

Father, too, had seemed pleased to see Miss Darnley.

Funnyâheâd looked quite different, all of a sudden. Heâd lookedâheâd lookedâLinda puzzled it outâwhy, young, that was it! Heâd laughedâa queer boyish laugh. Now Linda came to think of it, sheâd very seldom heard him laugh.

She felt puzzled. It was as though sheâd got a glimpse of quite a different person. She thought:

âI wonder what Father was like when he was my ageâ¦?â

But that was too difficult. She gave it up.

An idea flashed across her mind.

What fun it would have been if theyâd come here and found Miss Darnley hereâjust she and Father.

A vista opened out just for a minute. Father, boyish and laughing, Miss Darnley, herselfâand all the fun one could have on the islandâbathingâcavesâ

The blackness shut down again.

Arlena. One couldnât enjoy oneself with Arlena about. Why not? Well, she, Linda, couldnât anyway. You couldnât be happy when there was a person there youâhated. Yes, hated. She hated Arlena.

Very slowly again that black burning wave of hatred rose up again.

Lindaâs face went very white. Her lips parted a little. The pupils of her eyes contracted. And her fingers stiffened and clenched themselvesâ¦.

III

Kenneth Marshall tapped on his wifeâs door. When her voice answered, he opened the door and went in.

Arlena was just putting the finishing touches to her toilet. She was dressed in glittering green and looked a little like a mermaid. She was standing in front of the glass applying mascara to her eyelashes. She said:

âOh, itâs you, Ken.â

âYes. I wondered if you were ready.â

âJust a minute.â

Kenneth Marshall strolled to the window. He looked out on the sea. His face, as usual, displayed no emotion of any kind. It was pleasant and ordinary.

Turning round, he said:

âArlena?â

âYes?â

âYouâve met Redfern before, I gather?â

Arlena said easily:

âOh yes, darling. At a cocktail party somewhere. I thought he was rather a pet.â

âSo I gather. Did you know that he and his wife were coming down here?â

Arlena opened her eyes very wide.

âOh no, darling. It was the greatest surprise!â

Kenneth Marshall said quietly:

âI thought, perhaps, that that was what put the idea of this place into your head. You were very keen we should come here.â

Arlena put down the mascara. She turned towards him. She smiledâa soft seductive smile. She said:

âSomebody told me about this place. I think it was the Rylands. They said it was simply too marvellousâso unspoilt! Donât you like it?â

Kenneth Marshall said:

âIâm not sure.â

âOh, darling, but you adore bathing and lazing about. Iâm sure youâll simply adore it here.â

âI can see that you mean to enjoy yourself.â

Her eyes widened a little. She looked at him uncertainly.

Kenneth Marshall said:

âI suppose the truth of it is that you told young Redfern that you were coming here?â

Arlena said:

âKenneth darling, youâre not going to be horrid, are you?â

Kenneth Marshall said:

âLook here, Arlena. I know what youâre like. Theyâre rather a nice young couple. That boyâs fond of his wife, really. Must you upset the whole blinking show?â

Arlena said:

âItâs so unfair blaming me. I havenât done anythingâanything at all. I canât help it ifââ

He prompted her.

âIf what?â

Her eyelids fluttered.

âWell, of course. I know people do go crazy about me. But itâs not my doing. They just get like that.â

âSo you do admit that young Redfern is crazy about you?â

Arlena murmured:

âItâs really rather stupid of him.â

She moved a step towards her husband.

âBut you know, donât you, Ken, that I donât really care for anyone but you?â

She looked up at him through her darkened lashes.

It was a marvellous lookâa look that few men could have resisted.

Kenneth Marshall looked down at her gravely. His face was composed. His voice quiet. He said:

âI think I know you pretty well, Arlenaâ¦.â

IV

When you came out of the hotel on the south side the terraces and the bathing beach were immediately below you. There was also a path that led off round the cliff on the southwest side of the island. A little way along it, a few steps led down to a series of recesses cut into the cliff and labelled on the hotel map of the island as Sunny Ledge. Here cut out of the cliff were niches with seats in them.

To one of these, immediately after dinner, came Patrick Redfern and his wife. It was a lovely clear night with a bright moon.

The Redferns sat down. For a while they were silent

At last Patrick Redfern said:

âItâs a glorious evening, isnât it, Christine?â

âYes.â

Something in her voice may have made him uneasy. He sat without looking at her.

Christine Redfern asked in her quiet voice:

âDid you know that woman was going to be here?â

He turned sharply. He said:

âI donât know what you mean.â

âI think you do.â

âLook here, Christine. I donât know what has come over youââ

She interrupted. Her voice held feeling now. It trembled.

âOver me? Itâs what has come over you!â

âNothingâs come over me.â

âOh! Patrick! it has! You insisted so on coming here. You were quite vehement. I wanted to go to Tintagel again whereâwhere we had our honeymoon. You were bent on coming here.â

âWell, why not? Itâs a fascinating spot.â

âPerhaps. But you wanted to come here because she was going to be here.â

âShe? Who is she?â

âMrs. Marshall. Youâyouâre infatuated with her.â

âFor Godâs sake, Christine, donât make a fool of yourself. Itâs not like you to be jealous.â

His bluster was a little uncertain. He exaggerated it.

She said:

âWeâve been so happy.â

âHappy? Of course weâve been happy! We are happy. But we shanât go on being happy if I canât even speak to another woman without you kicking up a row.â

âItâs not like that.â

âYes, it is. In marriage one has got to haveâwellâfriendships with other people. This suspicious attitude is all wrong. IâI canât speak to a pretty woman without your jumping to the conclusion that Iâm in love with herââ

He stopped. He shrugged his shoulders.

Christine Redfern said:

âYou are in love with herâ¦.â

âOh, donât be a fool, Christine! IâveâIâve barely spoken to her.â

âThatâs not true.â

âDonât for goodnessâ sake get into the habit of being jealous of every pretty woman we come across.â

Christine Redfern said:

âSheâs not just any pretty woman! Sheâsâsheâs different! Sheâs a bad lot! Yes, she is. Sheâll do you harm, Patrick, please, give it up. Letâs go away from here.â

Patrick Redfern stuck out his chin mutinously. He looked, somehow, very young as he said defiantly:

âDonât be ridiculous, Christine. Andâand donât letâs quarrel about it.â

âI donât want to quarrel.â

âThen behave like a reasonable human being. Come on, letâs go back to the hotel.â

He got up. There was a pause, then Christine Redfern got up too.

She said:

âVery wellâ¦.â

In the recess adjoining, on the seat there, Hercule Poirot sat and shook his head sorrowfully.

Some people might have scrupulously removed themselves from earshot of a private conversation. But not Hercule Poirot. He had no scruples of that kind.

âBesides,â as he explained to his friend Hastings at a later date, âit was a question of murder.â

Hastings said, staring:

âBut the murder hadnât happened, then.â

Hercule Poirot sighed. He said:

âBut already, mon cher, it was very clearly indicated.â

âThen why didnât you stop it?â

And Hercule Poirot, with a sigh, said as he had said once before in Egypt, that if a person is determined to commit murder it is not easy to prevent them. He does not blame himself for what happened. It was, according to him, inevitable.

Three

Rosamund Darnley and Kenneth Marshall sat on the short springy turf of the cliff overlooking Gull Cove. This was on the east side of the island. People came here in the morning sometimes to bathe when they wanted to be peaceful.

Rosamund said:

âItâs nice to get away from people.â

Marshall murmured inaudibly:

âMâm, yes.â

He rolled over, sniffing at the short turf.

âSmells good. Remember the downs at Shipley?â

âRather.â

âPretty good, those days.â

âYes.â

âYouâve not changed much, Rosamund.â

âYes, I have. Iâve changed enormously.â

âYouâve been very successful and youâre rich and all that, but youâre the same old Rosamund.â

Rosamund murmured:

âI wish I were.â

âWhatâs that?â

âNothing. Itâs a pity, isnât it, Kenneth, that we canât keep the nice natures and high ideals that we had when we were young?â

âI donât know that your nature was ever particularly nice, my child. You used to get into the most frightful rages. You half-choked me once when you flew at me in a temper.â

Rosamund laughed. She said:

âDo you remember the day that we took Toby down to get water rats?â

They spent some minutes in recalling old adventures.

Then there came a pause.

Rosamundâs fingers played with the clasp of her bag. She said at last:

âKenneth?â

âUm.â His reply was indistinct. He was still lying on his face on the turf.

âIf I say something to you that is probably outrageously impertinent will you never speak to me again?â

He rolled over and sat up.

âI donât think,â he said seriously, âthat I would ever regard anything you said as impertinent. You see, you belong.â

She nodded in acceptance of all that last phrase meant. She concealed only the pleasure it gave her.

âKenneth, why donât you get a divorce from your wife?â

His face altered. It hardenedâthe happy expression died out of it. He took a pipe from his pocket and began filling it.

Rosamund said:

âIâm sorry if Iâve offended you.â

He said quietly:

âYou havenât offended me.â

âWell then, why donât you?â

âYou donât understand, my dear girl.â

âAre youâso frightfully fond of her?â

âItâs not just a question of that. You see, I married her.â

âI know. But sheâsâpretty notorious.â

He considered that for a moment, ramming in the tobacco carefully.

âIs she? I suppose she is.â

âYou could divorce her, Ken.â

âMy dear girl, youâve got no business to say a thing like that. Just because men lose their heads about her a bit isnât to say that she loses hers.â

Rosamund bit off a rejoinder. Then she said:

âYou could fix it so that she divorced youâif you prefer it that way.â

âI dare say I could.â

âYou ought to, Ken. Really, I mean it. Thereâs the child.â

âLinda?â

âYes, Linda.â

âWhatâs Linda to do with it?â

âArlenaâs not good for Linda. She isnât really. Linda, I think, feels things a good deal.â

Kenneth Marshall applied a match to his pipe. Between puffs he said:

âYesâthereâs something in that. I suppose Arlena and Linda arenât very good for each other. Not the right thing for a girl perhaps. Itâs a bit worrying.â

Rosamund said:

âI like Lindaâvery much. Thereâs somethingâfine about her.â

Kenneth said:

âSheâs like her mother. She takes things hard like Ruth did.â

Rosamund said:

âThen donât you thinkâreallyâthat you ought to get rid of Arlena?â

âFix up a divorce?â

âYes. People are doing that all the time.â

Kenneth Marshall said with sudden vehemence:

âYes, and thatâs just what I hate.â

âHate?â She was startled.

âYes. Sort of attitude to life there is nowadays. If you take on a thing and donât like it, then you get yourself out of it as quick as possible! Dash it all, thereâs got to be such a thing as good faith. If you marry a woman and engage yourself to look after her, well itâs up to you to do it. Itâs your show. Youâve taken it on. Iâm sick of quick marriage and easy divorce. Arlenaâs my wife, thatâs all there is to it.â

Rosamund leaned forward. She said in a low voice:

âSo itâs like that with you? âTill death do us part?ââ

Kenneth Marshall nodded his head.

He said:

âThatâs just it.â

Rosamund said:

âI see.â

II

Mr. Horace Blatt, returning to Leathercombe Bay down a narrow twisting lane, nearly ran down Mrs. Redfern at a corner.

As she flattened herself into the hedge, Mr. Blatt brought his Sunbeam to a halt by applying the brakes vigorously.

âHullo-ullo-ullo,â said Mr. Blatt cheerfully.

He was a large man with a red face and a fringe of reddish hair round a shining bald spot.

It was Mr. Blattâs apparent ambition to be the life and soul of any place he happened to be in. The Jolly Roger Hotel, in his opinion, given somewhat loudly, needed brightening up. He was puzzled at the way people seemed to melt and disappear when he himself arrived on the scene.

âNearly made you into strawberry jam, didnât I?â said Mr. Blatt gaily.

Christine Redfern said:

âYes, you did.â

âJump in,â said Mr. Blatt.

âOh, thanksâI think Iâll walk.â

âNonsense,â said Mr. Blatt. âWhatâs a car for?â

Yielding to necessity Christine Redfern got in.

Mr. Blatt restarted the engine which had stopped owing to the suddenness with which he had previously pulled up.

Mr. Blatt inquired:

âAnd what are you doing walking about all alone? Thatâs all wrong, a nice looking girl like you.â

Christine said hurriedly:

âOh! I like being alone.â

Mr. Blatt gave her a terrific dig with his elbow, nearly sending the car into the hedge at the same time.

âGirls always say that,â he said. âThey donât mean it. You know, that place, the Jolly Roger, wants a bit of livening up. Nothing jolly about it. No life in it. Of course thereâs a good amount of duds staying there. A lot of kids, to begin with and a lot of old fogeys too. Thereâs that old Anglo-Indian bore and that athletic parson and those yapping Americans and that foreigner with the moustacheâmakes me laugh that moustache of his! I should say heâs a hairdresser, something of that sort.â

Christine shook her head.

âOh no, heâs a detective.â

Mr. Blatt nearly let the car go into the hedge again.

âA detective? Dâyou mean heâs in disguise?â

Christine smiled faintly.

She said:

âOh no, he really is like that. Heâs Hercule Poirot. You must have heard of him.â

Mr. Blatt said:

âDidnât catch his name properly. Oh yes, Iâve heard of him. But I thought he was dead. Dash it, he ought to be dead. Whatâs he after down here?â

âHeâs not after anythingâheâs just on a holiday.â

âWell, I suppose that might be so,â Mr. Blatt seemed doubtful about it. âLooks a bit of a bounder, doesnât he?â

âWell,â said Christine and hesitated. âPerhaps a little peculiar.â

âWhat I say is,â said Mr. Blatt, âwhatâs wrong with Scotland Yard? Buy British every time for me.â

He reached the bottom of the hill and with a triumphant fanfare of the horn ran the car into the Jolly Rogerâs garage which was situated, for tidal reasons, on the mainland opposite the hotel.

III

Linda Marshall was in the small shop which catered for the wants of visitors to Leathercombe Bay. One side of it was devoted to shelves on which were books which could be borrowed for the sum of twopence. The newest of them was ten years old, some were twenty years old and others older still.

Linda took first one and then another doubtfully from the shelf and glanced into it. She decided that she couldnât possibly read The Four Feathers or Vice Versa. She took out a small squat volume in brown calf.

The time passedâ¦.

With a start Linda shoved the book back in the shelf as Christine Redfernâs voice said:

âWhat are you reading, Linda?â

Linda said hurriedly:

âNothing. Iâm looking for a book.â

She pulled out The Marriage of William Ashe at random and advanced to the counter fumbling for twopence.

Christine said:

âMr. Blatt just drove me homeâafter nearly running over me first. I really felt I couldnât walk all across the causeway with him, so I said I had to buy some things.â

Linda said:

âHeâs awful, isnât he? Always saying how rich he is and making the most terrible jokes.â

Christine said:

âPoor man. One really feels rather sorry for him.â

Linda didnât agree. She didnât see anything to be sorry for in Mr. Blatt. She was young and ruthless.

She walked with Christine Redfern out of the shop and down towards the causeway.

She was busy with her own thoughts. She liked Christine Redfern. She and Rosamund Darnley were the only bearable people on the island in Lindaâs opinion. Neither of them talked much to her for one thing. Now, as they walked, Christine didnât say anything. That, Linda thought, was sensible. If you hadnât anything worth saying why go chattering all the time?

She lost herself in her own perplexities.

She said suddenly:

âMrs. Redfern, have you ever felt that everythingâs so awfulâso terribleâthat youâllâoh, burstâ¦?â

The words were almost comic, but Lindaâs face, drawn and anxious, was not. Christine Redfern, looking at her at first vaguely, with scarcely comprehending eyes, certainly saw nothing to laugh atâ¦.

She caught her breath sharply.

She said:

âYesâyesâI have feltâjust thatâ¦.â

IV

Mr. Blatt said:

âSo youâre the famous sleuth, eh?â

They were in the cocktail bar, a favourite haunt of Mr. Blattâs.

Hercule Poirot acknowledged the remark with his usual lack of modesty.

Mr. Blatt went on.

âAnd what are you doing down hereâon a job?â

âNo, no. I repose myself. I take the holiday.â

Mr. Blatt winked.

âYouâd say that anyway, wouldnât you?â

Poirot replied:

âNot necessarily.â

Horace Blatt said:

âOh! Come now. As a matter of fact youâd be safe enough with me. I donât repeat all I hear! Learnt to keep my mouth shut years ago. Shouldnât have got on the way I have if I hadnât known how to do that. But you know what most people areâyap, yap, yap about everything they hear! Now you canât afford that in your trade! Thatâs why youâve got to keep it up that youâre here holiday-making and nothing else.â

Poirot asked:

âAnd why should you suppose the contrary?â

Mr. Blatt closed one eye.

He said:

âIâm a man of the world. I know the cut of a fellowâs jib. A man like you would be at Deauville or Le Touquet or down at Juan les Pins. Thatâs yourâwhatâs the phrase?âspiritual home.â

Poirot sighed. He looked out of the window. Rain was falling and mist encircled the island. He said:

âIt is possible that you are right! There, at least, in wet weather there are the distractions.â

âGood old Casino!â said Mr. Blatt. âYou know, Iâve had to work pretty hard most of my life. No time for holidays or kickshaws. I meant to make good and I have made good. Now I can do what I please. My moneyâs as good as any manâs. Iâve seen a bit of life in the last few years, I can tell you.â

Poirot murmured:

âAh, yes?â

âDonât know why I came to this place,â Mr. Blatt continued.

Poirot observed:

âI, too, wondered?â

âEh, whatâs that?â

Poirot waved an eloquent hand.

âI, too, am not without observation. I should have expected you most certainly to choose Deauville or Biarritz.â

âInstead of which, weâre both here, eh?â

Mr. Blatt gave a hoarse chuckle.

âDonât really know why I came here,â he mused. âI think, you know, it sounded romantic. Jolly Roger Hotel, Smugglersâ Island. That kind of address tickles you up, you know. Makes you think of when you were a boy. Pirates, smuggling, all that.â

He laughed, rather self-consciously.

âI used to sail quite a bit as a boy. Not this part of the world. Off the East coast. Funny how a taste for that sort of thing never quite leaves you. I could have a tip-top yacht if I liked, but somehow I donât really fancy it. I like mucking about in that little yawl of mine. Redfernâs keen on sailing, too. Heâs been out with me once or twice. Canât get hold of him nowâalways hanging round that red-haired wife of Marshallâs.â

He paused, then lowering his voice, he went on:

âMostly a dried up lot of sticks in this hotel! Mrs. Marshallâs about the only lively spot! I should think Marshallâs got his hands full looking after her. All sorts of stories about her in her stage daysâand after! Men go crazy about her. Youâll see, thereâll be a spot of trouble one of these days.â

Poirot asked: âWhat kind of trouble?â

Horace Blatt replied:

âThat depends. Iâd say, looking at Marshall, that heâs a man with a funny kind of temper. As a matter of fact, I know he is. Heard something about him. Iâve met that quiet sort. Never know where you are with that kind. Redfern had better look outââ

He broke off, as the subject of his words came into the bar. He went on speaking loudly and self-consciously.

âAnd, as I say, sailing round this coast is good fun. Hullo, Redfern, have one with me? Whatâll you have? Dry Martini? Right. What about you, M. Poirot?â

Poirot shook his head.

Patrick Redfern sat down and said:

âSailing? Itâs the best fun in the world. Wish I could do more of it. Used to spend most of my time as a boy in a sailing dinghy round this coast.â

Poirot said:

âThen you know this part of the world well?â

âRather! I knew this place before there was a hotel on it. There were just a few fishermenâs cottages at Leathercombe Bay and a tumbledown old house, all shut up, on the island.â

âThere was a house here?â

âOh, yes, but it hadnât been lived in for years. Was practically falling down. There used to be all sorts of stories of secret passages from the house to Pixyâs Cave. We were always looking for that secret passage, I remember.â

Horace Blatt spilt his drink. He cursed, mopped himself and asked:

âWhat is this Pixyâs Cave?â

Patrick said:

âOh, donât you know it? Itâs on Pixy Cove. You canât find the entrance to it easily. Itâs among a lot of piled up boulders at one end. Just a long thin crack. You can just squeeze through it. Inside it widens out into quite a big cave. You can imagine what fun it was to a boy! An old fisherman showed it to me. Nowadays, even the fishermen donât know about it. I asked one the other day why the place was called Pixy Cove and he couldnât tell me.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âBut I still do not understand. What is this pixy?â

Patrick Redfern said:

âOh! thatâs typically Devonshire. Thereâs the pixyâs cave at Sheepstor on the Moor. Youâre supposed to leave a pin, you know, as a present for the pixy. A pixy is a kind of moor spirit.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âAh! but it is interesting, that.â

Patrick Redfern went on.

âThereâs a lot of pixy lore on Dartmoor still. There are tors that are said to pixy-ridden, and I expect that farmers coming home after a thick night still complain of being pixy-led.â

Horace Blatt said:

âYou mean when theyâve had a couple?â

Patrick Redfern said with a smile:

âThatâs certainly the commonsense explanation!â

Blatt looked at his watch. He said:

âIâm going in to dinner. On the whole, Redfern, pirates are my favourites, not pixies.â

Patrick Redfern said with a laugh as the other went out:

âFaith, Iâd like to see the old boy pixy-led himself!â

Poirot observed meditatively:

âFor a hard-bitten business man, M. Blatt seems to have a very romantic imagination.â

Patrick Redfern said:

âThatâs because heâs only half-educated. Or so my wife says. Look at what he reads! Nothing but thrillers or Wild West stories.â

Poirot said:

âYou mean that he has still the mentality of a boy?â

âWell, donât you think so, sir?â

âMe, I have not seen very much of him.â

âI havenât either. Iâve been out sailing with him once or twiceâbut he doesnât really like having anyone with him. He prefers to be on his own.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âThat is indeed curious. It is singularly unlike his practice on land.â

Redfern laughed. He said:

âI know. We all have a bit of trouble keeping out of his way. Heâd like to turn this place into a cross between Margate and Le Touquet.â

Poirot said nothing for a minute or two. He was studying the laughing face of his companion very attentively. He said suddenly and unexpectedly:

âI think, M. Redfern, that you enjoy living.â

Patrick stared at him, surprised.

âIndeed I do. Why not?â

âWhy not indeed,â agreed Poirot. âI make you my felicitation on the fact.â

Smiling a little, Patrick Redfern said:

âThank you, sir.â

âThat is why, as an older man, a very much older man, I venture to offer you a piece of advice.â

âYes, sir?â

âA very wise friend of mine in the Police Force said to me years ago: âHercule, my friend, if you would know tranquillity, avoid women.ââ

Patrick Redfern said:

âIâm afraid itâs a bit late for that, sir. Iâm married, you know.â

âI do know. Your wife is a very charming, a very accomplished woman. She is, I think, very fond of you.â

Patrick Redfern said sharply:

âIâm very fond of her.â

âAh,â said Hercule Poirot, âI am delighted to hear it.â

Patrickâs brow was suddenly like thunder.

âLook here, M. Poirot, what are you getting at?â

âLes Femmes.â Poirot leaned back and closed his eyes. âI know something of them. They are capable of complicating life unbearably. And the English, they conduct their affairs indescribably. If it was necessary for you to come here, M. Redfern, why, in the name of heaven, did you bring your wife?â

Patrick Redfern said angrily:

âI donât know what you mean.â

Hercule Poirot said calmly:

âYou know perfectly. I am not so foolish as to argue with an infatuated man. I utter only the word of caution.â

âYouâve been listening to these damned scandalmongers. Mrs. Gardener, the Brewster womanânothing to do but to clack their tongues all day. Just because a womanâs good-lookingâtheyâre down on her like a sack of coals.â

Hercule Poirot got up. He murmured:

âAre you really as young as all that?â

Shaking his head, he left the bar. Patrick Redfern stared angrily after him.

V

Hercule Poirot paused in the hall on his way from the dining room. The doors were openâa breath of soft night air came in.

The rain had stopped and the mist had dispersed. It was a fine night again.

Hercule Poirot found Mrs. Redfern in her favourite seat on the cliff ledge. He stopped by her and said:

âThis seat is damp. You should not sit here. You will catch the chill.â

âNo, I shanât. And what does it matter anyway.â

âTscha, tscha, you are not a child! You are an educated woman. You must look at things sensibly.â

She said coldly:

âI can assure you I never take cold.â

Poirot said:

âIt has been a wet day. The wind blew, the rain came down, and the mist was everywhere so that one could not see through it. Eh bien, what is it like now? The mists have rolled away, the sky is clear and up above the stars shine. That is like life, Madame.â

Christine said in a low fierce voice:

âDo you know what I am most sick of in this place?â

âWhat, Madame?â

âPity.â

She brought the word out like the flick of a whip.

She went on:

âDo you think I donât know? That I canât see? All the time people are saying: âPoor Mrs. Redfernâthat poor little woman.â And anyway Iâm not little, Iâm tall. They say little because they are sorry for me. And I canât bear it!â

Cautiously, Hercule Poirot spread his handkerchief on the seat and sat down. He said thoughtfully:

âThere is something in that.â

âThat womanââ said Christine and stopped.

Poirot said gravely:

âWill you allow me to tell you something, Madame? Something that is as true as the stars above us? The Arlena Stuartsâor Arlena Marshallsâof this worldâdo not count.â

Christine Redfern said:

âNonsense.â

âI assure you, it is true. Their Empire is of the moment and for the moment. To countâreally and truly to countâa woman must have goodness or brains.â

Christine said scornfully:

âDo you think men care for goodness or brains?â

Poirot said gravely:

âFundamentally, yes.â

Christine laughed shortly.

âI donât agree with you.â

Poirot said:

âYour husband loves you, Madame. I know it.â

âYou canât know it.â

âYes, yes. I know it. I have seen him looking at you.â

Suddenly she broke down. She wept stormily and bitterly against Poirotâs accommodating shoulder.

She said:

âI canât bear it â¦ I canât bear itâ¦.â

Poirot patted her arm. He said soothingly:

âPatienceâonly patience.â

She sat up and pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. She said in a stifled voice:

âItâs all right. Iâm better now. Leave me. IâdâIâd rather be alone.â

He obeyed and left her sitting there while he himself followed the winding path down to the hotel.

He was nearly there when he heard the murmur of voices.

He turned a little aside from the path. There was a gap in the bushes.

He saw Arlena Marshall and Patrick Redfern beside her. He heard the manâs voice, with the throb in it of emotion.

âIâm crazy about youâcrazyâyouâve driven me madâ¦ You do care a littleâyou do care?â

He saw Arlena Marshallâs faceâit was, he thought, like a sleek happy catâit was animal, not human. She said softly:

âOf course, Patrick darling, I adore you. You know thatâ¦.â

For once Hercule Poirot cut his eavesdropping short. He went back to the path and on down to the hotel.

A figure joined him suddenly. It was Captain Marshall.

Marshall said:

âRemarkable night, what? After that foul day.â He looked up at the sky. âLooks as though we should have fine weather tomorrow.â

Four

The morning of the 25th of August dawned bright and cloudless. It was a morning to tempt even an inveterate sluggard to rise early.

Several people rose early that morning at the Jolly Roger.

It was eight oâclock when Linda, sitting at her dressing table, turned a little thick calf-bound volume face downwards, sprawling it open and looked at her own face in the mirror.

Her lips were set tight together and the pupils of her eyes contracted.

She said below her breath:

âIâll do itâ¦.â

She slipped out of her pyjamas and into her bathing dress. Over it she flung on a bathrobe and laced espadrilles on her feet.

She went out of her room and along the passage. At the end of it a door on to the balcony led to an outside staircase leading directly down to the rocks below the hotel. There was a small iron ladder clamped on to the rocks leading down into the water which was used by many of the hotel guests for a before-breakfast dip as taking up less time than going down to the main bathing beach.

As Linda started down from the balcony she met her father coming up. He said:

âYouâre up early. Going to have a dip?â

Linda nodded.

They passed each other.

Instead of going on down the rocks, however, Linda skirted round the hotel to the left until she came to the path down to the causeway connecting the hotel with the mainland. The tide was high and the causeway under water, but the boat that took hotel guests across was tied to a little jetty. The man in charge of it was absent at the moment. Linda got in, untied it and rowed herself across.

She tied up the boat on the other side, walked up the slope, past the hotel garage and along until she reached the general shop.

The woman had just taken down the shutters and was engaged in sweeping out the floor. She looked amazed at the sight of Linda.

âWell, Miss, you are up early.â

Linda put her hand in the pocket of her bath wrap and brought out some money. She proceeded to make her purchases.

II

Christine Redfern was standing in Lindaâs room when the girl returned.

âOh, there you are,â Christine exclaimed. âI thought you couldnât be really up yet.â

Linda said:

âNo, Iâve been bathing.â

Noticing the parcel in her hand, Christine said with surprise:

âThe post has come early today.â

Linda flushed. With her habitual nervous clumsiness the parcel slipped from her hand. The flimsy string broke and some of the contents rolled over the floor.

Christine exclaimed:

âWhat have you been buying candles for?â

But to Lindaâs relief she did not wait for an answer, but went on, as she helped to pick the things up from the floor.

âI came in to ask whether you would like to come with me to Gull Cove this morning. I want to sketch there.â

Linda accepted with alacrity.

In the last few days she had accompanied Christine Redfern more than once on sketching expeditions. Christine was a most indifferent artist, but it is possible that she found the excuse of painting a help to her pride since her husband now spent most of his time with Arlena Marshall.

Linda Marshall had been increasingly morose and bad tempered. She liked being with Christine who, intent on her work, spoke very little. It was, Linda felt, nearly as good as being by oneself, and in a curious way she craved for company of some kind. There was a subtle kind of sympathy between her and the elder woman, probably based on the fact of their mutual dislike of the same person.

Christine said:

âIâm playing tennis at twelve, so weâd better start fairly early. Half past ten?â

âRight. Iâll be ready. Meet you in the hall.â

III

Rosamund Darnley, strolling out of the dining room after a very late breakfast, was cannoned into by Linda as the latter came tearing down the stairs.

âOh! sorry, Miss Darnley.â

Rosamund said: âLovely morning, isnât it? One can hardly believe it after yesterday.â

âI know. Iâm going with Mrs. Redfern to Gull Cove. I said Iâd meet her at half past ten. I thought I was late.â

âNo, itâs only twenty-five past.â

âOh! good.â

She was panting a little and Rosamund looked at her curiously.

âYouâre not feverish, are you, Linda?â

The girlsâ eyes were very bright and she had a vivid patch of colour in each cheek.

âOh! no. Iâm never feverish.â

Rosamund smiled and said:

âItâs such a lovely day I got up for breakfast. Usually I have it in bed. But today I came down and faced eggs and bacon like a man.â

âI knowâitâs heavenly after yesterday. Gull Cove is nice in the morning. I shall put a lot of oil on and get really brown.â

Rosamund said:

âYes, Gull Cove is nice in the morning. And itâs more peaceful than the beach here.â

Linda said, rather shyly:

âCome too.â

Rosamund shook her head.

She said:

âNot this morning. Iâve other fish to fry.â

Christine Redfern came down the stairs.

She was wearing beach pyjamas of a loose floppy pattern with long sleeves and wide legs. They were made of some green material with a yellow design. Rosamundâs tongue itched to tell her that yellow and green were the most unbecoming colours possible for her fair, slightly anaemic complexion. It always annoyed Rosamund when people had no clothes sense.

She thought: âIf I dressed that girl, Iâd soon make her husband sit up and take notice. However much of a fool Arlena is, she does know how to dress. This wretched girl looks just like a wilting lettuce.â

Aloud she said:

âHave a nice time. Iâm going to Sunny Ledge with a book.â

IV

Hercule Poirot breakfasted in his room as usual off coffee and rolls.

The beauty of the morning, however, tempted him to leave the hotel earlier than usual. It was ten oâclock, at least half an hour before his usual appearance, when he descended to the bathing beach. The beach itself was empty save for one person.

That person was Arlena Marshall.

Clad in her white bathing dress, the green Chinese hat on her head, she was trying to launch a white wooden float. Poirot came gallantly to the rescue, completely immersing a pair of white suÃ¨de shoes in doing so.

She thanked him with one of those sideways glances of hers.

Just as she was pushing off, she called him.

âM. Poirot?â

Poirot leaped to the waterâs edge.

âMadame.â

Arlena Marshall said:

âDo something for me, will you?â

âAnything.â

She smiled at him. She murmured:

âDonât tell any one where I am.â She made her glance appealing. âEvery one will follow me about so. I just want for once to be alone.â

She paddled off vigorously.

Poirot walked up the beach. He murmured to himself:

âAh Ã§a, jamais! That, par exemple, I do not believe.â

He doubted if Arlena Stuart, to give her her stage name, had ever wanted to be alone in her life.

Hercule Poirot, that man of the world, knew better. Arlena Marshall was doubtless keeping a rendezvous, and Poirot had a very good idea with whom.

Or thought he had, but there he found himself proved wrong.

For just as she floated rounded the point of the bay and disappeared out of sight, Patrick Redfern closely followed by Kenneth Marshall, came striding down the beach from the hotel.

Marshall nodded to Poirot, ââMorning, Poirot. Seen my wife anywhere about?â

Poirotâs answer was diplomatic.

âHas Madame then risen so early?â

Marshall said:

âSheâs not in her room.â He looked up at the sky. âLovely day. I shall have a bathe right away. Got a lot of typing to do this morning.â

Patrick Redfern, less openly, was looking up and down the beach. He sat down near Poirot and prepared to wait for the arrival of his lady.

Poirot said:

âAnd Madame Redfern? Has she too risen early?â

Patrick Redfern said:

âChristine? Oh, sheâs going off sketching. Sheâs rather keen on art just now.â

He spoke impatiently, his mind clearly elsewhere. As time passed he displayed his impatience for Arlenaâs arrival only too crudely. At every footstep he turned an eager head to see who it was coming down from the hotel.

Disappointment followed disappointment.

First Mr. and Mrs. Gardener complete with knitting and book and then Miss Brewster arrived.

Mrs. Gardener, industrious as ever, settled herself in her chair, and began to knit vigorously and talk at the same time.

âWell. M. Poirot. The beach seems very deserted this morning. Where is everybody?â

Poirot replied that the Mastermans and the Cowans, two families with young people in them, had gone off on an all-day sailing excursion.

âWhy that certainly does make all the difference, not having them about laughing and calling out. And only one person bathing, Captain Marshall.â

Marshall had just finished his swim. He came up the beach swinging his towel.

âPretty good in the sea this morning,â he said. âUnfortunately Iâve got a lot of work to do. Must go and get on with it.â

âWhy, if that isnât too bad, Captain Marshall. On a beautiful day like this, too. My, wasnât yesterday too terrible? I said to Mr. Gardener that if the weather was going to continue like that weâd just have to leave. Itâs the melancholy, you know, with the mist right up around the island. Gives you a kind of ghostly feeling, but then Iâve always been very susceptible to atmosphere ever since I was a child. Sometimes, you know, Iâd feel I just had to scream and scream. And that, of course, was very trying to my parents. But my mother was a lovely woman and she said to my father, âSinclair, if the child feels like that, we must let her do it. Screaming is her way of expressing herself.â And of course, my father agreed. He was devoted to my mother and just did everything she said. They were a perfectly lovely couple, as Iâm sure Mr. Gardener will agree. They were a very remarkable couple, werenât they, Odell?â

âYes, darling,â said Mr. Gardener.

âAnd whereâs your girl this morning, Captain Marshall?â

âLinda? I donât know. I expect sheâs mooning round the island somewhere.â

âYou know, Captain Marshall, that girl looks kind of peaky to me. She needs feeding up and very very sympathetic treatment.â

Kenneth Marshall said curtly:

âLindaâs all right.â

He went up to the hotel.

Patrick Redfern did not go into the water. He sat about, frankly looking up towards the hotel. He was beginning to look a shade sulky.

Miss Brewster was brisk and cheerful when she arrived.

The conversation was much as it had been on a previous morning. Gentle yapping from Mrs. Gardener and short staccato barks from Miss Brewster.

She remarked at last: âBeach seems a bit empty. Everyone off on excursions?â

Mrs. Gardener said:

âI was saying to Mr. Gardener only this morning that we simply must make an excursion to Dartmoor. Itâs quite near and the associations are all so romantic. And Iâd like to see that convict prisonâPrincetown, isnât it? I think weâd better fix up right away and go there tomorrow, Odell.â

Mr. Gardener said:

âYes, darling.â

Hercule Poirot said to Miss Brewster.

âYou are going to bathe, Mademoiselle?â

âOh Iâve had my morning dip before breakfast. Somebody nearly brained me with a bottle, too. Chucked it out of one of the hotel windows.â

âNow thatâs a very dangerous thing to do,â said Mrs. Gardener. âI had a very dear friend who got concussion by a toothpaste tin falling on him in the streetâthrown out of a thirty-fifth storey window it was. A most dangerous thing to do. He got very substantial damages.â She began to hunt among her skeins of wool. âWhy, Odell, I donât believe Iâve got that second shade of purple wool. Itâs in the second drawer of the bureau in our bedroom or it might be the third.â

âYes, darling.â

Mr. Gardener rose obediently and departed on his search.

Mrs. Gardener went on:

âSometimes, you know, I do think that maybe weâre going a little too far nowadays. What with all our great discoveries and all the electrical waves there must be in the atmosphere, I do think it leads to a great deal of mental unrest, and I just feel that maybe the time has come for a new message to humanity. I donât know, M. Poirot, if youâve ever interested yourself in the prophecies from the Pyramids.â

âI have not,â said Poirot.

âWell, I do assure you that theyâre very, very interesting. What with Moscow being exactly a thousand miles due north ofânow what was it?âwould it be Nineveh?âbut anyway you take a circle and it just shows the most surprising thingsâand one can just see that there must have been special guidance, and that those ancient Egyptians couldnât have thought of what they did all by themselves. And when youâve gone into the theory of the numbers and their repetition, why itâs all just so clear that I canât see how anyone can doubt the truth of it for a moment.â

Mrs. Gardener paused triumphantly but neither Poirot nor Miss Emily Brewster felt moved to argue the point.

Poirot studied his white suÃ¨de shoes ruefully.

Emily Brewster said:

âYou been paddling with your shoes on, M. Poirot?â

Poirot murmured:

âAlas! I was precipitate.â

Emily Brewster lowered her voice. She said:

âWhereâs our vamp this morning? Sheâs late.â

Mrs. Gardener, raising her eyes from her knitting to study Patrick Redfern, murmured:

âHe looks just like a thundercloud. Oh dear, I do feel the whole thing is such a pity. I wonder what Captain Marshall thinks about it all. Heâs such a nice quiet manâvery British and unassuming. You just never know what heâs thinking about things.â

Patrick Redfern rose and began to pace up and down the beach.

Mrs. Gardener murmured:

âJust like a tiger.â

Three pairs of eyes watched his pacing. Their scrutiny seemed to make Patrick Redfern uncomfortable. He looked more than sulky now. He looked in a flaming temper.

In the stillness a faint chime from the mainland came to their ears.

Emily Brewster murmured:

âWindâs from the east again. Thatâs a good sign when you can hear the church clock strike.â

Nobody said any more until Mr. Gardener returned with a skein of brilliant magenta wool.

âWhy, Odell, what a long time you have been?â

âSorry darling, but you see it wasnât in your bureau at all. I found it on your wardrobe shelf.â

âWhy, isnât that too extraordinary? I could have declared I put it in that bureau drawer. I do think itâs fortunate that Iâve never had to give evidence in a court case. Iâd just worry myself to death in case I wasnât remembering a thing just right.â

Mr. Gardener said:

âMrs. Gardener is very conscientious.â

V

It was some five minutes later that Patrick Redfern said:

âGoing for your row this morning, Miss Brewster? Mind if I come with you?â

Miss Brewster said heartily:

âDelighted.â

âLetâs row right round the island,â proposed Redfern.

Miss Brewster consulted her watch.

âShall we have time? Oh yes, itâs not half past eleven yet. Come on, then, letâs start.â

They went down the beach together.

Patrick Redfern took first turn at the oars. He rowed with a powerful stroke. The boat leapt forward.

Emily Brewster said approvingly:

âGood. Weâll see if you can keep that up.â

He laughed into her eyes. His spirits had improved.

âI shall probably have a fine crop of blisters by the time we get back.â He threw up his head, tossing back his black hair. âGod, itâs a marvellous day! If you do get a real summerâs day in England thereâs nothing to beat it.â

Emily Brewster said gruffly:

âCanât beat England anyway in my opinion. Only place in the world to live in.â

âIâm with you.â

They rounded the point of the bay to the west and rowed under the cliffs. Patrick Redfern looked up.

âAny one on Sunny Ledge this morning? Yes, thereâs a sunshade. Who is it, I wonder?â

Emily Brewster said:

âItâs Miss Darnley, I think. Sheâs got one of those Japanese affairs.â

They rowed up the coast. On their left was the open sea.

Emily Brewster said:

âWe ought to have gone the other way round. This way weâve got the current against us.â

âThereâs very little current. Iâve swum out here and not noticed it. Anyway we couldnât go the other way, the causeway wouldnât be covered.â

âDepends on the tide, of course. But they always say that bathing from Pixy Cove is dangerous if you swim out too far.â

Patrick was rowing vigorously still. At the same time he was scanning the cliffs attentively.

Emily Brewster thought suddenly:

âHeâs looking for the Marshall woman. Thatâs why he wanted to come with me. She hasnât shown up this morning and heâs wondering what sheâs up to. Probably sheâs done it on purpose. Just a move in the gameâto make him keener.â

They rounded the jutting point of rock to the south of the little bay named Pixyâs Cove. It was quite a small cove, with rocks dotted fantastically about the beach. It faced nearly northwest and the cliff overhung it a good deal. It was a favourite place for picnic teas. In the morning, when the sun was off, it was not popular and there was seldom anyone there.

On this occasion, however, there was a figure on the beach.

Patrick Redfernâs stroke checked and recovered.

He said in a would-be casual tone:

âHullo, whoâs that?â

Miss Brewster said dryly:

âIt looks like Mrs. Marshall.â

Patrick Redfern said, as though struck by the idea.

âSo it does.â

He altered his course, rowing inshore.

Emily Brewster protested.

âWe donât want to land here, do we?â

Patrick Redfern said quickly:

âOh, plenty of time.â

His eyes looked into hersâsomething in them, a naÃ¯ve pleading look rather like that of an importunate dog, silenced Emily Brewster. She thought to herself:

âPoor boy, heâs got it badly. Oh well, it canât be helped. Heâll get over it in time.â

The boat was fast approaching the beach.

Arlena Marshall was lying face downwards on the shingle, her arms outstretched. The white float was drawn up nearby.

Something was puzzling Emily Brewster. It was as though she was looking at something she knew quite well but which was in one respect quite wrong.

It was a minute or two before it came to her.

Arlena Marshallâs attitude was the attitude of a sunbather. So had she lain many a time on the beach by the hotel, her bronzed body outstretched and the green cardboard hat protecting her head and neck.

But there was no sun on Pixyâs Beach and there would be none for some hours yet. The overhanging cliff protected the beach from the sun in the morning. A vague feeling of apprehension came over Emily Brewster.

The boat grounded on the shingle. Patrick Redfern called:

âHullo, Arlena.â

And then Emily Brewsterâs foreboding took definite shape. For the recumbent figure did not move or answer.

Emily saw Patrick Redfernâs face change. He jumped out of the boat and she followed him. They dragged the boat ashore then set off up the beach to where that white figure lay so still and unresponsive near the bottom of the cliff.

Patrick Redfern got there first but Emily Brewster was close behind him.

She saw, as one sees in a dream, the bronzed limbs, the white backless bathing dressâthe red curl of hair escaping under the jade green hatâsaw something else tooâthe curious unnatural angle of the outspread arms. Felt, in that minute, that this body had not lain down but had been thrownâ¦.

She heard Patrickâs voiceâa mere frightened whisper. He knelt down beside that still formâtouched the handâthe armâ¦.

He said in a low shuddering whisper:

âMy God, sheâs deadâ¦.â

And then, as he lifted the hat a little, peered at the neck:

âOh, God, sheâs been strangledâ¦murdered.â

VI

It was one of those moments when time stands still.

With an odd feeling of unreality Emily Brewster heard herself saying:

âWe musnât touch anythingâ¦ Not until the police come.â

Redfernâs answer came mechanically.

âNoânoâof course not.â And then in a deep agonized whisper. âWho? Who? Who could have done that to Arlena. She canât haveâhave been murdered. It canât be true!â

Emily Brewster shook her head, not knowing quite what to answer.

She heard him draw in his breathâheard the low controlled rage in his voice as he said:

âMy God, if I get my hands on the foul fiend who did this.â

Emily Brewster shivered. Her imagination pictured a lurking murderer behind one of the boulders. Then she heard her voice saying:

âWhoever did it wouldnât be hanging about. We must get the police. Perhapsââ she hesitatedââone of us ought to stay withâwith the body.â

Patrick Redfern said:

âIâll stay.â

Emily Brewster drew a little sigh of relief. She was not the kind of woman who would ever admit to feeling fear, but she was secretly thankful not to have to remain on that beach alone with the faint possibility of a homicidal maniac lingering close at hand.

She said:

âGood. Iâll be as quick as I can. Iâll go in the boat. Canât face that ladder. Thereâs a constable at Leathercombe Bay.â

Patrick Redfern murmured mechanically:

âYesâyes, whatever you think best.â

As she rowed vigorously away from the shore, Emily Brewster saw Patrick drop down beside the dead woman and bury his head in his hands. There was something so forlorn about his attitude that she felt an unwilling sympathy. He looked like a dog watching by its dead master. Nevertheless her robust common sense was saying to her:

âBest thing that could have happened for him and his wifeâand for Marshall and the childâbut I donât suppose he can see it that way, poor devil.â

Emily Brewster was a woman who could always rise to an emergency.

Five

Inspector Colgate stood back by the cliff waiting for the police-surgeon to finish with Arlenaâs body. Patrick Redfern and Emily Brewster stood a little to one side.

Dr. Neasden rose from his knees with a quick deft movement.

He said:

âStrangledâand by a pretty powerful pair of hands. She doesnât seem to have put up much of a struggle. Taken by surprise. Hâmâwellânasty business.â

Emily Brewster had taken one look and then quickly averted her eyes from the dead womanâs face. That horrible purple convulsed countenance.

Inspector Colgate asked:

âWhat about time of death?â

Neasden said irritably:

âCanât say definitely without knowing more about her. Lots of factors to take into account. Letâs see, itâs quarter to one now. What time was it when you found her?â

Patrick Redfern, to whom the question was addressed, said vaguely:

âSome time before twelve. I donât know exactly.â

Emily Brewster said:

âIt was exactly a quarter to twelve when we found she was dead.â

âAh, and you came here in the boat. What time was it when you caught sight of her lying here?â

Emily Brewster considered.

âI should say we rounded the point about five or six minutes earlier.â She turned to Redfern. âDo you agree?â

He said vaguely:

âYesâyesâabout that, I should think.â

Neasden asked the Inspector in a low voice:

âThis the husband? Oh! I see, my mistake. Thought it might be. He seems rather done in over it.â

He raised his voice officially.

âLetâs put it at twenty minutes to twelve. She cannot have been killed very long before that. Say between then and elevenâquarter to eleven at the earliest outside limit.â

The Inspector shut his notebook with a snap.

âThanks,â he said. âThat ought to help us considerably. Puts it within very narrow limitsâless than an hour all told.â

He turned to Miss Brewster.

âNow then, I think itâs all clear so far. Youâre Miss Emily Brewster and this is Mr. Patrick Redfern, both staying at the Jolly Roger Hotel. You identify this lady as a fellow guest of yours at the hotelâthe wife of a Captain Marshall?â

Emily Brewster nodded.

âThen, I think,â said Inspector Colgate, âthat weâll adjourn to the hotel.â

He beckoned to a constable.

âHawkes, you stay here and donât allow anyone on to this cove. Iâll be sending Phillips along later.â

II

âUpon my soul!â said Colonel Weston. âThis is a surprise finding you here!â

Hercule Poirot replied to the Chief Constableâs greeting in a suitable manner. He murmured:

âAh, yes, many years have passed since that affair at St. Loo.â

âI havenât forgotten it, though,â said Weston. âBiggest surprise of my life. The thing Iâve never got over, though, is the way you got round me about that funeral business. Absolutely unorthodox, the whole thing. Fantastic!â

âTout de mÃªme, mon Colonel,â said Poirot. âIt produced the goods, did it not?â

âErâwell, possibly. I dare say we should have got there by more orthodox methods.â

âIt is possible,â agreed Poirot diplomatically.

âAnd here you are in the thick of another murder,â said the Chief Constable. âAny ideas about this one?â

Poirot said slowly:

âNothing definiteâbut it is interesting.â

âGoing to give us a hand?â

âYou would permit it, yes?â

âMy dear fellow, delighted to have you. Donât know enough yet to decide whether itâs a case for Scotland Yard or not. Offhand it looks as though our murderer must be pretty well within a limited radius. On the other hand, all these people are strangers down here. To find out about them and their motives youâve got to go to London.â

Poirot said:

âYes, that is true.â

âFirst of all,â said Weston, âweâve got to find out who last saw the dead woman alive. Chambermaid took her her breakfast at nine. Girl in the bureau downstairs saw her pass through the lounge and go out about ten.â

âMy friend,â said Poirot, âI suspect that I am the man you want.â

âYou saw her this morning? What time?â

âAt five minutes past ten. I assisted her to launch her float from the bathing beach.â

âAnd she went off on it?â

âYes.â

âAlone?â

âYes.â

âDid you see which direction she took?â

âShe paddled round that point there to the right.â

âIn the direction of Pixyâs Cove, that is?â

âYes.â

âAnd the time then wasâ?â

âI should say she actually left the beach at a quarter past ten.â

Weston considered.

âThat fits in well enough. How long should you say that it would take her to paddle round to the Cove?â

âAh me, I am not an expert. I do not go in boats or expose myself on floats. Perhaps half an hour?â

âThatâs about what I think,â said the Colonel. âShe wouldnât be hurrying, I presume. Well, if she arrived there at a quarter to eleven, that fits in well enough.â

âAt what time does your doctor suggest she died?â

âOh, Neasden doesnât commit himself. Heâs a cautious chap. A quarter to eleven is his earliest outside limit.â

Poirot nodded. He said:

âThere is one other point that I must mention. As she left, Mrs. Marshall asked me not to say I had seen her.â

Weston stared.

He said:

âHâm, thatâs rather suggestive, isnât it?â

Poirot murmured.

âYes. I thought so myself.â

Weston tugged at his moustache. He said:

âLook here, Poirot. Youâre a man of the world. What sort of a woman was Mrs. Marshall?â

A faint smile came to Poirotâs lips.

He asked:

âHave you not already heard?â

The Chief Constable said dryly:

âI know what the women say of her. They would. How much truth is there in it? Was she having an affair with this fellow Redfern?â

âI should say undoubtedly yes.â

âHe followed her down here, eh?â

âThere is reason to suppose so.â

âAnd the husband? Did he know about it? What did he feel?â

Poirot said slowly:

âIt is not easy to know what Captain Marshall feels or thinks. He is a man who does not display his emotions.â

Weston said sharply:

âBut he might have âem, all the same.â

Poirot nodded. He said:

âOh yes, he might have them.â

III

The Chief Constable was being as tactful as it was in his nature to be with Mrs. Castle.

Mrs. Castle was the owner and proprietress of the Jolly Roger Hotel. She was a woman of forty odd with a large bust, rather violent henna red hair, and an almost offensively refined manner of speech.

She was saying:

âThat such a thing should happen in my hotel! Ay am sure it has always been the quayettest place imaginable! The people who come here are such naice people. No rowdinessâif you know what ay mean. Not like the big hotels in St. Loo.â

âQuite so, Mrs. Castle,â said Colonel Weston. âBut accidents happen in the best regulatedâer households.â

âAyâm sure Inspector Colgate will bear me out,â said Mrs. Castle, sending an appealing glance towards the Inspector who was sitting looking very official. âAs to the laycensing laws, ay am most particular. There has never been any irregularity!â

âQuite, quite,â said Weston. âWeâre not blaming you in any way, Mrs. Castle.â

âBut it does so reflect upon an establishment,â said Mrs. Castle, her large bust heaving. âWhen ay think of the noisy gaping crowds. Of course no one but hotel guests are allowed upon the islandâbut all the same they will no doubt come and point from the shore.â

She shuddered.

Inspector Colgate saw his chance to turn the conversation to good account.

He said:

âIn regard to that point youâve just raised. Access to the island. How do you keep people off?â

âAy am most particular about it.â

âYes, but what measures do you take? What keeps âem off? Holiday crowds in summer time swarm everywhere like flies.â

Mrs. Castle shrugged slightly again.

She said:

âThat is the fault of the charabancs. Ay have seen eighteen at one time parked by the quay at Leathercombe Bay. Eighteen!â

âJust so. How do you stop them coming here?â

âThere are notices. And then, of course, at high tide, we are cut off.â

âYes, but at low tide?â

Mrs. Castle explained. At the island end of the causeway there was a gate. This said âJolly Roger Hotel. Private. No entry except to Hotel.â The rocks rose sheer out of the sea on either side there and could not be climbed.

âAnyone could take a boat, though, I suppose, and row round and land on one of the coves? You couldnât stop them doing that. Thereâs a right of access to the foreshore. You canât stop people being on the beach between low and high watermark.â

But this, it seemed, very seldom happened. Boats could be obtained at Leathercombe Bay harbour, but from there it was a long row to the island, and there was also a strong current just outside Leathercombe Bay harbour.

There were notices, too, on both Gull Cove and Pixy Cove by the ladder. She added that George or William were always on the look out at the bathing beach proper which was the nearest to the mainland.

âWho are George and William?â

âGeorge attends to the bathing beach. He sees to the costumes and the floats. William is the gardener. He keeps the paths and marks the tennis courts and all that.â

Colonel Weston said impatiently:

âWell, that seems clear enough. Thatâs not to say that nobody could have come from outside, but anyone who did so took a riskâthe risk of being noticed. Weâll have a word with George and William presently.â

Mrs. Castle said:

âAy do not care for trippersâa very noisy crowd, and they frequently leave orange peel and cigarette boxes on the causeway and down by the rocks, but all the same ay never thought one of them would turn out to be a murderer. Oh dear! it really is too terrible for words. A lady like Mrs. Marshall murdered and whatâs so horrible, actuallyâerâstrangledâ¦.â

Mrs. Castle could hardly bring herself to say the word. She brought it out with the utmost reluctance.

Inspector Colgate said soothingly:

âYes, itâs a nasty business.â

âAnd the newspapers. My hotel in the newspapers!â

Colgate said, with a faint grin.

âOh well, itâs advertisement, in a way.â

Mrs. Castle drew herself up. Her bust heaved and whalebone creaked. She said icily:

âThat is not the kind of advertisement ay care about, Mr. Colgate.â

Colonel Weston broke in. He said:

âNow then, Mrs. Castle, youâve got a list of the guests staying here, as I asked you?â

âYes, sir.â

Colonel Weston pored over the hotel register. He looked over to Poirot who made the fourth member of the group assembled in the manageressâs office.

âThis is where youâll probably be able to help us presently.â

He read down the names.

âWhat about servants?â

Mrs. Castle produced a second list.

âThere are four chambermaids, the head waiter and three under him and Henry in the bar. William does the boots and shoes. Then thereâs the cook and two under her.â

âWhat about the waiters?â

âWell, sir, Albert, the Mater Dotel, came to me from the Vincent at Plymouth. He was there for some years. The three under him have been here for three yearsâone of them four. They are very naise lads and most respectable. Henry has been here since the hotel opened. He is quite an institution.â

Weston nodded. He said to Colgate:

âSeems all right. Youâll check up on them, of course. Thank you, Mrs. Castle.â

âThat will be all you require?â

âFor the moment, yes.â

Mrs. Castle creaked out of the room.

Weston said:

âFirst thing to do is to talk with Captain Marshall.

IV

Kenneth Marshall sat quietly answering the questions put to him. Apart from a slight hardening of his features he was quite calm. Seen here, with the sunlight falling on him from the window, you realized that he was a handsome man. Those straight features, the steady blue eyes, the firm mouth. His voice was low and pleasant.

Colonel Weston was saying:

âI quite understand, Captain Marshall, what a terrible shock this must be to you. But you realize that I am anxious to get the fullest information as soon as possible.â

Marshall nodded.

He said:

âI quite understand. Carry on.â

âMrs. Marshall was your second wife?â

âYes.â

âAnd you have been married how long?â

âJust over four years.â

âAnd her name before she was married?â

âHelen Stuart. Her acting name was Arlena Stuart.â

âShe was an actress?â

âShe appeared in Revue and musical shows.â

âDid she give up the stage on her marriage?â

âNo. She continued to appear. She actually retired only about a year and a half ago.â

âWas there any special reason for her retirement?â

Kenneth Marshall appeared to consider.

âNo,â he said. âShe simply said that she was tired of it all.â

âIt was notâerâin obedience to your special wish?â

Marshall raised his eyebrows.

âOh, no.â

âYou were quite content for her to continue acting after your marriage?â

Marshall smiled very faintly.

âI should have preferred her to give it upâthat, yes. But I made no fuss about it.â

âIt caused no point of dissension between you?â

âCertainly not. My wife was free to please herself.â

âAndâthe marriage was a happy one?â

âKenneth Marshall said coldly:

âCertainly.â

Colonel Weston paused a minute. Then he said:

âCaptain Marshall, have you any idea who could possibly have killed your wife?â

The answer came without the least hesitation.

âNone whatever.â

âHad she any enemies?â

âPossibly.â

âAh?â

The other went on quickly. He said:

âDonât misunderstand me, sir. My wife was an actress. She was also a very good-looking woman. In both capacities she aroused a certain amount of jealousy and envy. There were fusses over partsâthere was rivalry from other womenâthere was a good deal, shall we say, of general envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness! But that is not to say that there was anyone who was capable of deliberately murdering her.â

Hercule Poirot spoke for the first time. He said:

âWhat you really mean, Monsieur, is that her enemies were mostly or entirely, women?â

Kenneth Marshall looked across at him.

âYes,â he said. âThat is so.â

The Chief Constable said:

âYou know of no man who had a grudge against her?â

âNo.â

âWas she previously acquainted with anyone in this hotel?â

âI believe she had met Mr. Redfern beforeâat some cocktail party. Nobody else to my knowledge.â

Weston paused. He seemed to deliberate as to whether to pursue the subject. Then he decided against that course. He said:

âWe now come to this morning. When was the last time you saw your wife?â

Marshall paused a minute, then he said:

âI looked in on my way down to breakfastââ

âExcuse me, you occupied separate rooms?â

âYes.â

âAnd what time was that?â

âIt must have been about nine oâclock.â

âWhat was she doing?â

âShe was opening her letters.â

âDid she say anything?â

âNothing of any particular interest. Just good morningâand that it was a nice dayâthat sort of thing.â

âWhat was her manner? Unusual at all?â

âNo, perfectly normal.â

âShe did not seem excited, or depressed, or upset in any way?â

âI certainly didnât notice it.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âDid she mention at all what were the contents of her letters?â

Again a faint smile appeared on Marshallâs lips. He said:

âAs far as I can remember, she said they were all bills.â

âYour wife breakfasted in bed?â

âYes.â

âDid she always do that?â

âInvariably.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âWhat time did she usually come downstairs?â

âOh! between ten and elevenâusually nearer eleven.â

Poirot went on:

âIf she was to descend at ten oâclock exactly, that would be rather surprising?â

âYes. She wasnât often down as early as that.â

âBut she was this morning. Why do you think that was, Captain Marshall?â

Marshall said unemotionally:

âHavenât the least idea. Might have been the weatherâextra fine day and all that.â

âYou missed her?â

Kenneth Marshall shifted a little in his chair. He said:

âLooked in on her again after breakfast. Room was empty. I was a bit surprised.â

âAnd then you came down on the beach and asked me if I had seen her?â

âErâyes.â He added with a faint emphasis in his voice. âAnd you said you hadnâtâ¦.â

The innocent eyes of Hercule Poirot did not falter. Gently he caressed his large and flamboyant moustache.

Weston asked:

âHad you any special reason for wanting to find your wife this morning?â

Marshall shifted his glance amiably to the Chief Constable.

He said:

âNo, just wondered where she was, thatâs all.â

Weston paused. He moved his chair slightly. His voice fell into a different key. He said:

âJust now, Captain Marshall, you mentioned that your wife had a previous acquaintance with Mr. Patrick Redfern. How well did your wife know Mr. Redfern?â

Kenneth Marshall said:

âMind if I smoke?â He felt through his pockets. âDash! Iâve mislaid my pipe somewhere.â

Poirot offered him a cigarette which he accepted. Lighting it, he said:

âYou were asking about Redfern. My wife told me she had come across him at some cocktail party or other.â

âHe was, then, just a casual acquaintance?â

âI believe so.â

âSince thenââ the Chief Constable paused. âI understand that that acquaintanceship has ripened into something rather closer.â

Marshall said sharply:

âYou understand that, do you? Who told you so?â

âIt is the common gossip of the hotel.â

For a moment Marshallâs eyes went to Hercule Poirot. They dwelt on him with a kind of cold anger. He said:

âHotel gossip is usually a tissue of lies!â

âPossibly. But I gather that Mr. Redfern and your wife gave some grounds for the gossip.â

âWhat grounds?â

âThey were constantly in each otherâs company.â

âIs that all?â

âYou do not deny that that was so?â

âMay have been. I really didnât notice.â

âYou did notâexcuse me, Captain Marshallâobject to your wifeâs friendship with Mr. Redfern?â

âI wasnât in the habit of criticizing my wifeâs conduct.â

âYou did not protest or object in any way?â

âCertainly not.â

âNot even though it was becoming a subject of scandal and an estrangement was growing up between Mr. Redfern and his wife?â

Kenneth Marshall said coldly:

âI mind my own business and I expect other people to mind theirs. I donât listen to gossip and tittle-tattle.â

âYou wonât deny that Mr. Redfern admired your wife?â

âHe probably did. Most men did. She was a very beautiful woman.â

âBut you yourself were persuaded that there was nothing serious in the affair?â

âI never thought about it, I tell you.â

âAnd suppose we have a witness who can testify that they were on terms of the greatest intimacy?â

Again those blue eyes went to Hercule Poirot. Again an expression of dislike showed on that usually impassive face.

Marshall said:

âIf you want to listen to these tales, listen to âem. My wifeâs dead and canât defend herself.â

âYou mean that you, personally, donât believe them?â

For the first time a faint dew of sweat was observable on Marshallâs brow. He said:

âI donât propose to believe anything of the kind.â

He went on:

âArenât you getting a good way from the essentials of this business? What I believe or donât believe is surely not relevant to the plain fact of murder?â

Hercule Poirot answered before either of the others could speak. He said:

âYou do not comprehend, Captain Marshall. There is no such thing as a plain fact of murder. Murder springs, nine times out of ten, out of the character and circumstances of the murdered person. Because the victim was the kind of person he or she was, therefore was he or she murdered! Until we can understand fully and completely exactly what kind of a person Arlena Marshall was, we shall not be able to see clearly exactly the kind of person who murdered her. From that springs the necessity of our questions.â

Marshall turned to the Chief Constable. He said:

âThat your view, too?â

Weston boggled a little. He said:

âWell, up to a pointâthat is to sayââ

Marshall gave a short laugh. He said:

âThought you wouldnât agree. This character stuff is M. Poirotâs specialty, I believe.â

Poirot said, smiling:

âYou can at least congratulate yourself on having done nothing to assist me!â

âWhat do you mean?â

âWhat have you told us about your wife? Exactly nothing at all. You have told us only what everyone could see for themselves. That she was beautiful and admired. Nothing more.â

Kenneth Marshall shrugged his shoulders. He said simply:

âYouâre crazy.â

He looked towards the Chief Constable and said with emphasis:

âAnything else, sir, that youâd like me to tell you?â

âYes, Captain Marshall, your own movements this morning, please.â

Kenneth Marshall nodded. He had clearly expected this.

He said:

âI breakfasted downstairs about nine oâclock as usual and read the paper. As I told you I went up to my wifeâs room afterwards and found she had gone out. I came down to the beach, saw M. Poirot and asked if he had seen her. Then I had a quick bathe and went up to the hotel again. It was then, let me see, about twenty to elevenâyes, just about that. I saw the clock in the lounge. It was just after twenty minutes to. I went up to my room, but the chambermaid hadnât quite finished it. I asked her to finish as quickly as she could. I had some letters to type which I wanted to get off by the post. I went downstairs again and had a word or two with Henry in the bar. I went up again to my room at ten minutes to eleven. There I typed my letters. I typed until ten minutes to twelve. I then changed into tennis kit as I had a date to play tennis at twelve. Weâd booked the court the day before.â

âWho was we?â

âMrs. Redfern, Miss Darnley, Mr. Gardener and myself. I came down at twelve oâclock and went up to the court. Miss Darnley was there and Mr. Gardener. Mrs. Redfern arrived a few minutes later. We played tennis for an hour. Just as we came into the hotel afterwards IâIâgot the news.â

âThank you, Captain Marshall. Just as a matter of form, is there anyone who can corroborate the fact that you were typing in your room betweenâerâten minutes to eleven and ten minutes to twelve?â

Kenneth Marshall said with a faint smile:

âHave you got some idea that I killed my own wife? Let me see now. The chambermaid was about doing the rooms. She must have heard the typewriter going. And then there are the letters themselves. With all this upset I havenât posted them. I should imagine they are as good evidence as anything.â

He took three letters from his pocket. They were addressed, but not stamped. He said:

âTheir contents, by the way, are strictly confidential. But when itâs a case of murder, one is forced to trust in the discretion of the police. They contain lists of figures and various financial statements. I think you will find that if you put one of your men on to type them out, he wonât do it in much under an hour.â

He paused.

âSatisfied, I hope?â

Weston said smoothly.

âIt is no question of suspicion. Everyone on the island will be asked to account for his or her movements between a quarter to eleven and twenty minutes to twelve this morning.â

Kenneth Marshall said:

âQuite.â

Weston said:

âOne more thing, Captain Marshall. Do you know anything about the way your wife was likely to have disposed of any property she had?â

âYou mean a will? I donât think she ever made a will.â

âBut you are not sure?â

âHer solicitors are Barkett, Markett & Applegood, Bedford Square. They saw to all her contracts, etc. But Iâm fairly certain she never made a will. She said once that doing a thing like that would give her the shivers.â

âIn that case, if she has died intestate, you, as her husband, succeed to her property.â

âYes, I suppose I do.â

âHad she any near relatives?â

âI donât think so. If she had, she never mentioned them. I know that her father and mother died when she was a child and she had no brothers or sisters.â

âIn any case, I suppose, she had nothing very much to leave?â

Kenneth Marshall said coldly:

âOn the contrary. Only two years ago, Sir Robert Erskine, who was an old friend of hers, died and left her most of his fortune. It amounted, I think, to about fifty thousand pounds.â

Inspector Colgate looked up. An alertness came into his glance. Up to now he had been silent. Now he asked:

âThen actually, Captain Marshall, your wife was a rich woman?â

Kenneth Marshall shrugged his shoulders.

âI suppose she was really.â

âAnd you still say she did not make a will?â

âYou can ask the solicitors. But Iâm pretty certain she didnât. As I tell you, she thought it unlucky.â

There was a pause then Marshall added:

âIs there anything further?â

Weston shook his head.

âDonât think soâeh Colgate? No. Once more, Captain Marshall, let me offer you all my sympathy in your loss.â

Marshall blinked. He said jerkily:

âOhâthanks.â

He went out.

V

The three men looked at each other.

Weston said:

âCool customer. Not giving anything away, is he? What do you make of him, Colgate?â

The Inspector shook his head.

âItâs difficult to tell. Heâs not the kind that shows anything. That sort makes a bad impression in the witness-box, and yet itâs a bit unfair on them really. Sometimes theyâre as cut up as anything and yet canât show it. That kind of manner made the jury bring in a verdict of Guilty against Wallace. It wasnât the evidence. They just couldnât believe that a man could lose his wife and talk and act so coolly about it.â

Weston turned to Poirot.

âWhat do you think, Poirot?â

Hercule Poirot raised his hands.

He said:

âWhat can one say? He is the closed boxâthe fastened oyster. He has chosen his rÃ´le. He has heard nothing, he has seen nothing, he knows nothing!â

âWeâve got a choice of motives,â said Colgate. âThereâs jealousy and thereâs the money motive. Of course, in a way, a husbandâs the obvious suspect. One naturally thinks of him first. If he knew his missus was carrying on with the other chapââ

Poirot interrupted.

He said:

âI think he knew that.â

âWhy do you say so?â

âListen, my friend. Last night I had been talking with Mrs. Redfern on Sunny Ledge. I came down from there to the hotel and on my way I saw those two togetherâMrs. Marshall and Patrick Redfern. And a moment or two after I met Captain Marshall. His face was very stiff. It says nothingâbut nothing at all! It is almost too blank, if you understand me. Oh! he knew all right.â

Colgate grunted doubtfully.

He said:

âOh well, if you think soââ

âI am sure of it! But even then, what does that tell us? What did Kenneth Marshall feel about his wife?â

Colonel Weston said:

âTakes her death coolly enough.â

Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.

Inspector Colgate said:

âSometimes these quiet ones are the most violent underneath, so to speak. Itâs all bottled up. He may have been madly fond of herâand madly jealous. But heâs not the kind to show it.â

Poirot said slowly:

âThat is possibleâyes. He is a very interesting character this Captain Marshall. I interest myself in him greatly. And in his alibi.â

âAlibi by typewriter,â said Weston with a short bark of a laugh. âWhat have you got to say about that, Colgate?â

Inspector Colgate screwed up his eyes. He said:

âWell, you know, sir, I rather fancy that alibi. Itâs not too good, if you know what I mean. Itâsâwell, itâs natural. And if we find the chambermaid was about, and did hear the typewriter going, well then, it seems to me that itâs all right and that weâll have to look elsewhere.â

âHâm,â said Colonel Weston. âWhere are you going to look?â

VI

For a minute or two the three men pondered the question.

Inspector Colgate spoke first. He said:

âIt boils down to thisâwas it an outsider, or a guest at the hotel? Iâm not eliminating the servants entirely, mind, but I donât expect for a minute that weâll find any of them had a hand in it. No, itâs a hotel guest, or itâs someone from right outside. Weâve got to look at it this way. First of allâmotive. Thereâs gain. The only person to gain by her death was the ladyâs husband, it seems. What other motives are there? First and foremostâjealousy. It seems to meâjust looking at itâthat if ever youâve got a crime passionnelâ(he bowed to Poirot) this is one.â

Poirot murmured as he looked up at the ceiling:

âThere are so many passions.â

Inspector Colgate went on:

âHer husband wouldnât allow that she had any enemiesâreal enemies, that is, but I donât believe for a minute that thatâs so! I should say that a lady like her wouldâwell, would make some pretty bad enemiesâeh, sir, what do you say?â

Poirot responded. He said:

âMais oui, that is so. Arlena Marshall would make enemies. But in my opinion, the enemy theory is not tenable, for you see, Inspector, Arlena Marshallâs enemies would, I think, as I said just now, always be women.â

Colonel Weston grunted and said:

âSomething in that. Itâs the women whoâve got their knife into her here all right.â

Poirot went on.

âIt seems to be hardly possible that this crime was committed by a woman. What does the medical evidence say?â

Weston grunted again. He said:

âNeasdenâs pretty confident that she was strangled by a man. Big handsâpowerful grip. Itâs just possible, of course, that an unusually athletic woman might have done itâbut itâs damned unlikely.â

Poirot nodded.

âExactly. Arsenic in a cup of teaâa box of poisoned chocolatesâa knifeâeven a pistolâbut strangulationâno! It is a man we have to look for.â

âAnd immediately,â he went on, âit becomes more difficult. There are two people here in this hotel who have a motive for wishing Arlena Marshall out of the wayâbut both of them are women.â

Colonel Weston asked:

âRedfernâs wife is one of them, I suppose?â

âYes. Mrs. Redfern might have made up her mind to kill Arlena Stuart. She had, let us say, ample cause. I think, too, that it would be possible for Mrs. Redfern to commit a murder. But not this kind of murder. For all her unhappiness and jealousy, she is not, I should say, a woman of strong passions. In love, she would be devoted and loyalânot passionate. As I said just nowâarsenic in the teacup, possiblyâstrangulation, no. I am sure, also, that she is physically incapable of committing this crime, her hands and feet are small, below the average.â

Weston nodded. He said:

âThis isnât a womanâs crime. No, a man did this.â

Inspector Colgate coughed.

âLet me put forward a solution, sir. Say that prior to meeting this Mr. Redfern the lady had had another affair with someoneâcall him X. She turns X down for Mr. Redfern. X is mad with rage and jealousy. He follows her down here, stays somewhere in the neighbourhood, comes over to the island, does her in. Itâs a possibility!â

Weston said:

âItâs possible, all right. And if itâs true, it ought to be easy to prove. Did he come on foot or in a boat? The latter seems more likely. If so, he must have hired a boat somewhere. Youâd better make inquiries.â

He looked across at Poirot.

âWhat do you think of Colgateâs suggestion?â

Poirot said slowly:

âIt leaves, somehow, too much to chance. And besidesâsomewhere the picture is not true. I cannot, you see, imagine this manâ¦the man who is mad with rage and jealousy.â

Colgate said:

âPeople did go potty about her, though, sir. Look at Redfern.â

âYes, yesâ¦ But all the sameââ

Colgate looked at him questioningly.

Poirot shook his head.

He said, frowning:

âSomewhere, there is something that we have missedâ¦.â

Six

Colonel Weston was poring over the hotel register.

He read aloud:

âMajor and Mrs. Cowan,

Miss Pamela Cowan,

Master Robert Cowan,

Master Evan Cowan,

Rydalâs Mount, Leatherhead.

Mr. and Mrs. Masterman,

Mr. Edward Masterman,

Miss Jennifer Masterman,

Mr. Roy Masterman,

Master Frederick Masterman,

5 Marlborough Avenue, London, N.W.

Mr. and Mrs. Gardener,

New York.

Mr. and Mrs. Redfern,

Crossgates, Seldon, Princes Risborough.

Major Barry,

18 Cardon St., St. James, London, S.W.1.

Mr. Horace Blatt,

5 Pickersgill Street, London, E.C.2.

M. Hercule Poirot,

Whitehaven Mansions, London, W.1.

Miss Rosamund Darnley,

8 Cardigan Court, W.1.

Miss Emily Brewster,

Southgates, Sunbury-on-Thames.

Rev. Stephen Lane,

London.

Captain and Mrs. Marshall,

Miss Linda Marshall,

73 Upcott Mansions, London, S.W.7.â

He stopped.

Inspector Colgate said:

âI think, sir, that we can wash out the first two entries. Mrs. Castle tells me that the Mastermans and the Cowans come here regularly every summer with their children. This morning they went off on an all-day excursion sailing, taking lunch with them. They left just after nine oâclock. A man called Andrew Baston took them. We can check up from him, but I think we can put them right out of it.â

Weston nodded.

âI agree. Letâs eliminate everyone we can. Can you give us a pointer on any of the rest of them, Poirot?â

Poirot said:

âSuperficially, that is easy. The Gardeners are a middle-aged married couple, pleasant, travelled. All the talking is done by the lady. The husband is acquiescent. He plays tennis and golf and has a form of dry humour that is attractive when one gets him to oneself.â

âSounds quite O.K.â

âNextâthe Redferns. Mr. Redfern is young, attractive to women, a magnificent swimmer, a good tennis player and accomplished dancer. His wife I have already spoken of to you. She is quiet, pretty in a washed-out way. She is, I think, devoted to her husband. She has something that Arlena Marshall did not have.â

âWhat is that?â

âBrains.â

Inspector Colgate sighed. He said:

âBrains donât count for much when it comes to an infatuation, sir.â

âPerhaps not. And yet I do truly believe that in spite of his infatuation for Mrs. Marshall, Patrick Redfern really cares for his wife.â

âThat may be, sir. It wouldnât be the first time thatâs happened.â

Poirot murmured.

âThat is the pity of it! It is always the thing women find hardest to believe.â

He went on:

âMajor Barry. Retired Indian Army. An admirer of women. A teller of long and boring stories.â

Inspector Colgate sighed.

âYou neednât go on. Iâve met a few, sir.â

âMr. Horace Blatt. He is, apparently, a rich man. He talks a good dealâabout Mr. Blatt. He wants to be everybodyâs friend. It is sad. For nobody likes him very much. And there is something else. Mr. Blatt last night asked me a good many questions. Mr. Blatt was uneasy. Yes, there is something not quite right about Mr. Blatt.â

He paused and went on with a change of voice:

âNext comes Miss Rosamund Darnley. Her business name is Rose Mond Ltd. She is a celebrated dressmaker. What can I say of her? She has brains and charm and chic. She is very pleasing to look at.â He paused and added. âAnd she is a very old friend of Captain Marshallâs.â

Weston sat up in his chair.

âOh, she is, is she?â

âYes. They had not met for some years.â

Weston asked:

âDid she know he was going to be down here?â

âShe says not.â

Poirot paused and then went on.

âWho comes next? Miss Brewster. I find her just a little alarming.â He shook his head. âShe has a voice like a manâs. She is gruff and what you call hearty. She rows boats and has a handicap of four at golf.â He paused. âI think, though, that she has a good heart.â

Weston said:

âThat leaves only the Reverend Stephen Lane. Whoâs the Reverend Stephen Lane?â

âI can only tell you one thing. He is a man who is in a condition of great nervous tension. Also he is, I think, a fanatic.â

Inspector Colgate said:

âOh, that kind of person.â

Weston said:

âAnd thatâs the lot!â He looked at Poirot. âYou seem very lost in thought, my friend?â

Poirot said:

âYes. Because, you see, when Mrs. Marshall went off this morning and asked me not to tell anyone I had seen her, I jumped at once in my own mind to a certain conclusion. I thought that her friendship with Patrick Redfern had made trouble between her and her husband. I thought that she was going to meet Patrick Redfern somewhere, and that she did not want her husband to know where she was.â

He paused.

âBut that, you see, was where I was wrong. Because, although her husband appeared almost immediately on the beach and asked if I had seen her, Patrick Redfern arrived alsoâand was most patently and obviously looking for her! And therefore, my friends, I am asking myself, who was it that Arlena Marshall went off to meet?â

Inspector Colgate said:

âThat fits in with my idea. A man from London or somewhere.â

Hercule Poirot shook his head. He said:

âBut, my friend, according to your theory, Arlena Marshall had broken with this mythical man. Why, then, should she take such trouble and pains to meet him?â

Inspector Colgate shook his head. He said:

âWho do you think it was?â

âThat is just what I cannot imagine. We have just read through the list of hotel guests. They are all middle-agedâdull. Which of them would Arlena Marshall prefer to Patrick Redfern? No, that is impossible. And yet, all the same, she did go to meet someoneâand that someone was not Patrick Redfern.â

Weston murmured:

âYou donât think she just went off by herself?â

Poirot shook his head.

âMon cher,â he said. âIt is very evident that you never met the dead woman. Somebody once wrote a learned treatise on the difference that solitary confinement would mean to Beau Brummel or to a man like Newton. Arlena Marshall, my dear friend, would practically not exist in solitude. She only lived in the light of a manâs admiration. No, Arlena Marshall went to meet someone this morning. Who was it?â

II

Colonel Weston sighed, shook his head and said:

âWell, we can go into theories later. Got to get through these interviews now. Got to get it down in black and white where everyone was. I suppose weâd better see the Marshall girl now. She might be able to tell us something useful.â

Linda Marshall came into the room clumsily, knocking against the doorpost. She was breathing quickly and the pupils of her eyes were dilated. She looked like a startled young colt. Colonel Weston felt a kindly impulse towards her.

He thought:

âPoor kidâsheâs nothing but a kid after all. This must have been a pretty bad shock to her.â

He drew up a chair and said in a reassuring voice.

âSorry to put you through this, MissâLinda, isnât it?â

âYes, Linda.â

Her voice had that indrawn breathy quality that is often characteristic of schoolgirls. Her hands rested helplessly on the table in front of himâpathetic hands, big and red, with large bones and long wrists. Weston thought:

âA kid oughtnât to be mixed up in this sort of thing.â

He said reassuringly.

âThereâs nothing very alarming about all this. We just want you to tell us anything you know that might be useful, thatâs all.â

Linda said:

âYou meanâabout Arlena?â

âYes. Did you see her this morning at all?â

The girl shook her head.

âNo. Arlena always gets down rather late. She has breakfast in bed.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âAnd you, Mademoiselle?â

âOh, I get up. Breakfast in bedâs so stuffy.â

Weston said:

âWill you tell us what you did this morning?â

âWell, I had a bathe first and then breakfast, and then I went with Mrs. Redfern to Gull Cove.â

Weston said:

âWhat time did you and Mrs. Redfern start?â

âShe said sheâd be waiting for me in the hall at half-past ten. I was afraid I was going to be late, but it was all right. We started off at about three minutes to the half hour.â

Poirot said:

âAnd what did you do at Gull Cove?â

âOh, I oiled myself and sunbathed and Mrs. Redfern sketched. Then, later, I went into the sea and Christine went back to the hotel to get changed for tennis.â

Weston said, keeping his voice quite casual:

âDo you remember what time that was?â

âWhen Mrs. Redfern went back to the hotel? Quarter to twelve.â

âSure of that timeâquarter to twelve?â

Linda, opening her eyes wide, said:

âOh yes. I looked at my watch.â

âThe watch you have on now?â

Linda glanced down at her wrist.

âYes.â

Weston said:

âMind if I see?â

She held our her wrist. He compared the watch with his own and with the hotel clock on the wall.

He said, smiling:

âCorrect to a second. And after that you had a bathe?â

âYes.â

âAnd you got back to the hotelâwhen?â

âJust about one oâclock. Andâand thenâI heardâabout Arlenaâ¦.â

Her voice changed.

Colonel Weston said:

âDid youâerâget on with your stepmother all right?â

She looked at him for a minute without replying. Then she said:

âOh yes.â

Poirot asked:

âDid you like her, Mademoiselle?â

Linda said again:

âOh yes.â She added: âArlena was quite kind to me.â

Weston said with rather uneasy facetiousness.

âNot the cruel stepmother, eh?â

Linda shook her head without smiling.

Weston said:

âThatâs good. Thatâs good. Sometimes, you know, thereâs a bit of difficulty in familiesâjealousyâall that. Girl and her father great pals and then she resents it a bit when heâs all wrapped up in the new wife. You didnât feel like that, eh?â

Linda stared at him. She said with obvious sincerity:

âOh no.â

Weston said:

âI suppose your father wasâerâvery wrapped up in her?â

Linda said simply:

âI donât know.â

Weston went on:

âAll sorts of difficulties, as I say, arise in families. Quarrelsârowsâthat sort of thing. If husband and wife get ratty with each other, thatâs a bit awkward for a daughter too. Anything of that sort?â

Linda said clearly:

âDo you mean, did Father and Arlena quarrel?â

âWellâyes.â

Weston thought to himself:

âRotten businessâquestioning a child about her father. Why is one a policeman? Damn it all, itâs got to be done, though.â

Linda said positively:

âOh no.â She added: âFather doesnât quarrel with people. Heâs not like that at all.â

Weston said:

âNow, Miss Linda, I want you to think very carefully. Have you any idea at all who might have killed your stepmother? Is there anything youâve ever heard or anything you know that could help us on that point?â

Linda was silent a minute. She seemed to be giving the question a serious unhurried consideration. She said at last.

âNo, I donât know who could have wanted to kill Arlena.â She added: âExcept, of course, Mrs. Redfern.â

Weston said:

âYou think Mrs. Redfern wanted to kill her? Why?â

Linda said:

âBecause her husband was in love with Arlena. But I donât think she would really want to kill her. I mean sheâd just feel that she wished she was deadâand that isnât the same thing at all, is it?â

Poirot said gently:

âNo, it is not at all the same.â

Linda nodded. A queer sort of spasm passed across her face. She said:

âAnd anyway, Mrs. Redfern could never do a thing like thatâkill anybody. She isnâtâshe isnât violent, if you know what I mean.â

Weston and Poirot nodded. The latter said:

âI know exactly what you mean, my child, and I agree with you. Mrs. Redfern is not of those who, as your saying goes, âsees red.â She would not beââhe leaned back half closing his eyes, picking his words with careââshaken by a storm of feelingâseeing life narrowing in front of herâseeing a hated faceâa hated white neckâfeeling her hands clenchâlonging to feel them press into fleshââ

He stopped.

Linda moved jerkily back from the table. She said in a trembling voice:

âCan I go now? Is that all?â

Colonel Weston said:

âYes, yes, thatâs all. Thank you, Miss Linda.â

He got up to open the door for her. Then came back to the table and lit a cigarette.

âPhew,â he said. âNot a nice job, ours. I can tell you I felt a bit of a cad questioning that child about the relations between her father and her stepmother. More or less inviting a daughter to put a rope round her fatherâs neck. All the same, it had to be done. Murder is murder. And sheâs the person most likely to know the truth of things. Iâm rather thankful, though, that sheâd nothing to tell us in that line.â

Poirot said:

âYes, I thought you were.â

Weston said with an embarrassed cough:

âBy the way, Poirot, you went a bit far, I thought at the end. All that hands sinking into flesh business! Not quite the sort of idea to put into a kidâs head.â

Hercule Poirot looked at him with thoughtful eyes. He said:

âSo you thought I put ideas into her head?â

âWell, didnât you? Come now.â

Poirot shook his head.

Weston sheered away from the point. He said:

âOn the whole we got very little useful stuff out of her. Except a more or less complete alibi for the Redfern woman. If they were together from half past ten to a quarter to twelve that lets Christine Redfern out of it. Exit the jealous wife suspect.â

Poirot said:

âThere are better reasons than that for leaving Mrs. Redfern out of it. It would, I am convinced, be physically impossible and mentally impossible for her to strangle anyone. She is cold rather than warm blooded, capable of deep devotion and unswerving constancy, but not of hot-blooded passion or rage. Moreover, her hands are far too small and delicate.â

Colgate said:

âI agree with M. Poirot. Sheâs out of it. Dr. Neasden says it was a full-sized pair of hands that throttled that dame.â

Weston said:

âWell, I suppose weâd better see the Redferns next. I expect heâs recovered a bit from the shock now.â

III

Patrick Redfern had recovered full composure by now. He looked pale and haggard and suddenly very young, but his manner was quite composed.

âYou are Mr. Patrick Redfern of Crossgates, Seldon, Princes Risborough?â

âYes.â

âHow long had you known Mrs. Marshall?â

Patrick Redfern hesitated, then said:

âThree months.â

Weston went on:

âCaptain Marshall has told us that you and she met casually at a cocktail party. Is that right?â

âYes, thatâs how it came about.â

Weston said:

âCaptain Marshall has implied that until you both met down here you did not know each other well. Is that the truth, Mr. Redfern?â

Again Patrick Redfern hesitated a minute. Then he said:

âWellânot exactly. As a matter of fact I saw a fair amount of her one way and another.â

âWithout Captain Marshallâs knowledge?â

Redfern flushed slightly. He said:

âI donât know whether he knew about it or not.â

Hercule Poirot spoke. He murmured:

âAnd was it also without your wifeâs knowledge, Mr. Redfern?â

âI believe I mentioned to my wife that I had met the famous Arlena Stuart.â

Poirot persisted.

âBut she did not know how often you were seeing her?â

âWell, perhaps not.â

Weston said:

âDid you and Mrs. Marshall arrange to meet down here?â

Redfern was silent a minute or two. Then he shrugged his shoulders.

âOh well,â he said, âI suppose itâs bound to come out now. Itâs no good my fencing with you. I was crazy about the womanâmadâinfatuatedâanything you like. She wanted me to come down here. I demurred a bit and then I agreed. IâIâwell, I would have agreed to do any mortal thing she liked. She had that kind of effect on people.â

Hercule Poirot murmured:

âYou paint a very clear picture of her. She was the eternal Circe. Just that!â

Patrick Redfern said bitterly:

âShe turned men into swine all right!â He went on: âIâm being frank with you, gentlemen. Iâm not going to hide anything. Whatâs the use? As I say, I was infatuated with her. Whether she cared for me or not, I donât know. She pretended to, but I think she was one of those women who lose interest in a man once theyâve got him body and soul. She knew sheâd got me all right. This morning, when I found her there on the beach, dead, it was as thoughââhe pausedââas though something had hit me straight between the eyes. I was dazedâknocked out!â

Poirot leaned forward. âAnd now?â

Patrick Redfern met his eyes squarely.

He said:

âIâve told you the truth. What I want to ask is thisâhow much of it has got to be made public? Itâs not as though it could have any bearing on her death. And if it all comes out, itâs going to be pretty rough on my wife.â

âOh, I know,â he went on quickly. âYou think I havenât thought much about her up to now? Perhaps thatâs true. But, though I may sound the worst kind of hypocrite, the real truth is that I care for my wifeâcare for her very deeply. The otherââhe twitched his shouldersââit was a madnessâthe kind of idiotic fool thing men doâbut Christine is different. Sheâs real. Badly as Iâve treated her, Iâve known all along, deep down, that she was the person who really counted.â He pausedâsighedâand said rather pathetically: âI wish I could make you believe that.â

Hercule Poirot leant forward. He said:

âBut I do believe it. Yes, yes, I do believe it!â

Patrick Redfern looked at him gratefully. He said:

âThank you.â

Colonel Weston cleared his throat. He said:

âYou may take it, Mr. Redfern, that we shall not go into irrelevancies. If your infatuation for Mrs. Marshall played no part in the murder then there will be no point in dragging it into the case. But what you donât seem to realize is that thatâerâintimacyâmay have a very direct bearing on the murder. It might establish, you understand, a motive for the crime.â

Patrick Redfern said:

âMotive?â

Weston said:

âYes, Mr. Redfern, motive! Captain Marshall, perhaps, was unaware of the affair. Suppose that he suddenly found out?â

Redfern said:

âOh God! You mean he got wise andâand killed her?â

The Chief Constable said rather dryly:

âThat solution had not occurred to you?â

Redfern shook his head. He said:

âNoâfunny. I never thought of it. You see, Marshallâs such a quiet chap. Iâoh, it doesnât seem likely.â

Weston asked:

âWhat was Mrs. Marshallâs attitude to her husband in all this? Was sheâwell, uneasyâin case it should come to his ears? Or was she indifferent?â

Redfern said slowly:

âShe wasâa bit nervous. She didnât want him to suspect anything.â

âDid she seem afraid of him?â

âAfraid. No, I wouldnât say that.â

Poirot murmured:

âExcuse me, M. Redfern, there was not, at any time, the question of a divorce?â

Patrick Redfern shook his head decisively.

âOh no, there was no question of anything like that. There was Christine, you see. And Arlena, I am sure, never thought of such a thing. She was perfectly satisfied married to Marshall. Heâsâwell, rather a big bug in his wayââ He smiled suddenly. âCountyâall that sort of thing, and quite well off. She never thought of me as a possible husband. No, I was just one of a succession of poor muttsâjust something to pass the time with. I knew that all along, and yet, queerly enough, it didnât alter my feeling towards herâ¦.â

His voice trailed off. He sat there thinking.

Weston recalled him to the needs of the moment.

âNow, Mr. Redfern, had you any particular appointment with Mrs. Marshall this morning?â

Patrick Redfern looked slightly puzzled.

He said:

âNot a particular appointment, no. We usually met every morning on the beach. We used to paddle about on floats.â

âWere you surprised not to find Mrs. Marshall there this morning?â

âYes, I was. Very surprised. I couldnât understand it at all.â

âWhat did you think?â

âWell, I didnât know what to think. I mean, all the time I thought she would be coming.â

âIf she were keeping an appointment elsewhere you had no idea with whom that appointment might be?â

Patrick Redfern merely stared and shook his head.

âWhen you had a rendezvous with Mrs. Marshall, where did you meet?â

âWell, sometimes Iâd meet her in the afternoon down at Gull Cove. You see the sun is off Gull Cove in the afternoon and so there arenât usually many people there. We met there once or twice.â

âNever on the other cove?â Pixy Cove?â

âNo. You see Pixy Cove faces west and people go round there in boats or on floats in the afternoon. We never tried to meet in the morning. It would have been too noticeable. In the afternoon people go and have a sleep or mouch around and nobody knows much where any one else is.â

Weston nodded:

Patrick Redfern went on:

âAfter dinner, of course, on the fine nights, we used to go off for a stroll together to different parts of the island.â

Hercule Poirot murmured:

âAh, yes!â and Patrick Redfern shot him an inquiring glance.

Weston said:

âThen you can give us no help whatsoever as to the cause that took Mrs. Marshall to Pixy Cove this morning?â

Redfern shook his head. He said, and his voice sounded honestly bewildered:

âI havenât the faintest idea! It wasnât like Arlena.â

Weston said:

âHad she any friends down here staying in the neighbourhood?â

âNot that I know of. Oh, Iâm sure she hadnât.â

âNow, Mr. Redfern, I want you to think very carefully. You knew Mrs. Marshall in London. You must be acquainted with various members of her circle. Is there anyone you know of who could have had a grudge against her? Someone, for instance, whom you may have supplanted in her fancy?â

Patrick Redfern thought for some minutes. Then he shook his head.

âHonestly,â he said. âI canât think of anyone.â

Colonel Weston drummed with his fingers on the table.

He said at last:

âWell, thatâs that. We seem to be left with three possibilities. That of an unknown killerâsome monomaniacâwho happened to be in the neighbourhoodâand thatâs a pretty tall orderââ

Redfern said, interrupting:

âAnd yet surely, itâs by far the most likely explanation.â

Weston shook his head. He said:

âThis isnât one of the âlonely copseâ murders. This cove place was pretty inaccessible. Either the man would have to come up from the causeway past the hotel, over the top of the island and down by that ladder contraption, or else he came there by boat. Either way is unlikely for a casual killing.â

Patrick Redfern said:

âYou said there were three possibilities.â

âUmâyes,â said the Chief Constable. âThatâs to say, there were two people on this island who had a motive for killing her. Her husband, for one, and your wife for another.â

Redfern stared at him. He looked dumbfounded. He said:

âMy wife? Christine? Dâyou mean that Christine had anything to do with this?â

He got up and stood there stammering slightly in his incoherent haste to get the words out.

âYouâre madâquite madâChristine? Why, itâs impossible. Itâs laughable!â

Weston said:

âAll the same, Mr. Redfern, jealousy is a very powerful motive. Women who are jealous lose control of themselves completely.â

Redfern said earnestly.

âNot Christine. Sheâsâoh sheâs not like that. She was unhappy, yes. But sheâs not the kind of person toâOh, thereâs no violence in her.â

Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Violence. The same word that Linda Marshall had used. As before, he agreed with the sentiment.

âBesides,â went on Redfern confidently. âIt would be absurd. Arlena was twice as strong physically as Christine. I doubt if Christine could strangle a kittenâcertainly not a strong wiry creature like Arlena. And then Christine could never have got down that ladder to the beach. She has no head for that sort of thing. Andâoh, the whole thing is fantastic!â

Colonel Weston scratched his ear tentatively.

âWell,â he said. âPut like that it doesnât seem likely. I grant you that. But motiveâs the first thing weâve got to look for.â He added: âMotive and opportunity.â

IV

When Redfern had left the room, the Chief Constable observed with a slight smile:

âDidnât think it necessary to tell the fellow his wife had got an alibi. Wanted to hear what heâd have to say to the idea. Shook him up a bit, didnât it?â

Hercule Poirot murmured:

âThe arguments he advanced were quite as strong as any alibi.â

âYes. Oh! she didnât do it! She couldnât have done itâphysically impossible as you said. Marshall could have done itâbut apparently he didnât.â

Inspector Colgate coughed. He said:

âExcuse me, sir, Iâve been thinking about that alibi. Itâs possible, you know, if heâd thought this thing out, that those letters were got ready beforehand.â

Weston said:

âThatâs a good idea. We must look intoââ

He broke off as Christine Redfern entered the room.

She was, as always, calm and a little precise in manner. She was wearing a white tennis frock and a pale blue pullover. It accentuated her fair, rather anaemic prettiness. Yet, Hercule Poirot thought to himself, it was neither a silly face nor a weak one. It had plenty of resolution, courage and good sense. He nodded appreciatively.

Colonel Weston thought:

âNice little woman. Bit wishy-washy, perhaps. A lot too good for that philandering young ass of a husband of hers. Oh well, the boyâs young. Women usually make a fool of you once!â

He said:

âSit down, Mrs. Redfern. Weâve got to go through a certain amount of routine, you see. Asking everybody for an account of their movements this morning. Just for our records.â

Christine Redfern nodded.

She said in her quiet precise voice.

âOh yes, I quite understand. Where do you want me to begin?â

Hercule Poirot said:

âAs early as possible, Madame. What did you do when you first got up this morning?â

Christine said:

âLet me see. On my way down to breakfast I went into Linda Marshallâs room and fixed up with her to go to Gull Cove this morning. We agreed to meet in the lounge at half past ten.â

Poirot asked:

âYou did not bathe before breakfast, Madame?â

âNo. I very seldom do.â She smiled. âI like the sea well warmed before I get into it. Iâm rather a chilly person.â

âBut your husband bathes then?â

âOh, yes. Nearly always.â

âAnd Mrs. Marshall, she also?â

A change came over Christineâs voice. It became cold and almost acrid.

She said:

âOh no, Mrs. Marshall was the sort of person who never made an appearance before the middle of the morning.â

With an air of confusion, Hercule Poirot said:

âPardon, Madame, I interrupted you. You were saying that you went to Miss Linda Marshallâs room. What time was that?â

âLet me seeâhalf past eightâno, a little later.â

âAnd was Miss Marshall up then?â

âOh yes, she had been out.â

âOut?â

âYes, she said sheâd been bathing.â

There was a faintâa very faint note of embarrassment in Christineâs voice. It puzzled Hercule Poirot.

Weston said:

âAnd then?â

âThen I went down to breakfast.â

âAnd after breakfast?â

âI went upstairs, collected my sketching box and sketching book and we started out.â

âYou and Miss Linda Marshall?â

âYes.â

âWhat time was that?â

âI think it was just on half past ten.â

âAnd what did you do?â

âWe went to Gull Cove. You know, the cove on the east side of the island. We settled ourselves there. I did a sketch and Linda sunbathed.â

âWhat time did you leave the cove?â

âAt a quarter to twelve. I was playing tennis at twelve and had to change.â

âYou had your watch with you?â

âNo, as a matter of fact I hadnât. I asked Linda the time.â

âI see. And then?â

âI packed up my sketching things and went back to the hotel.â

Poirot said:

âAnd Mademoiselle Linda?â

âLinda?â Oh, Linda went into the sea.â

Poirot said:

âWere you far from the sea where you were sitting?â

âWell, we were well above high-water mark. Just under the cliffâso that I could be a little in the shade and Linda in the sun.â

Poirot said:

âDid Linda Marshall actually enter the sea before you left the beach?â

Christine frowned a little in the effort to remember. She said:

âLet me see. She ran down the beachâI fastened my boxâYes, I heard her splashing in the waves as I was on the path up the cliff.â

âYou are sure of that, Madame? That she really entered the sea?â

âOh yes.â

She stared at him in surprise.

Colonel Weston also stared at him.

Then he said:

âGo on, Mrs. Redfern.â

âI went back to the hotel, changed, and went to the tennis courts where I met the others.â

âWho were?â

âCaptain Marshall, Mr. Gardener and Miss Darnley. We played two sets. We were just going in again when the news came aboutâabout Mrs. Marshall.â

Hercule Poirot leant forward. He said:

âAnd what did you think, Madame, when you heard that news?â

âWhat did I think?â

Her face showed a faint distaste for the question.

âYes.â

Christine Redfern said slowly:

âIt wasâa horrible thing to happen.â

âAh, yes, your fastidiousness was revolted. I understand that. But what did it mean to youâpersonally?â

She gave him a quick lookâa look of appeal. He responded to it. He said in a matter-of-fact voice.

âI am appealing to you, Madame, as a woman of intelligence with plenty of good sense and judgment. You had doubtless during your stay here formed an opinion of Mrs. Marshall, of the kind of woman she was?â

Christine said cautiously:

âI suppose one always does that more or less when one is staying in hotels.â

âCertainly, it is the natural thing to do. So I ask you, Madame, were you really very surprised at the manner of her death?â

Christine said slowly:

âI think I see what you mean. No, I was not, perhaps, surprised. Shocked, yes. But she was the kind of womanââ

Poirot finished the sentence for her.

âShe was the kind of woman to whom such a thing might happenâ¦ Yes, Madame, that is the truest and most significant thing that has been said in this room this morning. Laying allâer (he stressed it carefully) personal feeling aside, what did you really think of the late Mrs. Marshall?â

Christine Redfern said calmly:

âIs it really worthwhile going into all that now?â

âI think it might be, yes.â

âWell, what shall I say?â Her fair skin was suddenly suffused with colour. The careful poise of her manner was relaxed. For a short space the natural raw woman looked out. âSheâs the kind of woman that to my mind is absolutely worthless! She did nothing to justify her existence. She had no mindâno brains. She thought of nothing but men and clothes and admiration. Useless, a parasite! She was attractive to men, I supposeâOh, of course, she was. And she lived for that kind of life. And so, I suppose, I wasnât really surprised at her coming to a sticky end. She was the sort of woman who would be mixed up with everything sordidâblackmailâjealousyâviolenceâevery kind of crude emotion. Sheâshe appealed to the worst in people.â

She stopped, panting a little. Her rather short top lip lifted itself in a kind of fastidious disgust. It occurred to Colonel Weston that you could not have found a more complete contrast to Arlena Stuart than Christine Redfern. It also occurred to him that if you were married to Christine Redfern, the atmosphere might be so rarefied that the Arlena Stuarts of this world would hold a particular attraction for you.

And then, immediately following on these thoughts, a single word out of the words she had spoken fastened on his attention with particular intensity.

He leaned forward and said:

âMrs. Redfern, why, in speaking of her, did you mention the word blackmail?â

Seven

Christine stared at him, not seeming at once to take in what he meant. She answered almost mechanically.

âI supposeâbecause she was being blackmailed. She was the sort of person who would be.â

Colonel Weston said earnestly:

âButâdo you know she was being blackmailed?â

A faint colour rose in the girlâs cheeks. She said rather awkwardly:

âAs a matter of fact I do happen to know it. IâI overheard something.â

âWill you explain, Mrs. Redfern?â

Flushing still more, Christine Redfern said:

âIâI didnât mean to overhear. It was an accident. It was twoâno, three nights ago. We were playing bridge.â She turned towards Poirot. âYou remember? My husband and I, M. Poirot and Miss Darnley. I was dummy. It was very stuffy in the card room, and I slipped out of the window for a breath of fresh air. I went down towards the beach and I suddenly heard voices. Oneâit was Arlena MarshallâsâI knew it at onceâsaid: âItâs no good pressing me. I canât get any more money now. My husband will suspect something.â And then a manâs voice said: âIâm not taking any excuses. Youâve got to cough up.â And then Arlena Marshall said: âYou blackmailing brute!â And the man said: âBrute or not, youâll pay up, my lady.ââ

Christine paused.

âIâd turned back and a minute after Arlena Marshall rushed past me. She lookedâwell, frightfully upset.â

Weston said:

âAnd the man? Do you know who he was?â

Christine Redfern shook her head.

She said:

âHe was keeping his voice low. I barely heard what he said.â

âIt didnât suggest the voice to you of anyone you knew?â

She thought again, but once more shook her head. She said:

âNo, I donât know. It was gruff and low. Itâoh, it might have been anybodyâs.â

Colonel Weston said:

âThank you, Mrs. Redfern.â

II

When the door had closed behind Christine Redfern Inspector Colgate said:

âNow we are getting somewhere!â

Weston said:

âYou think so, eh?â

âWell, itâs suggestive, sir, you canât get away from it. Somebody in this hotel was blackmailing the lady.â

Poirot murmured:

âBut it is not the wicked blackmailer who lies dead. It is the victim.â

âThatâs a bit of a setback, I agree,â said the Inspector. âBlackmailers arenât in the habit of bumping off their victims. But what it does give us is this, it suggests a reason for Mrs. Marshallâs curious behaviour this morning. Sheâd got a rendezvous with this fellow who was blackmailing her, and she didnât want either her husband or Redfern to know about it.â

âIt certainly explains that point,â agreed Poirot.

Inspector Colgate went on:

âAnd think of the place chosen. The very spot for the purpose. The lady goes off in her float. Thatâs natural enough. Itâs what she does every day. She goes round to Pixy Cove where no one ever goes in the morning and which will be a nice quiet place for an interview.â

Poirot said:

âBut yes, I too was struck by that point. It is as you say, an ideal spot for a rendezvous. It is deserted, it is only accessible from the land side by descending a vertical steel ladder which is not everybodyâs money, bien entendu. Moreover most of the beach is invisible from above because of the overhanging cliff. And it has another advantage. Mr. Redfern told me of that one day. There is a cave on it, the entrance to which is not easy to find but where anyone could wait unseen.â

Weston said:

âOf course, the Pixyâs Caveâremember hearing about it.â

Inspector Colgate said:

âHavenât heard it spoken of for years, though. Weâd better have a look inside it. Never know, we might find a pointer of some kind.â

Weston said:

âYes, youâre right, Colgate, weâve got the solution to part one of the puzzle. Why did Mrs. Marshall go to Pixyâs Cove? We want the other half of that solution, though. Who did she go there to meet? Presumably someone staying in this hotel. None of them fitted as a loverâbut a blackmailerâs a different proposition.â

He drew the register towards him.

âExcluding the waiters, boots, etc., whom I donât think likely, weâve got the following. The AmericanâGardener, Major Barry, Mr. Horace Blatt, and the Reverend Stephen Lane.â

Inspector Colgate said:

âWe can narrow it down a bit, sir. We might almost rule out the American, I think. He was on the beach all the morning. Thatâs so, isnât it, M. Poirot?â

Poirot replied:

âHe was absent for a short time when he fetched a skein of wool for his wife.â

Colgate said:

âOh well, we neednât count that.â

Weston said:

âAnd what about the other three?â

âMajor Barry went out at ten oâclock this morning. He returned at one thirty. Mr. Lane was earlier still. He breakfasted at eight. Said he was going for a tramp. Mr. Blatt went off for a sail at nine thirty same as he does most days. Neither of them are back yet.â

âA sail, eh?â Colonel Westonâs voice was thoughtful.

Inspector Colgateâs voice was responsive. He said:

âMight fit in rather well, sir.â

Weston said:

âWell, weâll have a word with this Major blokeâand let me see, who else is there? Rosamund Darnley. And thereâs the Brewster woman who found the body with Redfern. Whatâs she like, Colgate?â

âOh, a sensible party, sir. No nonsense about her.â

âShe didnât express any opinions on the death?â

The Inspector shook his head.

âI donât think sheâll have anything more to tell us, sir, but weâll have to make sure. Then there are the Americans.â

Colonel Weston nodded. He said: âLetâs have âem all in and get it over as soon as possible. Never know, might learn something. About the blackmailing stunt if about nothing else.â

III

Mr. and Mrs. Gardener came into the presence of authority together.

Mrs. Gardener explained immediately.

âI hope youâll understand how it is, Colonel Weston (that is the name, I think?).â Reassured on this point she went on: âBut this has been a very bad shock to me and Mr. Gardener is always very, very careful of my healthââ

Mr. Gardener here interpolated:

âMrs. Gardener,â he said, âis very sensitive.â

ââand he said to me, âWhy, Carrie,â he said, ânaturally Iâm coming right along with you.â Itâs not that we havenât the highest admiration for British police methods because we have. Iâve been told that British police procedure is most refined and delicate, and Iâve never doubted it, and certainly when I once had a bracelet missing at the Savoy Hotel nothing could have been more lovely and sympathetic than the young man who came to see me about it, and, of course, I hadnât really lost the bracelet at all, but just mislaid it; thatâs the worst of rushing about so much, it makes you kind of forgetful where you put thingsââ Mrs. Gardener paused, inhaled gently and started off again. âAnd what I say is, and I know Mr. Gardener agrees with me, that weâre only too anxious to do anything to help the British police in every way. So go right ahead and ask me anything at all you want to knowââ

Colonel Weston opened his mouth to comply with this invitation, but had momentarily to postpone speech while Mrs. Gardener went on.

âThatâs what I said, Odell, isnât it? And thatâs so, isnât it?â

âYes, darling,â said Mr. Gardener.

Colonel Weston spoke hastily.

âI understand, Mrs. Gardener, that you and your husband were on the beach all the morning?â

For once Mr. Gardener was able to get in first.

âThatâs so,â he said.

âWhy, certainly we were,â said Mrs. Gardener. âAnd a lovely peaceful morning it was, just like any other morning if you get me, perhaps even more so, and not the slightest idea in our minds of what was happening round the corner on that lonely beach.â

âDid you see Mrs. Marshall at all today?â

âWe did not. And I said to Odell, why wherever can Mrs. Marshall have got to this morning? I said. And first her husband coming looking for her and then that good-looking young man, Mr. Redfern, and so impatient he was, just sitting there on the beach scowling at everyone and everything. And I said to myself why, when he has that nice pretty little wife of his own, must he go running after that dreadful woman? Because thatâs just what I felt she was. I always felt that about her, didnât I, Odell?â

âYes, darling.â

âHowever that nice Captain Marshall came to marry such a woman I just cannot imagine and with that nice young daughter growing up, and itâs so important for girls to have the right influence. Mrs. Marshall was not at all the right personâno breeding at allâand I should say a very animal nature. Now if Captain Marshall had had any sense heâd have married Miss Darnley, whoâs a very very charming woman and a very distinguished one. I must say I admire the way sheâs gone straight ahead and built up a first-class business as she has. It takes brains to do a thing like thatâand youâve only got to look at Rosamund Darnley to see sheâs just frantic with brains. She could plan and carry out any moral thing she liked. I just admire that woman more than I can say. And I said to Mr. Gardener the other day that any one could see she was very much in love with Captain Marshallâcrazy about him was what I said, didnât I, Odell?â

âYes, darling.â

âIt seems they knew each other as children, and why now, who knows, it may all come right after all with that woman out of the way. Iâm not a narrow-minded woman, Colonel Weston, and it isnât that I disapprove of the stage as suchâwhy, quite a lot of my best friends are actressesâbut Iâve said to Mr. Gardener all along that there was something evil about that woman. And you see, Iâve been proved right.â

She paused triumphantly.

The lips of Hercule Poirot quivered in a little smile. His eyes met for a minute the shrewd grey eyes of Mr. Gardener.

Colonel Weston said rather desperately:

âWell, thank you, Mrs. Gardener. I suppose thereâs nothing that either of you has noticed since youâve been here that might have a bearing upon the case?â

âWhy no, I donât think so.â Mr. Gardener spoke with a slow drawl. âMrs. Marshall was around with young Redfern most of the timeâbut everybody can tell you that.â

âWhat about her husband? Did he mind, do you think?â

Mr. Gardener said cautiously:

âCaptain Marshall is a very reserved man.â

Mrs. Gardener confirmed this by saying:

âWhy, yes, he is a real Britisher!â

IV

On the slightly apoplectic countenance of Major Barry various emotions seemed contending for mastery. He was endeavouring to look properly horrified but could not subdue a kind of shamefaced gusto.

He was saying in his hoarse, slightly wheezy voice:

âGlad to help you any way I can. âCourse I donât know anythinâ about itânothinâ at all. Not acquainted with the parties. But Iâve knocked about a bit in my time. Lived a lot in the East, you know. And I can tell you that after being in an Indian hill station what you donât know about human nature isnât worth knowinâ.â

He paused, took a breath and was off again.

âMatter of fact this business reminds me of a case in Simla. Fellow called Robinson, or was it Falconer? Anyway he was in the East Wilts, or was it the North Surreys? Canât remember now, and anyway it doesnât matter. Quiet chap, you know, great readerâmild as milk youâd have said. Went for his wife one evening in their bungalow. Got her by the throat. Sheâd been carryinâ on with some feller or other and heâd got wise to it. By Jove, he nearly did for her! It was touch and go. Surprised us all! Didnât think he had it in him.â

Hercule Poirot murmured:

âAnd you see there an analogy to the death of Mrs. Marshall?â

âWell, what I mean to sayâstrangled, you know. Same idea. Feller suddenly sees red!â

Poirot said:

âYou think that Captain Marshall felt like that?â

âOh, look here, I never said that.â Major Barryâs face went even redder. âNever said anything about Marshall. Thoroughly nice chap. Wouldnât say a word against him for the world.â

Poirot murmured:

âAh, pardon, but you did refer to the natural reactions of a husband.â

Major Barry said:

âWell, I mean to say, I should think sheâd been pretty hot stuff. Eh? Got young Redfern on a string all right. And there were probably others before him. But the funny thing is, you know, that husbands are a dense lot. Amazinâ. Iâve been surprised by it again and again. They see a feller sweet on their wife but they donât see that sheâs sweet on him! Remember a case like that in Poona. Very pretty woman, Jove, she led her husband a danceââ

Colonel Weston stirred a little restively. He said:

âYes, yes, Major Barry. For the moment weâve just got to establish the facts. You donât know of anything personallyâthat youâve seen or noticed that might help us in this case?â

âWell, really, Weston, I canât say I do. Saw her and young Redfern one afternoon on Gull Coveââhere he winked knowingly and gave a deep hoarse chuckleââvery pretty it was, too. But itâs not evidence of that kind youâre wanting. Ha, ha!â

âYou did not see Mrs. Marshall at all this morning?â

âDidnât see anybody this morning. Went over to St. Loo. Just my luck. Sort of place here where nothinâ happens for months and when it does you miss it!â

The Majorâs voice held a ghoulish regret.

Colonel Weston prompted him.

âYou went to St. Loo, you say?â

âYes, wanted to do some telephoninâ. No telephone here and that post office place at Leathercombe Bay isnât very private.â

âWere your telephone calls of a very private nature?â

The Major winked again cheerfully.

âWell, they were and they werenât. Wanted to get through to a pal of mine and get him to put somethinâ on a horse. Couldnât get through to him, worse luck.â

âWhere did you telephone from?â

âCall box in the G.P.O. at St. Loo. Then on the way back I got lostâthese confounded lanesâtwistinâ and turninâ all over the place. Must have wasted an hour over that at least. Damned confusing part of the world. I only got back half an hour ago.â

Colonel Weston said:

âSpeak to anyone or meet anyone in St. Loo?â

Major Barry said with a chuckle:

âWantinâ me to prove an alibi? Canât think of anythinâ useful. Saw about fifty thousand people in St. Looâbut thatâs not to say theyâll remember seeinâ me.â

The Chief Constable said:

âWe have to ask these things, you know.â

âRight you are. Call on me at any time. Glad to help you. Very fetchinâ woman, the deceased. Like to help you catch the feller who did it. The Lonely Beach Murderâbet you thatâs what the papers will call it. Reminds me of the timeââ

It was Inspector Colgate who firmly nipped this latest reminiscence in the bud and manoeuvred the garrulous Major out of the door.

Coming back he said:

âDifficult to check up on anything in St. Loo. Itâs the middle of the holiday season.â

The Chief Constable said:

âYes, we canât take him off the list. Not that I seriously believe heâs implicated. Dozens of old bores like him going about. Remember one or two of them in my army days. Stillâheâs a possibility. I leave all that to you, Colgate. Check what time he took the car outâpetrolâall that. Itâs humanly possible that he parked the car somewhere in a lonely spot, walked back here and went to the cove. But it doesnât seem feasible to me. Heâd have run too much risk of being seen.â

Colgate nodded.

He said:

âOf course there are a good many charabancs here today. Fine day. They start arriving round about half past eleven. High tide was at seven. Low tide would be about one oâclock. People would be spread out over the sands and the causeway.â

Weston said:

âYes. But heâd have to come up from the causeway past the hotel.â

âNot right past it. He could branch off on the path that leads up over the top of the island.â

Weston said doubtfully:

âIâm not saying that he mightnât have done it without being seen. Practically all the hotel guests were on the bathing beach except for Mrs. Redfern and the Marshall girl who were down in Gull Cove, and the beginning of that path would only be overlooked by a few rooms of the hotel and there are plenty of chances against anyone looking out of those windows just at that moment. For the matter of that, I dare say itâs possible for a man to walk up to the hotel, through the lounge and out again without anyone happening to see him. But what I say is, he couldnât count on no one seeing him.â

Colgate said:

âHe could have gone round to the cove by boat.â

Weston nodded. He said:

âThatâs much sounder. If heâd had a boat handy in one of the coves nearby, he could have left the car, rowed or sailed to Pixy Cove, done the murder, rowed back, picked up the car and arrived back with this tale about having been to St. Loo and lost his wayâa story that heâd know would be pretty hard to disprove.â

âYouâre right, sir.â

The Chief Constable said:

âWell, I leave it to you, Colgate. Comb the neighbourhood thoroughly. You know what to do. Weâd better see Miss Brewster now.â

V

Emily Brewster was not able to add anything of material value to what they already knew.

Weston said after she had repeated her story:

âAnd thereâs nothing you know of that could help us in any way?â

Emily Brewster said shortly:

âAfraid not. Itâs a distressing business. However, I expect youâll soon get to the bottom of it.â

Weston said:

âI hope so, Iâm sure.â

Emily Brewster said dryly:

âOught not to be difficult.â

âNow what do you mean by that, Miss Brewster?â

âSorry. Wasnât attempting to teach you your business. All I meant was that with a woman of that kind it ought to be easy enough.â

Hercule Poirot murmured:

âThat is your opinion?â

Emily Brewster snapped out:

âOf course. De mortuis nil nisi bonum and all that, but you canât get away from facts. That woman was a bad lot through and through. Youâve only got to hunt round a bit in her unsavoury past.â

Hercule Poirot said gently:

âYou did not like her?â

âI know a bit too much about her.â In answer to the inquiring looks she went on: âMy first cousin married one of the Erskines. Youâve probably heard that that woman induced old Sir Robert when he was in his dotage to leave most of his fortune to her away from his own family.â

Colonel Weston said:

âAnd the familyâerâresented that?â

âNaturally. His association with her was a scandal anyway, and on top of that, to leave her a sum like fifty thousand pounds shows just the kind of woman she was. I dare say I sound hard, but in my opinion the Arlena Stuarts of this world deserve very little sympathy. I know of something else tooâa young fellow who lost his head about her completelyâheâd always been a bit wild, naturally his association with her pushed him over the edge. He did something rather fishy with some sharesâsolely to get money to spend on herâand only just managed to escape prosecution. That woman contaminated everyone she met. Look at the way she was ruining young Redfern. No, Iâm afraid I canât have any regret for her deathâthough of course it would have been better if sheâd drowned herself, or fallen over a cliff. Strangling is rather unpleasant.â

âAnd you think the murderer was someone out of her past?â

âYes, I do.â

âSomeone who came from the mainland with no one seeing him?â

âWhy should any one see him? We were all on the beach. I gather the Marshall child and Christine Redfern were down on Gull Cove out of the way. Captain Marshall was in his room in the hotel. Then who on earth was there to see him except possibly Miss Darnley.â

âWhere was Miss Darnley?â

âSitting up on the cutting at the top of the cliff. Sunny Ledge itâs called. We saw her there, Mr. Redfern and I, when we were rowing round the island.â

Colonel Weston said:

âYou may be right, Miss Brewster.â

Emily Brewster said positively:

âIâm sure Iâm right. When a womanâs neither more nor less than a nasty mess, then she herself will provide the best possible clue. Donât you agree with me, M. Poirot?â

Hercule Poirot looked up. His eyes met her confident grey ones. He said:

âOh, yesâI agree with that which you have just this minute said. Arlena Marshall herself is the best, the only clue, to her own death.â

Miss Brewster said sharply:

âWell, then!â

She stood there, an erect sturdy figure, her cool self-confident glance going from one man to the other.

Colonel Weston said:

âYou may be sure, Miss Brewster, that any clue there may be in Mrs. Marshallâs past life will not be overlooked.â

Emily Brewster went out.

VI

Inspector Colgate shifted his position at the table. He said in a thoughtful voice:

âSheâs a determined one, she is. And sheâd got her knife into the dead lady, proper, she had.â

He stopped a minute and said reflectively:

âItâs a pity in a way that sheâs got a cast-iron alibi for the whole morning. Did you notice her hands, sir? As big as a manâs. And sheâs a hefty womanâas strong and stronger than many a man, Iâd sayâ¦.â

He paused again. His glance at Poirot was almost pleading.

âAnd you say she never left the beach this morning, M. Poirot?â

Slowly Poirot shook his head. He said:

âMy dear Inspector, she came down to the beach before Mrs. Marshall could have reached Pixy Cove and she was within my sight until she set off with Mr. Redfern in the boat.â

Inspector Colgate said gloomily:

âThen that washes her out.â

He seemed upset about it.

VII

As always, Hercule Poirot felt a keen sense of pleasure at the sight of Rosamund Darnley.

Even to a bare police inquiry into the ugly facts of murder she brought a distinction of her own.

She sat down opposite Colonel Weston and turned a grave and intelligent face to him.

She said:

âYou want my name and address? Rosamund Anne Darnley. I carry on a dressmaking business under the name of Rose Mond Ltd at 622 Brook Street.â

âThank you, Miss Darnley. Now can you tell us anything that may help us?â

âI donât really think I can.â

âYour own movementsââ

âI had breakfast about nine thirty. Then I went up to my room and collected some books and my sunshade and went out to Sunny Ledge. That must have been about twenty-five past ten. I came back to the hotel about ten minutes to twelve, went up and got my tennis racquet and went out to the tennis courts, where I played tennis until lunchtime.â

âYou were in the cliff recess, called by the hotel Sunny Ledge, from about half past ten until ten minutes to twelve?â

âYes.â

âDid you see Mrs. Marshall at all this morning?â

âNo.â

âDid you see her from the cliff as she paddled her float round to Pixy Cove?â

âNo, she must have gone by before I got there.â

âDid you notice anyone on a float or in a boat at all this morning?â

âNo, I donât think I did. You see, I was reading. Of course I looked up from my book from time to time, but as it happened the sea was quite bare each time I did so.â

âYou didnât even notice Mr. Redfern and Miss Brewster when they went round?â

âNo.â

âYou were, I think, acquainted with Mr. Marshall?â

âCaptain Marshall is an old family friend. His family and mine lived next door to each other. I had not seen him, however, for a good many yearsâit must be something like twelve years.â

âAnd Mrs. Marshall?â

âIâd never exchanged half a dozen words with her until I met her here.â

âWere Captain and Mrs. Marshall, as far as you knew, on good terms with each other?â

âOn perfectly good terms, I should say.â

âWas Captain Marshall very devoted to his wife?â

Rosamund said:

âHe may have been. I canât really tell you anything about that. Captain Marshall is rather old-fashionedâhe hasnât got the modern habit of shouting matrimonial woes upon the housetop.â

âDid you like Mrs. Marshall, Miss Darnley?â

âNo.â

The monosyllable came quietly and evenly. It sounded what it wasâa simple statement of fact.

âWhy was that?â

A half smile came to Rosamundâs lips. She said:

âSurely youâve discovered that Arlena Marshall was not popular with her own sex? She was bored to death with women and showed it. Nevertheless I should like to have had the dressing of her. She had a great gift for clothes. Her clothes were always just right and she wore them well. I should like to have had her as a client.â

âShe spent a good deal on clothes?â

âShe must have done. But then she had money of her own and of course Captain Marshall is quite well off.â

âDid you ever hear or did it ever occur to you that Mrs. Marshall was being blackmailed, Miss Darnley?â

A look of intense astonishment came over Rosamund Darnleyâs expressive face.

She said:

âBlackmailed? Arlena?â

âThe idea seems to surprise you.â

âWell, yes, it does rather. It seems so incongruous.â

âBut surely it is possible?â

âEverythingâs possible, isnât it? The world soon teaches one that. But I wondered what any one could blackmail Arlena about?â

âThere are certain things, I suppose, that Mrs. Marshall might be anxious should not come to her husbandâs ears?â

âWe-ll, yes.â

She explained the doubt in her voice by saying with a half smile:

âI sound sceptical, but then, you see, Arlena was rather notorious in her conduct. She never made much of a pose of respectability.â

âYou think, then, that her husband was aware of herâintimacies with other people?â

There was a pause. Rosamund was frowning. She spoke at last in a slow, reluctant voice. She said:

âYou know, I donât really know what to think. Iâve always assumed that Kenneth Marshall accepted his wife, quite frankly, for what she was. That he had no illusions about her. But it may not be so.â

âHe may have believed in her absolutely?â

Rosamund said with semi-exasperation:

âMen are such fools. And Kenneth Marshall is unworldly under his sophisticated manner. He may have believed in her blindly. He may have thought she was justâadmired.â

âAnd you know of no oneâthat is, you have heard of no one who was likely to have had a grudge against Mrs. Marshall?â

Rosamund Darnley smiled. She said:

âOnly resentful wives. And I presume, since she was strangled, that it was a man who killed her.â

âYes.â

Rosamund said thoughtfully:

âNo, I canât think of any one. But then I probably shouldnât know. Youâll have to ask someone in her own intimate set.â

âThank you, Miss Darnley.â

Rosamund turned a little in her chair. She said:

âHasnât M. Poirot any questions to ask?â

Her faintly ironic smile flashed out at him.

Hercule Poirot smiled and shook his head.

He said:

âI can think of nothing.â

Rosamund Darnley got up and went out.

Eight

They were standing in the bedroom that had been Arlena Marshallâs.

Two big bay windows gave on to a balcony that overlooked the bathing beach and the sea beyond. Sunshine poured into the room, flashing over the bewildering array of bottles and jars on Arlenaâs dressing table.

Here there was every kind of cosmetic and unguent known to beauty parlours. Amongst this panoply of womanâs affairs three men moved purposefully. Inspector Colgate went about shutting and opening drawers.

Presently he gave a grunt. He had come upon a packet of folded letters. He and Weston ran through them together.

Hercule Poirot had moved to the wardrobe. He opened the door of the hanging cupboard and looked at the multiplicity of gowns and sports suits that hung there. He opened the other side. Foamy lingerie lay in piles. On a wide shelf were hats. Two more beach cardboard hats in lacquer red and pale yellowâa Big Hawaiian straw hatâanother of drooping dark-blue linen and three or four little absurdities for which, no doubt, several guiness had been paid apieceâa kind of beret in dark blueâa tuft, no more, of black velvetâa pale grey turban.

Hercule Poirot stood scanning themâa faintly indulgent smile came to his lips. He murmured:

âLes femmes!â

Colonel Weston was refolding the letters.

âThree from young Redfern,â he said. âDamned young ass. Heâll learn not to write letters to women in a few more years. Women always keep letters and then swear theyâve burnt them. Thereâs one other letter here. Same line of country.â

He held it out and Poirot took it.

Darling Arlena,âGod, I feel blue. To be going out to Chinaâand perhaps not seeing you again for years and years. I didnât know any man could go on feeling crazy about a woman like I feel about you. Thanks for the cheque. They wonât prosecute now. It was a near shave, though, and all because I wanted to make big money for you. Can you forgive me? I wanted to set diamonds in your earsâyour lovely earsâand clasp great milk-white pearls round your throat, only they say pearls are no good nowadays. A fabulous emerald, then? Yes, thatâs the thing. A great emerald, cool and green and full of hidden fire. Donât forget meâbut you wonât, I know. Youâre mineâalways.

Goodbyeâgoodbyeâgoodbye.

J.N.

Inspector Colgate said:

âMight be worth while to find out if J.N. really did go to China. Otherwiseâwell, he might be the person weâre looking for. Crazy about the woman, idealizing her, suddenly finding out heâd been played for a sucker. It sounds to me as though this is the boy Miss Brewster mentioned. Yes, I think this might be useful.â

Hercule Poirot nodded. He said: âYes, that letter is important. I find it very important.â

He turned round and stared at the roomâat the bottles on the dressing tableâat the open wardrobe and at a big Pierrot doll that lolled insolently on the bed.

They went into Kenneth Marshallâs room.

It was next door to his wifeâs but with no communicating door and no balcony. It faced the same way and had two windows, but it was much smaller. Between the two windows a gilt mirror hung on the wall. In the corner beyond the right-hand window was the dressing table. On it were two ivory brushes, a clothes brush and a bottle of hair lotion. In the corner by the left-hand window was a writing table. An open typewriter stood on it and papers were ranged in a stack beside it.

Colgate went through them rapidly.

He said:

âAll seems straightforward enough. Ah, hereâs the letter he mentioned this morning. Dated the 24thâthatâs yesterday. And hereâs the envelope postmarked Leathercombe Bay this morning. Seems all square. Now weâll have an idea if he could have prepared that answer of his beforehand.

He sat down.

Colonel Weston said:

âWeâll leave you to it, for a moment. Weâll just glance through the rest of the rooms. Everyoneâs been kept out of this corridor until now, and theyâre getting a bit restive about it.â

They went next into Linda Marshallâs room. It faced east, looking out over the rocks down to the sea below.

Weston gave a glance round. He murmured:

âDonât suppose thereâs anything to see here. But itâs possible Marshall might have put something in his daughterâs room that he didnât want us to find. Not likely, though. It isnât as though there had been a weapon or anything to get rid of.â

He went out again.

Hercule Poirot stayed behind. He found something that interested him in the grate. Something had been burnt there recently. He knelt down, working patiently. He laid out his finds on a sheet of paper. A large irregular blob of candle greaseâsome fragments of green paper or cardboard, possibly a pull-off calendar for with it was an unburnt fragment bearing a large figure 5 and a scrap of printingâ¦noble deedsâ¦ There was also an ordinary pin and some burnt animal matter which might have been hair.

Poirot arranged them neatly in a row and stared at them.

He murmured:

âDo noble deeds, not dream them all day long. Câest possible. But what is one to make of this collection? Câest fantastique!â

And then he picked up the pin and his eyes grew sharp and green.

He murmured:

âPour lâamour de Dieu! Is it possible?â

Hercule Poirot got up from where he had been kneeling by the grate.

Slowly he looked round the room and this time there was an entirely new expression on his face. It was grave and almost stern.

To the left of the mantelpiece there were some shelves with a row of books. Hercule Poirot looked thoughtfully along the titles.

A Bible, a battered copy of Shakespeareâs plays, The Marriage of William Ashe, by Mrs. Humphry Ward. The Young Stepmother, by Charlotte Yonge. The Shropshire Lad. Eliotâs Murder in the Cathedral. Bernard Shawâs St. Joan. Gone With the Wind, by Margaret Mitchell. The Burning Court, by Dickson Carr.

Poirot took out two books. The Young Stepmother and William Ashe, and glanced inside at the blurred stamp affixed to the title page. As he was about to replace them, his eye caught sight of a book that had been shoved behind the other books. It was a small dumpy volume bound in brown calf.

He took it out and opened it. Very slowly he nodded his head.

He murmured:

âSo I was rightâ¦ Yes, I was right. But for the otherâis that possible too? No, it is not possible, unlessâ¦â

He stayed there, motionless, stroking his moustaches whilst his mind ranged busily over the problem.

He said again, softly:

âUnlessââ

II

Colonel Weston looked in at the door.

âHullo, Poirot, still there?â

âI arrive. I arrive,â cried Poirot.

He hurried out into the corridor.

The room next to Lindaâs was that of the Redferns.

Poirot looked into it, noting automatically the trace of two different individualitiesâa neatness and tidiness which he associated with Christine, and a picturesque disorder which was characteristic of Patrick. Apart from these sidelights on personality the room did not interest him.

Next to it again was Rosamund Darnleyâs room, and here he lingered for a moment in the sheer pleasure of the ownerâs personality.

He noted the few books that lay on the table next to the bed, the expensive simplicity of the toilet set on the dressing table. And there came gently to his nostrils the elusive expensive perfume that Rosamund Darnley used.

Next to Rosamund Darnleyâs room at the northern end of the corridor was an open window leading to a balcony from which an outside stair led down to the rocks below.

Weston said:

âThatâs the way people go down to bathe before breakfastâthat is, if they bathe off the rocks as most of them do.â

Interest came into Hercule Poirotâs eyes. He stepped outside and looked down.

Below, a path led to steps cut zigzag leading down the rocks to the sea. There was also a path that led round the hotel to the left. He said:

âOne could go down these stairs, go to the left round the hotel and join the main path up from the causeway.â

Weston nodded. He amplified Poirotâs statement.

âOne could go right across the island without going through the hotel at all.â He added: âBut one might still be seen from a window.â

âWhat window?â

âTwo of the public bathrooms look out that wayânorthâand the staff bathroom, and the cloakrooms on the ground floor. Also the billiard room.â

Poirot nodded. He said:

âAnd all the former have frosted glass windows, and one does not play billiards on a fine morning.â

âExactly.â

Weston paused and said:

âIf he did it, thatâs the way he went.â

âYou mean Captain Marshall?â

âYes. Blackmail, or no blackmail. I still feel it points to him. And his mannerâwell, his manner is unfortunate.â

Hercule Poirot said dryly:

âPerhapsâbut a manner does not make a murderer!â

Weston said:

âThen you think heâs out of it?â

Poirot shook his head. He said:

âNo, I would not say that.â

Weston said:

âWeâll see what Colgate can make out of the typewriting alibi. In the meantime Iâve got the chambermaid of this floor waiting to be interviewed. A good deal may depend on her evidence.â

The chambermaid was a woman of thirty, brisk, efficient and intelligent. Her answers came readily.

Captain Marshall had come up to his room not long after ten-thirty. She was then finishing the room. He had asked her to be as quick as possible. She had not seen him come back but she had heard the sound of the typewriter a little later. She put it at about five minutes to eleven. She was then in Mr. and Mrs. Redfernâs room. After she had done that she moved on to Miss Darnleyâs room at the end of the corridor. She could not hear the typewriter from there. She went to Miss Darnleyâs room, as near as she could say, at just after eleven oâclock. She remembered hearing Leathercombe Church strike the hour as she went in. At a quarter past eleven she had gone downstairs for her eleven oâclock cup of tea and âsnack.â Afterwards she had gone to do the rooms in the other wing of the hotel. In answer to the Chief Constableâs question she explained that she had done the rooms in this corridor in the following order:

Miss Linda Marshallâs, the two public bathrooms, Mrs. Marshallâs room and private bath, Captain Marshallâs room. Mr. and Mrs. Redfernâs room and private bath, Miss Darnleyâs room and private bath. Captain Marshallâs and Miss Marshallâs rooms had no adjoining bathrooms.

During the time she was in Miss Darnleyâs room and bathroom she had not heard any one pass the door or go out by the staircase to the rocks, but it was quite likely she wouldnât have heard if any one went quietly.

Weston then directed his questions to the subject of Mrs. Marshall.

No, Mrs. Marshall wasnât one for rising early as a rule. She, Gladys Narracott, had been surprised to find the door open and Mrs. Marshall gone down at just after ten. Something quite unusual, that was.

âDid Mrs. Marshall always have her breakfast in bed?â

âOh yes, sir, always. Not very much of it either. Just tea and orange juice and one piece of toast. Slimming like so many ladies.â

No, she hadnât noticed anything unusual in Mrs. Marshallâs manner that morning. Sheâd seemed quite as usual.

Hercule Poirot murmured:

âWhat did you think of Mrs. Marshall, Mademoiselle?â

Gladys Narracott stared at him. She said:

âWell, thatâs hardly for me to say, is it, sir?â

âBut yes, it is for you to say. We are anxiousâvery anxiousâto hear your impression.â

Gladys gave a slightly uneasy glance towards the Chief Constable, who endeavoured to make his face sympathetic and approving, though actually he felt slightly embarrassed by his foreign colleagueâs methods of approach. He said:

âErâyes, certainly. Go ahead.â

For the first time Gladys Narracottâs brisk efficiency deserted her. Her fingers fumbled with her print dress. She said:

âWell, Mrs. Marshallâshe wasnât exactly a lady, as you might say. What I mean is she was more like an actress.â

Colonel Weston said:

âShe was an actress.â

âYes, sir, thatâs what Iâm saying. She just went on exactly as she felt like it. She didnâtâwell, she didnât trouble to be polite if she wasnât feeling polite. And sheâd be all smiles one minute and then, if she couldnât find something or the bell wasnât answered at once or her laundry wasnât back, well, be downright rude and nasty about it. None of us you might say liked her. But her clothes were beautiful, and, of course, she was a very handsome lady, so it was only natural she should be admired.â

Colonel Weston said:

âI am sorry to have to ask you what I am going to ask you, but it is a very vital matter. Can you tell me how things were between her and her husband?â

Gladys Narracott hesitated a minute.

She said:

âYou donâtâit wasnâtâyou donât think as he did it?â

Hercule Poirot said quickly:

âDo you?â

âOh! I wouldnât like to think so. Heâs such a nice gentleman, Captain Marshall. He couldnât do a thing like thatâIâm sure he couldnât.â

âBut you are not very sureâI hear it in your voice.â

Gladys Narracott said reluctantly:

âYou do read such things in the papers! When thereâs jealousy. If thereâs been goings onâand, of course, everyoneâs been talking about itâabout her and Mr. Redfern, I mean. And Mrs. Redfern such a nice quiet lady! It does seem a shame! And Mr. Redfernâs a nice gentleman too, but it seems men canât help themselves when itâs a lady like Mrs. Marshallâone whoâs used to having her own way. Wives have to put up with a lot, Iâm sure.â She sighed and paused. âBut if Captain Marshall found out about itââ

Colonel Weston said sharply:

âWell?â

Gladys Narracott said slowly:

âI did think sometimes that Mrs. Marshall was frightened of her husband knowing.â

âWhat makes you say that?â

âIt wasnât anything definite, sir. It was only I feltâthat sometimes she wasâafraid of him. He was a very quiet gentleman but he wasnâtâhe wasnât easy.â

Weston said:

âBut youâve nothing definite to go on? Nothing either of them ever said to each other.â

Slowly Gladys Narracott shook her head.

Weston sighed. He went on.

âNow, as to letters received by Mrs. Marshall this morning. Can you tell us anything about those?â

âThere were about six or seven, sir. I couldnât say exactly.â

âDid you take them up to her?â

âYes, sir. I got them from the office as usual and put them on her breakfast tray.â

âDo you remember anything about the look of them?â

The girl shook her head.

âThey were just ordinary-looking letters. Some of them were bills and circulars, I think, because they were torn up on the tray.â

âWhat happened to them?â

âThey went into the dustbin, sir. One of the police gentlemen is going through that now.â

Weston nodded.

âAnd the contents of the wastepaper baskets, where are they?â

âTheyâll be in the dustbin too.â

Weston said: âHâmâwell, I think that is all at present.â He looked inquiringly at Poirot.

Poirot leaned forward.

âWhen you did Miss Linda Marshallâs room this morning, did you do the fireplace?â

âThere wasnât anything to do, sir. There had been no fire lit.â

âAnd there was nothing in the fireplace itself?â

âNo sir, it was perfectly all right.â

âWhat time did you do her room?â

âAbout a quarter past nine, sir, when sheâd gone down to breakfast.â

âDid she come up to her room after breakfast, do you know?â

âYes, sir. She came up about a quarter to ten.â

âDid she stay in her room?â

âI think so, sir. She came out, hurrying rather, just before half past ten.â

âYou didnât go into her room again?â

âNo, sir. I had finished with it.â

Poirot nodded. He said:

âThere is another thing I want to know. What people bathed before breakfast this morning?â

âI couldnât say about the other wing and the floor above. Only about this one.â

âThat is all I want to know.â

âWell, sir, Captain Marshall and Mr. Redfern were the only ones this morning, I think. They always go down for an early dip.â

âDid you see them?â

âNo, sir, but their wet bathing things were hanging over the balcony rail as usual.â

âMiss Linda Marshall did not bathe this morning?â

âNo, sir. All her bathing dresses were quite dry.â

âAh,â said Poirot. âThat is what I wanted to know.â

Gladys Narracott volunteered:

âShe does most mornings, sir.â

âAnd the other three, Miss Darnley, Mrs. Redfern and Mrs. Marshall?â

âMrs. Marshall never, sir. Miss Darnley has once or twice, I think. Mrs. Redfern doesnât often bathe before breakfastâonly when itâs very hot, but she didnât this morning.â

Again Poirot nodded. Then he asked:

âI wonder if you have noticed whether a bottle is missing from any of the rooms you look after in this wing?â

âA bottle, sir? What kind of a bottle?â

âUnfortunately I do not know. But have you noticedâor would you be likely to noticeâif one had gone?â

Gladys said frankly:

âI shouldnât from Mrs. Marshallâs room, sir, and thatâs a fact. She has ever so many.â

âAnd the other rooms?â

âWell, Iâm not sure about Miss Darnley. She has a good many creams and lotions. But from the other rooms, yes, I would, sir. I mean if I were to look special. If I were noticing, so to speak.â

âBut you havenât actually noticed?â

âNo, because I wasnât looking special, as I say.â

âPerhaps you would go and look now, then.â

âCertainly, sir.â

She left the room, her print dress rustling. Weston looked at Poirot. He said: âWhatâs all this?â

Poirot murmured:

âMy orderly mind, that is vexed by trifles! Miss Brewster, this morning, was bathing off the rocks before breakfast, and she says that a bottle was thrown from above and nearly hit her. Eh bien, I want to know who threw that bottle and why?â

âMy dear man, any one may have chucked a bottle away.â

âNot at all. To begin with, it could only have been thrown from a window on the east side of the hotelâthat is, one of the windows of the rooms we have just examined. Now I ask you, if you have an empty bottle on your dressing table or in your bathroom what do you do with it? I will tell you, you drop it into the wastepaper basket. You do not take the trouble to go out on your balcony and hurl it into the sea! For one thing you might hit someone, for another it would be too much trouble. No, you would only do that if you did not want anyone to see that particular bottle.â

Weston stared at him.

Weston said:

âI know that Chief Inspector Japp, whom I met over a case not long ago, always says you have a damned tortuous mind. Youâre not going to tell me now that Arlena Marshall wasnât strangled at all, but poisoned out of some mysterious bottle with a mysterious drug?â

âNo, no, I do not think there was poison in that bottle.â

âThen what was there?â

âI do not know at all. Thatâs why I am interested.â

Gladys Narracott came back. She was a little breathless. She said:

âIâm sorry, sir, but I canât find anything missing. Iâm sure thereâs nothing gone from Captain Marshallâs room, or Miss Linda Marshallâs room, or Mr. and Mrs. Redfernâs room, and Iâm pretty sure thereâs nothing gone from Miss Darnleyâs either. But I couldnât say about Mrs. Marshallâs. As I say, sheâs got such a lot.â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

He said:

âNo matter. We will leave it.â

Gladys Narracott said:

âIs there anything more, sir?â

She looked from one to the other of them.

Weston said:

âDonât think so. Thank you.â

Poirot said:

âI thank you, no. You are sure, are you not, that there is nothingânothing at all, that you have forgotten to tell us?â

âAbout Mrs. Marshall, sir?â

âAbout anything at all. Anything unusual, out of the way, unexplained, slightly peculiar, rather curiousâenfin, something that has made you say to yourself or to one of your colleagues: âThatâs funny!â?â

Gladys said doubtfully:

âWell, not the sort of thing that you would mean, sir.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âNever mind what I mean. You do not know what I mean. It is true, then, that you have said to yourself or to a colleague today, âthat is funny!â?â

He brought out the three words with ironic detachment.

Gladys said:

âIt was nothing really. Just a bath being run. And I did pass the remark to Elsie, downstairs, that it was funny somebody having a bath round about twelve oâclock.â

âWhose bath, who had a bath?â

âThat I couldnât say, sir. We heard it going down the waste from this wing, thatâs all, and thatâs when I said what I did to Elsie.â

âYouâre sure it was a bath? Not one of the handbasins?â

âOh! quite sure, sir. You canât mistake bathwater running away.â

Poirot displaying no further desire to keep her, Gladys Narracott was permitted to depart.

Weston said:

âYou donât think this bath question is important, do you, Poirot? I mean, thereâs no point to it. No bloodstains or anything like that to wash off. Thatâs theââ He hesitated.

Poirot cut in:

âThat, you would say, is the advantage of strangulation! No bloodstains, no weaponânothing to get rid of or conceal! Nothing is needed but physical strengthâand the soul of a killer!â

His voice was so fierce, so charged with feeling, that Weston recoiled a little.

Hercule Poirot smiled at him apologetically.

âNo one,â he said, âthe bath is probably of no importance. Anyone may have had a bath. Mrs. Redfern before she went to play tennis, Captain Marshall, Miss Darnley. As I say, anyone. There is nothing in that.â

A police constable knocked at the door, and put in his head.

âItâs Miss Darnley, sir. She says sheâd like to see you again for a minute. Thereâs something she forgot to tell you, she says.â

Weston said:

âWeâre coming downânow.â

III

The first person they saw was Colgate. His face was gloomy.

âJust a minute, sir.â

Weston and Poirot followed him into Mrs. Castleâs office.

Colgate said:

âIâve been checking up with Heald on this typewriting business. Not a doubt of it, it couldnât be done under an hour. Longer, if you had to stop and think here and there. That seems to me pretty well to settle it. And look at this letter.â

He held it out.

âMy dear MarshallâSorry to worry you on your holiday but an entirely unforseen situation has arisen over the Burley and Tender contractsâ¦â

âEtcetera, etcetera,â said Colgate. âDated the 24thâthatâs yesterday. Envelope postmarked yesterday evening E.C.1. and Leathercombe Bay this morning. Same typewriter used on envelope and in letter. And by the contents it was clearly impossible for Marshall to prepare his answer beforehand. The figures arise out of the ones in the letterâthe whole thing is quite intricate.â

âHâm,â said Weston gloomily. âThat seems to let Marshall out. Weâll have to look elsewhere.â He added: âIâve got to see Miss Darnley again. Sheâs waiting now.â

Rosamund came in crisply. Her smile held an apologetic nuance.

She said:

âIâm frightfully sorry. Probably it isnât worth bothering about. But one does forget things so.â

âYes, Miss Darnley?â

The Chief Constable indicated a chair.

She shook her shapely black head.

âOh, it isnât worth sitting down. Itâs simply this. I told you that I spent the morning lying out on Sunny Ledge. That isnât quite accurate. I forgot that once during the morning I went back to the hotel and out again.â

âWhat time was that, Miss Darnley?â

âIt must have been about a quarter past eleven.â

âYou went back to the hotel, you said?â

âYes, Iâd forgotten my glare glasses. At first I thought I wouldnât bother and then my eyes got tired and I decided to go in and get them.â

âYou went straight to your room and out again?â

âYes. At least, as a matter of fact, I just looked in on KenâCaptain Marshall. I heard his machine going and I thought it was so stupid of him to stay indoors typing on such a lovely day. I thought Iâd tell him to come out.â

âAnd what did Captain Marshall say?â

Rosamund smiled rather shamefacedly.

âWell, when I opened the door he was typing so vigorously, and frowning and looking so concentrated, that I just went away quietly. I donât think he even saw me come in.â

âAnd that wasâat what time, Miss Darnley?â

âJust about twenty past eleven. I noticed the clock in the hall as I went out again.â

IV

âAnd that puts the lid on it finally,â said Inspector Colgate. âThe chambermaid heard him typing up till five minutes to eleven. Miss Darnley saw him at twenty minutes past, and the woman was dead at a quarter to twelve. He says he spent that hour typing in his room, and it seems quite clear that he was typing in his room. That washes Captain Marshall right out.â

He stopped, then looking at Poirot with some curiosity, he asked:

âM. Poirotâs looking very serious over something.â

Poirot said thoughtfully:

âI was wondering why Miss Darnley suddenly volunteered this extra evidence.â

Inspector Colgate cocked his head alertly.

âThink thereâs something fishy about it? That it isnât just a question of âforgetting?ââ

He considered for a minute or two, then he said slowly:

âLook here, sir, letâs look at it this way. Supposing Miss Darnley wasnât on Sunny Ledge this morning as she says. That storyâs a lie. Now suppose that after telling us her story, she finds that somebody saw her somewhere else or alternatively that someone went to the Ledge and didnât find her there. Then she thinks up this story quick and comes and tells it to us to account for her absence. Youâll notice that she was careful to say Captain Marshall didnât see her when she looked into his room.â

Poirot murmured:

âYes, I noticed that.â

Weston said incredulously:

âAre you suggesting that Miss Darnleyâs mixed up in this? Nonsense, seems absurd to me. Why should she be?â

Inspector Colgate coughed.

He said:

âYouâll remember what the American lady, Mrs. Gardener, said. She sort of hinted that Miss Darnley was sweet on Captain Marshall. Thereâd be a motive there, sir.â

Weston said impatiently:

âArlena Marshall wasnât killed by a woman. Itâs a man weâve got to look for. Weâve got to stick to the men in the case.â

Inspector Colgate sighed. He said:

âYes, thatâs true, sir. We always come back to that, donât we?â

Weston went on:

âBetter put a constable on to timing one or two things. From the hotel across the island to the top of the ladder. Let him do it running and walking. Same thing with the ladder itself. And somebody had better check the time it takes to go on a float from the bathing beach to the cove.â

Inspector Colgate nodded.

âIâll attend to all that, sir,â he said confidently.

The Chief Constable said:

âThink Iâll go along to the cove now. See if Phillips has found anything. Then thereâs that Pixyâs Cave weâve been hearing about. Ought to see if there are any traces of a man waiting in there. Eh, Poirot? What do you think?â

âBy all means. It is a possibility.â

Weston said:

âIf somebody from outside had nipped over to the island that would be a good hiding placeâif he knew about it. I suppose the locals know?â

Colgate said:

âDonât believe the younger generation would. You see, ever since this hotel was started the coves have been private property. Fishermen donât go there, or picnic parties. And the hotel people arenât local. Mrs. Castleâs a Londoner.â

Weston said:

âWe might take Redfern with us. He told us about it. What about you, M. Poirot?â

Hercule Poirot hesitated. He said, his foreign intonation very pronounced:

âMe, I am like Miss Brewster and Mrs. Redfern, I do not like to descend perpendicular ladders.â

Weston said: âYou can go round by boat.â

Again Hercule Poirot sighed.

âMy stomach, it is not happy on the sea.â

âNonsense, man, itâs a beautiful day. Calm as a mill pond. You canât let us down, you know.â

Hercule Poirot hardly looked like responding to this British adjuration. But at that moment, Mrs. Castle poked her ladylike face and elaborate coiffure round the door.

âAyâm sure ay hope ay am not intruding,â she said. âBut Mr. Lane, the clergyman, you know, has just returned. Ay thought you might like to know.â

âAh yes, thanks, Mrs. Castle. Weâll see him right away.â

Mrs. Castle came a little farther into the room. She said:

âAy donât know if it is worth mentioning, but ay have heard that the smallest incident should not be ignoredââ

âYes, yes?â said Weston impatiently.

âIt is only that there was a lady and gentleman here about one oâclock. Came over from the mainland. For luncheon. They were informed that there had been an accident and that under the circumstances no luncheons could be served.â

âAny idea who they were?â

âAy couldnât say at all. Naturally no name was given. They expressed disappointment and a certain amount of curiosity as to the nature of the accident. Ay couldnât tell them anything, of course. Ay should say, myself, they were summer visitors of the better class.â

Weston said brusquely:

âAh well, thank you for telling us. Probably not important but quite rightâerâto remember everything.â

âNaturally,â said Mrs. Castle, âay wish to do my Duty!â

âQuite, quite. Ask Mr. Lane to come here.â

V

Stephen Lane strode into the room with his usual vigour.

Weston said:

âIâm the Chief Constable of the County, Mr. Lane. I suppose youâve been told what has occurred here?â

âYesâoh yesâI heard as soon as I got here. Terribleâ¦ Terribleâ¦â His thin frame quivered. He said in a low voice: âAll alongâever since I arrived hereâI have been consciousâvery consciousâof the forces of evil close at hand.â

His eyes, burning eager eyes, went to Hercule Poirot.

He said:

âYou remember, M. Poirot? Our conversation some days ago? About the reality of evil?â

Weston was studying the tall, gaunt figure in some perplexity. He found it difficult to make this man out. Laneâs eyes came back to him. The clergyman said with a slight smile:

âI dare say that seems fantastic to you, sir. We have left off believing in evil in these days. We have abolished Hell fire! We no longer believe in the Devil! But Satan and Satanâs emissaries were never more powerful than they are today!â

Weston said:

âErâerâyes, perhaps. That, Mr. Lane, is your province. Mine is more prosaicâto clear up a case of murder.â

Stephen Lane said:

âAn awful word. Murder! One of the earliest sins known on earthâthe ruthless shedding of an innocent brotherâs bloodâ¦â He paused, his eyes half closed. Then, in a more ordinary voice he said:

âIn what way can I help you?â

âFirst of all, Mr. Lane, will you tell me your own movements today?â

âWillingly. I started off early on one of my usual tramps. I am fond of walking. I have roamed over a good deal of the countryside round here. Today I went to St. Petrock-in-the-Combe. That is about seven miles from hereâa very pleasant walk along winding lanes, up and down the Devon hills and valleys. I took some lunch with me and ate it in a spinney. I visited the churchâit has some fragmentsâonly fragments alas, of early glassâalso a very interesting painted screen.â

âThank you, Mr. Lane. Did you meet anyone on your walk?â

âNot to speak to. A cart passed me once and a couple of boys on bicycles and some cows. However,â he smiled, âif you want proof of my statement, I wrote my name in the book at the church. You will find it there.â

âYou did not see anyone at the church itselfâthe Vicar, or the verger?â

Stephen Lane shook his head. He said:

âNo, there was no one about and I was the only visitor. St. Petrock is a very remote spot. The village itself lies on the far side of it about half a mile farther on.â

Colonel Weston said pleasantly:

âYou mustnât think weâreâerâdoubting what you say. Just a matter of checking up on everybody. Just routine, you know, routine. Have to stick to routine in cases of this kind.â

Stephen Lane said gently:

âOh yes, I quite understand.â

Weston went on:

âNow the next point. Is there anything you know that would assist us at all? Anything about the dead woman? Anything that could give us a pointer as to who murdered her? Anything you heard or saw?â

Stephen Lane said:

âI heard nothing. All I can tell you is this: that I knew instinctively as soon as I saw her that Arlena Marshall was a focus of evil. She was Evil! Evil personified! Woman can be manâs help and inspiration in lifeâshe can also be manâs downfall. She can drag a man down to the level of the beast. The dead woman was just such a woman. She appealed to everything base in a manâs nature. She was a woman such as Jezebel and Aholibah. Nowâshe has been struck down in the middle of her wickedness!â

Hercule Poirot stirred. He said:

âNot struck downâstrangled! Strangled, Mr. Lane, by a pair of human hands.â

The clergymanâs own hands trembled. The fingers writhed and twitched. He said, and his voice came low and choked:

âThatâs horribleâhorribleâMust you put it like that?â

Hercule Poirot said:

âIt is the simple truth. Have you any idea, Mr. Lane, whose hands those were?â

The other shook his head. He said: âI know nothingânothingâ¦.â

Weston got up. He said, after a glance at Colgate to which the latter replied by an almost imperceptible nod, âWell, we must get on to the Cove.â

Lane said:

âIs that whereâit happened?â

Weston nodded.

Lane said:

âCanâcan I come with you?â

About to return a curt negative, Weston was forestalled by Poirot.

âBut certainly,â said Poirot. âAccompany me there in a boat, Mr. Lane. We start immediately.â

Nine

For the second time that morning Patrick Redfern was rowing a boat into Pixy Cove. The other occupants of the boat were Hercule Poirot, very pale with a hand to his stomach, and Stephen Lane. Colonel Weston had taken the land route. Having been delayed on the way he arrived on the beach at the same time as the boat grounded. A police constable and a plainclothes sergeant were on the beach already. Weston was questioning the latter as the three from the boat walked up and joined him.

Sergeant Phillips said:

âI think Iâve been over every inch of the beach, sir.â

âGood, what did you find?â

âItâs all together here, sir, if youâd like to come and see.â

A small collection of objects was laid out neatly on a rock. There was a pair of scissors, an empty Gold Flake packet, five patent bottle tops, a number of used matches, three pieces of string, one or two fragments of newspaper, a fragment of a smashed pipe, four buttons, the drumstick bone of a chicken and an empty bottle of sunbathing oil.

Weston looked down appraisingly on the objects.

âHâm,â he said. âRather moderate for a beach nowadays! Most people seem to confuse a beach with a public rubbish dump! Empty bottleâs been here some time by the way the labelâs blurredâso have most of the other things, I should say. The scissors are new, though. Bright and shining. They werenât out in yesterdayâs rain! Where were they?â

âClose by the bottom of the ladder, sir. Also this bit of pipe.â

âHâm, probably dropped by someone going up or down. Nothing to say who they belong to?â

âNo, sir. Quite an ordinary pair of nail scissors. Pipeâs a good quality brierâexpensive.â

Poirot murmured thoughtfully:

âCaptain Marshall told us, I think, that he had mislaid his pipe.â

Weston said:

âMarshallâs out of the picture. Anyway, heâs not the only person who smokes a pipe.â

Hercule Poirot was watching Stephen Lane as the latterâs hand went to his pocket and away again. He said pleasantly:

âYou also smoke a pipe, do you not, Mr. Lane?â

The clergyman started. He looked at Poirot.

He said:

âYes. Oh yes. My pipe is an old friend and companion.â Putting his hand into his pocket again he drew out a pipe, filled it with tobacco and lighted it.

Hercule Poirot moved away to where Redfern was standing, his eyes blank.

He said in a low voice:

âIâm gladâtheyâve taken her awayâ¦.â

Stephen Lane asked:

âWhere was she found?â

The Sergeant said cheerfully:

âJust about where youâre standing, sir.â

Lane moved swiftly aside. He stared at the spot he had just vacated.

The Sergeant went on:

âPlace where the float was drawn up agrees with putting the time she arrived here at 10:45. Thatâs going by the tide. Itâs turned now.â

âPhotography all done?â asked Weston.

âYes, sir.â

Weston turned to Redfern.

âNow then, man, whereâs the entrance to this cave of yours?â

Patrick Redfern was still staring down at the beach where Lane had been standing. It was as though he was seeing that sprawling body that was no longer there.

Westonâs words recalled him to himself.

He said: âItâs over here.â

He led the way to where a great mass of tumbled-down rocks were massed picturesquely against the cliff side. He went straight to where two big rocks, side by side, showed a straight narrow cleft between them. He said:

âThe entrance is here.â

Weston said:

âHere? Doesnât look as though a man could squeeze through.â

âItâs deceptive, youâll find, sir. It can just be done.â

Weston inserted himself gingerly into the cleft. It was not as narrow as it looked. Inside, the space widened and proved to be a fairly roomy recess with room to stand upright and to move about.

Hercule Poirot and Stephen Lane joined the Chief Constable. The other stayed outside. Light filtered in through the opening, but Weston had also got a powerful torch which he played freely over the interior.

He observed:

âHandy place. Youâd never suspect it from the outside.â

He played the torch carefully over the floor.

Hercule Poirot was delicately sniffing the air.

Noticing this, Weston said:

âAir quite fresh, not fishy or seaweedy, but of course this place is well above high water mark.â

But to Poirotâs sensitive nose, the air was more than fresh. It was delicately scented. He knew two people who used that elusive perfumeâ¦.

âWestonâs torch came to rest. He said:

âDonât see anything out of the way in here.â

Poirotâs eyes rose to a ledge a little way above his head. He murmured:

âOne might perhaps see that there is nothing up there?â

Weston said: âIf thereâs anything up there it would have to be deliberately put there. Still, weâd better have a look.â

Poirot said to Lane:

âYou are, I think, the tallest of us, Monsieur. Could we venture to ask you to make sure there is nothing resting on that ledge?â

Lane stretched up, but he could not quite reach to the back of the shelf. Then, seeing a crevice in the rock, he inserted a toe in it and pulled himself up by one hand.

He said:

âHullo, thereâs a box up here.â

In a minute or two they were out in the sunshine examining the clergymanâs find.

Weston said:

âCareful, donât handle it more than you can help. May be fingerprints.â

It was a dark-green tin box and bore the word Sandwiches on it.

Sergeant Phillips said:

âLeft from some picnic or other, I suppose.â

He opened the lid with his handkerchief.

Inside were small tin containers marked salt, pepper, mustard and two larger square tins evidently for sandwiches. Sergeant Phillips lifted the lid of the salt container. It was full to the brim. He raised the next one, commenting:

âHâm, got salt in the pepper one too.â

The mustard compartment also contained salt.

His face suddenly alert, the police sergeant opened one of the bigger square tins. That, too, contained the same white crystalline powder.

Very gingerly, Sergeant Phillips dipped a finger in and applied it to his tongue.

His face changed. He saidâand his voice was excited:

âThis isnât salt, sir. Not by a long way! Bitter taste! Seems to me itâs some kind of drug.â

II

âThe third angle,â said Colonel Weston with a groan.

They were back at the hotel again.

The Chief Constable went on:

âIf by any chance thereâs a dope gang mixed up in this, it opens up several possibilities. First of all, the dead woman may have been in with the gang herself. Think thatâs likely?â

Hercule Poirot said cautiously:

âIt is possible.â

âShe may have been a drug addict?â

Poirot shook his head.

He said:

âI should doubt that. She had steady nerves, radiant health, there were no marks of hypodermic injections (not that that proves anything. Some people sniff the stuff). No, I do not think she took drugs.â

âIn that case,â said Weston, âshe may have run into the business accidentally, and she was deliberately silenced by the people running the show. Weâll know presently just what the stuff is. Iâve sent it to Neasden. If weâre on to some dope ring, theyâre not the people to stick at triflesââ

He broke off as the door opened and Mr. Horace Blatt came briskly into the room.

Mr. Blatt was looking hot. He was wiping the perspiration from his forehead. His big hearty voice billowed out and filled the small room.

âJust this minute got back and heard the news! You the Chief Constable? They told me you were in here. My nameâs BlattâHorace Blatt. Any way I can help you? Donât suppose so. Iâve been out in my boat since early this morning. Missed the whole blinking show. The one day that something does happen in this out-of-the-way spot, Iâm not there. Just like life, that, isnât it? Hullo, Poirot, didnât see you at first. So youâre in on this? Oh well, I suppose you would be. Sherlock Holmes v. the local police, is that it? Ha, ha! Lestradeâall that stuff. Iâll enjoy seeing you do a bit of fancy sleuthing.â

Mr. Blatt came to anchor in a chair, pulled out a cigarette case and offered it to Colonel Weston, who shook his head.

He said, with a slight smile:

âIâm an inveterate pipe smoker.â

âSame here. I smoke cigarettes as wellâbut nothing beats a pipe.â

Colonel Weston said with suddenly geniality:

âThen light up, man.â

Blatt shook his head.

âNot got my pipe on me at the moment. But put me wise about all this. All Iâve heard so far is that Mrs. Marshall was found murdered on one of the beaches here.â

âOn Pixy Cove,â said Colonel Weston, watching him.

But Mr. Blatt merely asked excitedly:

âAnd she was strangled?â

âYes, Mr. Blatt.â

âNastyâvery nasty. Mind you, she asked for it! Hot stuffâtrÃ©s moustardeâeh, M. Poirot? Any idea who did it, or mustnât I ask that?â

With a faint smile Colonel Weston said:

âWell, you know, itâs we who are supposed to ask the questions.â

Mr. Blatt waved his cigarette.

âSorryâsorryâmy mistake. Go ahead.â

âYou went out sailing this morning. At what time?â

âLeft here at a quarter to ten.â

âWas any one with you?â

âNot a soul. All on my little lonesome.â

âAnd where did you go?â

âAlong the coast in the direction of Plymouth. Took lunch with me. Not much wind so I didnât actually get very far.â

After another question or two, Weston asked:

âNow about the Marshalls? Do you know anything that might help us?â

âWell, Iâve given you my opinion. Crime passionnel! All I can tell you is, it wasnât me! The fair Arlena had no use for me. Nothing doing in that quarter. She had her own blue-eyed boy! And if you ask me, Marshall was getting wise to it.â

âHave you any evidence for that?â

âSaw him give young Redfern a dirty look once or twice. Dark horse, Marshall. Looks very meek and mild and as though he were half asleep all the timeâbut thatâs not his reputation in the City. Iâve heard a thing or two about him. Nearly had up for assault once. Mind you, the fellow in question had put up a pretty dirty deal. Marshall had trusted him and the fellow had let him down cold. Particularly dirty business, I believe. Marshall went for him and half-killed him. Fellow didnât prosecuteâtoo afraid of what might come out. I give you that for what itâs worth.â

âSo you think it possible,â said Poirot, âthat Captain Marshall strangled his wife?â

âNot at all. Never said anything of the sort. Just letting you know that heâs the sort of fellow who could go berserk on occasions.â

Poirot said:

âMr. Blatt, there is reason to believe that Mrs. Marshall went this morning to Pixy Cove to meet someone. Have you any idea who that someone might be?â

Mr. Blatt winked.

âItâs not a guess. Itâs a certainty. Redfern!â

âIt was not Mr. Redfern.â

Mr. Blatt seemed taken aback. He said hesitatingly:

âThen I donât knowâ¦ No, I canât imagineâ¦.â

He went on, regaining a little of his aplomb:

âAs I said before, it wasnât me! No such luck! Let me see, couldnât have been Gardenerâhis wife keeps far too sharp an eye on him! That old ass Barry? Rot! And it would hardly be the parson. Although, mind you, Iâve seen his Reverence watching her a good bit. All holy disapproval, but perhaps an eye for the contours all the same! Eh? Lot of hypocrites, most parsons. Did you read that case last month? Parson and the churchwardenâs daughter! Bit of an eye-opener.â

Mr. Blatt chuckled.

Colonel Weston said coldly:

âThere is nothing you can think of that might help us?â

The other shook his head.

âNo. Canât think of a thing.â He added: âThis will make a bit of a stir, I imagine. The Press will be on to it like hot cakes. There wonât be quite so much of this high-toned exclusiveness about the Jolly Roger in future. Jolly Roger indeed. Precious little jollity about it.â

Hercule Poirot murmured:

âYou have not enjoyed your stay here?â

Mr. Blattâs red face got slightly redder. He said:

âWell, no, I havenât. The sailingâs all right and the scenery and the service and the foodâbut thereâs no matiness in the place, you know what I mean! What I say is, my moneyâs as good as another manâs. Weâre all here to enjoy ourselves. Then why not get together and do it? All these cliques and people sitting by themselves and giving you frosty good morningsâand good eveningsâand yes, very pleasant weather. No joy de viver. Lot of stuck-up dummies!â

Mr. Blatt pausedâby now very red indeed.

He wiped his forehead once more and said apologetically:

âDonât pay any attention to me. I get all worked up.â

III

Hercule Poirot murmured:

âAnd what do we think of Mr. Blatt?â

Colonel Weston grinned and said:

âWhat do you think of him? Youâve seen more of him than I have.â

Poirot said softly:

âThere are many of your English idioms that describe him. The rough diamond! The self-made man! The social climber! He is, as you choose to look at it, pathetic, ludicrous, blatant! It is a matter of opinion. But I think, too, that he is something else.â

âAnd what is that?â

Hercule Poirot, his eyes raised to the ceiling, murmured:

âI think that he isânervous!â

IV

Inspector Colgate said:

âIâve got those times worked out. From the hotel to the ladder down to Pixy Cove three minutes. Thatâs walking till you are out of sight of the hotel and then running like hell.â

Weston raised his eyebrows. He said:

âThatâs quicker than I thought.â

âDown ladder to beach one minute and three quarters. Up same two minutes. Thatâs P.C. Flint. Heâs a bit of an athlete. Walking and taking the ladder in the normal way, the whole business takes close on a quarter of an hour.â

Weston nodded. He said:

âThereâs another thing we must go into, the pipe question.â

Colgate said:

âBlatt smokes a pipe, so does Marshall, so does the parson. Redfern smokes cigarettes, the American prefers a cigar. Major Barry doesnât smoke at all. Thereâs one pipe in Marshallâs room, two in Blattâs, and one in the parsonâs. Chambermaid says Marshall has two pipes. The other chambermaid isnât a very bright girl. Doesnât know how many pipes the other two have. Says vaguely sheâs noticed two or three about in their rooms.â

Weston nodded.

âAnything else?â

âIâve checked up on the staff. They all seem quite O.K. Henry, in the bar, checks Marshallâs statement about seeing him at ten to eleven. William, the beach attendant, was down repairing the ladder on the rocks by the hotel most of the morning. He seems all right. George marked the tennis court and then bedded out some plants round by the dining room. Neither of them would have seen anyone who came across the causeway to the island.â

âWhen was the causeway uncovered?â

âRound about 9:30, sir.â

Weston pulled at his moustache.

âItâs possible somebody did come that way. Weâve got a new angle, Colgate.â

He told of the discovery of the sandwich box in the cave.

V

There was a tap on the door.

âCome in,â said Weston.

It was Captain Marshall.

He said:

âCan you tell me what arrangements I can make about the funeral?â

âI think we shall manage the inquest for the day after tomorrow, Captain Marshall.â

âThank you.â

Inspector Colgate said:

âExcuse me, sir, allow me to return you these.â

He handed over the three letters.

Kenneth Marshall smiled rather sardonically.

He said:

âHas the police department been testing the speed of my typing? I hope my character is cleared.â

Colonel Weston said pleasantly.

âYes, Captain Marshall, I think we can give you a clean bill of health. Those sheets take fully an hour to type. Moreover you were heard typing them by the chambermaid up till five minutes to eleven and you were seen by another witness at twenty minutes past.â

Captain Marshall murmured:

âReally? That all seems very satisfactory!â

âYes. Miss Darnley came to your room at twenty minutes past eleven. You were so busy typing that you did not observe her entry.â

Kenneth Marshallâs face took on an impassive expression. He said:

âDoes Miss Darnley say that?â He paused. âAs a matter of fact she is wrong. I did see her, though she may not be aware of the fact. I saw her in the mirror.â

Poirot murmured:

âBut you did not interrupt your typing?â

Marshall said shortly:

âNo. I wanted to get finished.â

He paused a minute, then, in an abrupt voice, he said:

âNothing more I can do for you?â

âNo, thank you, Captain Marshall.â

Kenneth Marshall nodded and went out.

Weston said with a sigh:

âThere goes our most hopeful suspectâcleared! Hullo, hereâs Neasden.â

The doctor came in with a trace of excitement in his manner. He said:

âThatâs a nice little death lot you sent me along.â

âWhat is it?â

âWhat is it? Diamorphine Hydrochloride. Stuff thatâs usually called Heroin.â

Inspector Colgate whistled. He said:

âNow weâre getting places, all right! Depend upon it, this dope stunt is at the bottom of the whole business.â

Ten

The little crowd of people flocked out of the Red Bull. The brief inquest was overâadjourned for a fortnight.

Rosamund Darnley joined Captain Marshall. She said in a low voice:

âThat wasnât so bad, was it, Ken?â

He did not answer at once. Perhaps he was conscious of the staring eyes of the villagers, the fingers that nearly pointed to him and only just did not quite do so!

âThatâs âim, my dear.â âSee, thatâs âer âusband.â âThat be the âusband.â âLook, there âe goesâ¦.â

The murmurs were not loud enough to reach his ears, but he was none the less sensitive to them. This was the modern-day pillory. The Press he had already encounteredâself-confident, persuasive young men, adept at battering down his wall of silence of âNothing to sayâ that he had endeavoured to erect. Even the curt monosyllables that he had uttered, thinking that they at least could not lead to misapprehension, had reappeared in his morningâs papers in a totally different guise. âAsked whether he agreed that the mystery of his wifeâs death could only be explained on the assumption that a homicidal murderer had found his way on to the island, Captain Marshall declared thatââ and so on and so forth.

Cameras had clicked ceaselessly. Now, at this minute, the well-known sound caught his ear. He half-turnedâa smiling young man was nodding cheerfully, his purpose accomplished.

Rosamund murmured:

âCaptain Marshall and a friend leaving the Red Bull after the inquest.â

Marshall winced.

Rosamund said:

âItâs no use, Ken! Youâve got to face it! I donât mean just the fact of Arlenaâs deathâI mean all the attendant beastliness. The staring eyes and gossiping tongues, the fatuous interviews in the papersâand the best way to meet it is to find it funny! Come out with all the old inane cliches and curl a sardonic lip at them.â

He said:

âIs that your way?â

âYes.â She paused. âIt isnât yours, I know. Protective colouring is your line. Remain rigidly nonactive and fade into the background! But you canât do that hereâyouâve no background to fade into. You stand out clear for all to seeâlike a striped tiger against a white backcloth. The husband of the murdered woman!â

âFor Godâs sake, Rosamundââ

She said gently:

âMy dear, Iâm trying to be good for you!â

They walked for a few steps in silence. Then Marshall said in a different voice:

âI know you are. Iâm not really ungrateful, Rosamund.â

They had progressed beyond the limits of the village. Eyes followed them but there was no one very near. Rosamund Darnleyâs voice dropped as she repeated a variant of her first remark.

âIt didnât really go so badly, did it?â

He was silent for a moment, then he said:

âI donât know.â

âWhat do the police think?â

âTheyâre noncommittal.â

After a minute Rosamund said:

âThat little manâPoirotâis he really taking an active interest!â

Kenneth Marshall said:

âSeemed to be sitting in the Chief Constableâs pocket all right the other day.â

âI knowâbut is he doing anything?â

âHow the hell should I know, Rosamund?â

She said thoughtfully:

âHeâs pretty old. Probably more or less ga ga.â

âPerhaps.â

They came to the causeway. Opposite them, serene in the sun, lay the island.

Rosamund said suddenly:

âSometimesâthings seem unreal. I canât believe, this minute, that it ever happenedâ¦.â

Marshall said slowly:

âI think I know what you mean. Nature is so regardless! One ant the lessâthatâs all it is in Nature!â

Rosamund said:

âYesâand thatâs the proper way to look at it really.â

He gave her one very quick glance. Then he said in a low voice:

âDonât worry, my dear. Itâs all right. Itâs all right.â

II

Linda came down to the causeway to meet them. She moved with the spasmodic jerkiness of a nervous colt. Her young face was marred by deep black shadows under her eyes. Her lips were dry and rough.

She said breathlessly:

âWhat happenedâwhatâwhat did they say?â

Her father said abruptly:

âInquest adjourned for a fortnight.â

âThat means theyâthey havenât decided?â

âYes. More evidence is needed.â

âButâbut what do they think?â

Marshall smiled a little in spite of himself.

âOh, my dear childâwho knows? And whom do you mean by they? The coroner, the jury, the police, the newspaper reporters, the fishing folk of Leathercombe Bay?â

Linda said slowly:

âI suppose I meanâthe police.â

Marshall said dryly:

âWhatever the police think, theyâre not giving it away at present.â

His lips closed tightly after the sentence. He went into the hotel.

As Rosamund Darnley was about to follow suit, Linda said:

âRosamund!â

Rosamund turned. The mute appeal in the girlâs unhappy face touched her. She linked her arm through Lindaâs and together they walked away from the hotel, taking the path that led to the extreme end of the island.

Rosamund said gently:

âTry not to mind so much, Linda. I know itâs all very terrible and a shock and all that, but itâs no use brooding over these things. And it can be only theâhorror of it, that is worrying you. You werenât in the least fond of Arlena, you know.â

She felt the tremor that ran through the girlâs body as Linda answered:

âNo, I wasnât fond of herâ¦.â

Rosamund went on:

âSorrow for a person is differentâone canât put that behind one. But one can get over shock and horror by just not letting your mind dwell on it all the time.â

Linda said sharply:

âYou donât understand.â

âI think I do, my dear.â

Linda shook her head.

âNo, you donât. You donât understand in the leastâand Christine doesnât understand either! Both of you have been nice to me, but you canât understand what Iâm feeling. You just think itâs morbidâthat Iâm dwelling on it all when I neednât.â

She paused.

âBut it isnât that at all. If you knew what I knowââ

Rosamund stopped dead. Her body did not trembleâon the contrary it stiffened. She stood for a minute or two, then she disengaged her arm from Lindaâs.

She said:

âWhat is it that you know, Linda?â

The girl gazed at her. Then she shook her head.

She muttered:

âNothing.â

Rosamund caught her by the arm. The grip hurt and Linda winced slightly.

Rosamund said:

âBe careful, Linda. Be damned careful.â

Linda had gone dead white.

She said:

âI am very carefulâall the time.â

Rosamund said urgently:

âListen, Linda, what I said a minute or two ago applies just the sameâonly a hundred times more so. Put the whole business out of your mind. Never think about it. Forgetâforgetâ¦ You can if you try! Arlena is dead and nothing can bring her back to lifeâ¦ Forget everything and live in the future. And above all, hold your tongue.â

Linda shrank a little. She said:

âYouâyou seem to know all about it?â

Rosamund said energetically:

âI donât know anything! In my opinion a wandering maniac got on to the island and killed Arlena. Thatâs much the most probable solution. Iâm fairly sure that the police will have to accept that in the end. Thatâs what must have happened! Thatâs what did happen!â

Linda said:

âIf Fatherââ

Rosamund interrupted her.

âDonât talk about it.â

Linda said:

âIâve got to say one thing. My motherââ

âWell, what about her?â

âSheâshe was tried for murder, wasnât she?â

âYes.â

Linda said slowly:

âAnd then Father married her. That looks, doesnât it, as though Father didnât really think murder was very wrongânot always, that is.â

Rosamund said sharply:

âDonât say things like thatâeven to me! The police havenât got anything against your father. Heâs got an alibiâan alibi that they canât break. Heâs perfectly safe.â

Linda whispered:

âDid they think at first that Fatherâ?â

Rosamund cried:

âI donât know what they thought! But they know now that he couldnât have done it. Do you understand? He couldnât have done it.â

She spoke with authority, her eyes commanded Lindaâs acquiescence. The girl uttered a long fluttering sigh.

Rosamund said:

âYouâll be able to leave here soon. Youâll forget everythingâeverything!â

Linda said with sudden unexpected violence.

âI shall never forget.â

She turned abruptly and ran back to the hotel. Rosamund stared after her.

III

âThere is something I want to know, Madame?â

Christine Redfern glanced up at Poirot in a slightly abstracted manner. She said:

âYes?â

Hercule Poirot took very little notice of her abstraction. He had noted the way her eyes followed her husbandâs figure where he was pacing up and down on the terrace outside the bar, but for the moment he had no interest in purely conjugal problems. He wanted information.

He said:

âYes, Madame. It was a phraseâa chance phrase of yours the other day which roused my attention.â

Christine, her eyes still on Patrick, said:

âYes? What did I say?â

âIt was in answer to a question from the Chief Constable. You described how you went into Miss Linda Marshallâs room on the morning of the crime and how you found her absent from it and how she returned there, and it was then that the Chief Constable asked you where she had been.â

Christine said rather impatiently:

âAnd I said she had been bathing? Is that it?â

âAh, but you did not say quite that. You did not say âshe had been bathing.â Your words were, âshe said she had been bathing.ââ

Christine said:

âItâs the same thing, surely.â

âNo, it is not the same! The form of your answer suggests a certain attitude of mind on your part. Linda Marshall came into the roomâshe was wearing a bathing wrap and yetâfor some reasonâyou did not at once assume she had been bathing. That is shown by your words, âshe said she had been bathing.â What was there about her appearanceâwas it her manner, or something that she was wearing or something she saidâthat led you to feel surprised when she said she had been bathing?â

Christineâs attention left Patrick and focused itself entirely on Poirot. She was interested. She said:

âThatâs clever of you. Itâs quite true, now I rememberâ¦ I was, just faintly, surprised when Linda said she had been bathing.â

âBut why, Madame, why?â

âYes, why? Thatâs just what Iâm trying to remember. Oh yes, I think it was the parcel in her hand.â

âShe had a parcel?â

âYes.â

âYou do not know what was in it?â

âOh yes, I do. The string broke. It was loosely done up in the way they do in the village. It was candlesâthey were scattered on the floor. I helped her to pick them up.â

âAh,â said Poirot. âCandles.â

Christine stared at him. She said:

âYou seem excited, M. Poirot.â

Poirot asked:

âDid Linda say why she had bought candles?â

Christine reflected.

âNo, I donât think she did. I suppose it was to read by at nightâperhaps the electric light wasnât good.â

âOn the contrary, Madame, there was a bedside electric lamp in perfect order.â

Christine said:

âThen I donât know what she wanted them for.â

Poirot said:

âWhat was her mannerâwhen the string broke and the candles fell out of the parcel?â

Christine said slowly:

âShe wasâupsetâembarrassed.â

Poirot nodded his head. Then he asked:

âDid you notice a calendar in her room?â

âA calendar? What kind of a calendar?â

Poirot said:

âPossibly a green calendarâwith tear-off leaves.â

Christine screwed up her eyes in an effort of memory.

âA green calendarârather a bright green. Yes, I have seen a calendar like thatâbut I canât remember where. It may have been in Lindaâs room, but I canât be sure.â

âBut you have definitely seen such a thing.â

âYes.â

Again Poirot nodded.

Christine said rather sharply:

âWhat are you hinting at, M. Poirot? What is the meaning of all this?â

For answer Poirot produced a small volume bound in faded brown calf. He said:

âHave you ever seen this before?â

âWhyâI thinkâIâm not sureâyes, Linda was looking into it in the village lending library the other day. But she shut it up and thrust it back quickly when I came up to her. It made me wonder what it was.â

Silently Poirot displayed the title.

A History of Witchcraft, Sorcery and of the Compounding of Untraceable Poisons.

Christine said:

âI donât understand. What does all this mean?â

Poirot said gravely.

âIt may mean, Madame, a good deal.â

She looked at him inquiringly, but he did not go on. Instead he asked:

âOne more question, Madame, did you take a bath that morning before you went out to play tennis?â

Christine stared again.

âA bath? No. I would have had no time and, anyway, I didnât want a bathânot before tennis. I might have had one after.â

âDid you use your bathroom at all when you came in?â

âI sponged my face and hands, thatâs all.â

âYou did not turn on the bath at all?â

âNo, Iâm sure I didnât.â

Poirot nodded. He said:

âIt is of no importance.â

IV

Hercule Poirot stood by the table where Mrs. Gardener was wrestling with a jig-saw. She looked up and jumped.

âWhy, M. Poirot, how very quietly you came up beside me! I never heard you. Have you just come back from the inquest? You know, the very thought of that inquest makes me so nervous, I donât know what to do. Thatâs why Iâm doing this puzzle. I just felt I couldnât sit outside on the beach as usual. As Mr. Gardener knows, when my nerves are all upset, thereâs nothing like one of these puzzles for calming me. There now, where does this white piece fit in? It must be part of the fur rug, but I donât seem to seeâ¦.â

Gently Poirotâs hand took the piece from her. He said:

âIt fits, Madame, here. It is part of the cat.â

âIt canât be. Itâs a black cat.â

âA black cat, yes, but you see the tip of the black catâs tail happens to be white.â

âWhy, so it does! How clever of you! But I do think the people who make puzzles are kind of mean. They just go out of their way to deceive you.â

She fitted in another piece and then resumed.

âYou know, M. Poirot, Iâve been watching you this last day or two. I just wanted to watch you detecting if you know what I meanânot that it doesnât sound rather heartless put like that, as though it were all a gameâand a poor creature killed. Oh dear, every time I think of it I get the shivers! I told Mr. Gardener this morning Iâd just got to get away from here, and now the inquestâs over he thinks weâll be able to leave tomorrow, and thatâs a blessing, Iâm sure. But about detecting, I would so like to know your methodsâyou know, Iâd feel privileged if youâd just explain it to me.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âIt is a little like your puzzle, Madame. One assembles the pieces. It is like a mosaicâmany colours and patternsâand every strange-shaped little piece must be fitted into its own place.â

âNow isnât that interesting? Why, Iâm sure you explain it just too beautifully.â

Poirot went on:

âAnd sometimes it is like that piece of your puzzle just now. One arranges very methodically the pieces of the puzzleâone sorts the coloursâand then perhaps a piece of one colour that should fit in withâsay, the fur rug, fits in instead in a black catâs tail.â

âWhy, if that doesnât sound too fascinating! And are there a great many pieces, M. Poirot?â

âYes, Madame. Almost everyone here in this hotel has given me a piece for my puzzle. You amongst them.â

âMe?â Mrs. Gardenerâs tone was shrill.

âYes, a remark of yours, Madame, was exceedingly helpful. I might say it was illuminating.â

âWell, if that isnât too lovely! Canât you tell me some more, M. Poirot?â

âAh! Madame, I reserve the explanations for the last chapter.â

Mrs. Gardener murmured:

âIf that isnât just too bad!â

V

Hercule Poirot tapped gently on the door of Captain Marshallâs room. Inside there was the sound of a typewriter.

A curt âCome inâ came from the room and Poirot entered.

Captain Marshallâs back was turned to him. He was sitting typing at the table between the windows. He did not turn his head but his eyes met Poirotâs in the mirror that hung on the wall directly in front of him. He said irritably:

âWell, M. Poirot, what is it?â

Poirot said quickly:

âA thousand apologies for intruding. You are busy?â

Marshall said shortly: âI am rather.â

Poirot said:

âIt is one little question that I would like to ask you.â

Marshall said:

âMy God, Iâm sick of answering questions. Iâve answered the police questions. I donât feel called upon to answer yours.â

Poirot said:

âMine is a very simple one. Only this. On the morning of your wifeâs death, did you have a bath after you finished typing and before you went out to play tennis?â

âA bath? No, of course I didnât! Iâd had a bathe only an hour earlier!â

Hercule Poirot said:

âThank you. That is all.â

âBut look here. Ohââ the other paused irresolutely.

Poirot withdrew, gently closing the door.

Kenneth Marshall said:

âThe fellowâs crazy!â

VI

Just outside the bar Poirot encountered Mr. Gardener. He was carrying two cocktails and was clearly on his way to where Mrs. Gardener was ensconced with her jig-saw.

He smiled at Poirot in genial fashion.

âCare to join us, M. Poirot?â

Poirot shook his head. He said:

âWhat did you think of the inquest, Mr. Gardener?â

Mr. Gardener lowered his voice. He said:

âSeemed kind of indeterminate to me. Your police, I gather, have got something up their sleeves.â

âIt is possible,â said Hercule Poirot.

Mr. Gardener lowered his voice still further.

âI shall be glad to get Mrs. Gardener away. Sheâs a very, very sensitive woman, and this affair has got on her nerves. Sheâs very highly strung.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âWill you permit me, Mr. Gardener, to ask you one question?â

âWhy, certainly, M. Poirot. Delighted to assist in any way I can.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âYou are a man of the worldâa man, I think, of considerable acumen. What, frankly, was your opinion of the late Mrs. Marshall?â

Mr. Gardenerâs eyebrows rose in surprise. He glanced cautiously round and lowered his voice.

âWell, M. Poirot, Iâve heard a few things that have been kind of going around, if you get me, especially among the women.â Poirot nodded. âBut if you ask me Iâll tell you my candid opinion and that is that that woman was pretty much of a darned fool!â

Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully:

âNow that is very interesting.â

VII

Rosamund Darnley said: âSo itâs my turn, is it?â

âPardon?â

She laughed.

âThe other day the Chief Constable held this inquisition. You sat by. Today, I think, you are conducting your own unofficial inquiry. Iâve been watching you. First Mrs. Redfern, then I caught a glimpse of you through the lounge window where Mrs. Gardener is doing her hateful jig-saw puzzle. Now itâs my turn.â

Hercule Poirot sat down beside her. They were on Sunny Ledge. Below them the sea showed a deep-glowing green. Farther out it was a pale dazzling blue.

Poirot said:

âYou are very intelligent, Mademoiselle. I have thought so ever since I arrived here. It would be a pleasure to discuss this business with you.â

Rosamund Darnley said softly:

âYou want to know what I think about the whole thing?â

âIt would be most interesting.â

Rosamund said:

âI think itâs really very simple. The clue is in the womanâs past.â

âThe past? Not the present?â

âOh! not necessarily the very remote past. I look at it like this. Arlena Marshall was attractive, fatally attractive, to men. Itâs possible, I think, that she also tired of them rather quickly. Amongst herâfollowers, shall we sayâwas one who resented that. Oh, donât misunderstand me, it wonât be someone who sticks out a mile. Probably some tepid little man, vain and sensitiveâthe kind of man who broods. I think he followed her down here, waited his opportunity and killed her.â

âYou mean that he was an outsider, that he came from the mainland?â

âYes. He probably hid in that cave until he got his chance.â

Poirot shook his head. He said:

âWould she go there to meet such a man as you describe? No, she would laugh and not go.â

Rosamund said:

âShe maynât have known she was going to meet him. He may have sent her a message in some other personâs name.â

Poirot murmured:

âThat is possible.â

Then he said:

âBut you forget one thing, Mademoiselle. A man bent on murder could not risk coming in broad daylight across the causeway and past the hotel. Someone might have seen him.â

âThey might haveâbut I donât think that itâs certain. I think itâs quite possible that he could have come without anyone noticing him at all.â

âIt would be possible, yes, that I grant you. But the point is that he could not count on that possibility.â

Rosamund said:

âArenât you forgetting something? The weather.â

âThe weather?â

âYes. The day of the murder was a glorious day, but the day before, remember, there was rain and thick mist. Anyone could come on to the island then without being seen. He had only to go down to the beach and spend the night in the cave. That mist, M. Poirot, is important.â

Poirot looked at her thoughtfully for a minute or two. He said:

âYou know, there is a good deal in what you have just said.â

Rosamund flushed. She said:

âThatâs my theory, for what it is worth. Now tell me yours.â

âAh,â said Hercule Poirot. He stared down at the sea.

âEh bien, Mademoiselle. I am a very simple person. I always incline to the belief that the most likely person committed the crime. At the very beginning it seemed to me that one person was very clearly indicated.â

Rosamundâs voice hardened a little. She said:

âGo on.â

Hercule Poirot went on.

âBut you see, there is what you call a snag in the way! It seems that it was impossible for that person to have committed the crime.â

He heard the quick expulsion of her breath. She said rather breathlessly:

âWell?â

Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âWell, what do we do about it? That is my problem.â He paused and then went on. âMay I ask you a question?â

âCertainly.â

She faced him, alert and vigilant. But the question that came was an unexpected one.

âWhen you came in to change for tennis that morning, did you have a bath?â

Rosamund stared at him.

âA bath? What do you mean?â

âThat is what I mean. A bath! The receptacle of porcelain, one turns the taps and fills it, one gets in, one gets out and ghooshâghooshâghoosh, the water goes down the waste pipe!â

âM. Poirot, are you quite mad?â

âNo, I am extremely sane.â

âWell, anyway, I didnât take a bath.â

âHa!â said Poirot. âSo nobody took a bath. That is extremely interesting.â

âBut why should anyone take a bath?â

Hercule Poirot said: âWhy, indeed?â

Rosamund said with some exasperation:

âI suppose this is the Sherlock Holmes touch!â

Hercule Poirot smiled.

Then he sniffed the air delicately.

âWill you permit me to be impertinent, Mademoiselle?â

âIâm sure you couldnât be impertinent, M. Poirot.â

âThat is very kind of you. Then may I venture to say that the scent you use is deliciousâit has a nuanceâa delicate elusive charm.â He waved his hands, and then added in a practical voice, âGabrielle, No. 8, I think?â

âHow clever you are. Yes, I always use it.â

âSo did the late Mrs. Marshall. It is chic, eh? And very expensive?â

Rosamund shrugged her shoulders with a faint smile.

Poirot said:

âYou sat here where we are now, Mademoiselle, on the morning of the crime. You were seen here, or at least your sunshade was seen by Miss Brewster and Mr. Redfern as they passed on the sea. During the morning, Mademoiselle, are you sure you did not happen to go down to Pixy Cove and enter the cave thereâthe famous Pixyâs Cave?â

Rosamund turned her head and stared at him.

She said in a quiet level voice:

âAre you asking me if I killed Arlena Marshall?â

âNo, I am asking you if you went into the Pixyâs Cave?â

âI donât even know where it is. Why should I go into it? For what reason?â

âOn the day of the crime, Mademoiselle, somebody had been in that cave who used Gabrielle No 8.â

Rosamund said sharply:

âYouâve just said yourself, M. Poirot, that Arlena Marshall used Gabrielle No. 8. She was on the beach there that day. Presumably she went into the cave.â

âWhy should she go into the cave? It is dark there and narrow and very uncomfortable.â

Rosamund said impatiently:

âDonât ask me for reasons. Since she was actually at the cove she was by far the most likely person. Iâve told you already I never left this place the whole morning.â

âExcept for the time when you went into the hotel to Captain Marshallâs room.â Poirot reminded her.

âYes, of course. Iâd forgotten that.â

Poirot said:

âAnd you were wrong, Mademoiselle, when you thought that Captain Marshall did not see you.â

Rosamund said incredulously:

âKenneth did see me? Didâdid he say so?â

Poirot nodded.

âHe saw you, Mademoiselle, in the mirror that hangs over the table.â

Rosamund caught her breath. She said:

âOh! I see.â

Poirot was no longer looking out to sea. He was looking at Rosamund Darnleyâs hands as they lay folded in her lap. They were well-shaped hands, beautifully moulded with very long fingers.

Rosamund, shooting a quick look at him, followed the direction of his eyes. She said sharply:

âWhat are you looking at my hands for? Do you thinkâdo you thinkâ?â

Poirot said:

âDo I thinkâwhat, Mademoiselle?â

Rosamund Darnley said:

âNothing.â

VIII

It was perhaps an hour later that Hercule Poirot came to the top of the path leading to Gull Cove. There was someone sitting on the beach. A slight figure in a red shirt and dark blue shorts.

Poirot descended the path, stepping carefully in his tight smart shoes.

Linda Marshall turned her head sharply. He thought that she shrank a little.

Her eyes, as he came and lowered himself gingerly to the shingle beside her, rested on him with the suspicion and alertness of a trapped animal. He realized, with a pang, how young and vulnerable she was.

She said:

âWhat is it? What do you want?â

Hercule Poirot did not answer for a minute or two. Then he said:

âThe other day you told the Chief Constable that you were fond of your stepmother and that she was kind to you.â

âWell?â

âThat was not true, was it, Mademoiselle?â

âYes, it was.â

Poirot said:

âShe may not have been actively unkindâthat I will grant. But you were not fond of herâOh noâI think you disliked her very much. That was very plain to see.â

Linda said:

âPerhaps I didnât like her very much. But one canât say that when a person is dead. It wouldnât be decent.â

Poirot sighed. He said:

âThey taught you that at your school?â

âMore or less, I suppose.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âWhen a person has been murdered, it is more important to be truthful than to be decent.â

Linda said:

âI suppose you would say a thing like that.â

âI would say it and I do say it. It is my business, you see, to find out who killed Arlena Marshall.â

Linda muttered:

âI want to forget it all. Itâs so horrible.â

Poirot said gently:

âBut you canât forget, can you?â

Linda said:

âI suppose some beastly madman killed her.â

Hercule Poirot murmured:

âNo, I do not think it was quite like that.â

Linda caught her breath. She said:

âYou soundâas though you knew?â

Poirot said:

âPerhaps I do know.â He paused and went on: âWill you trust me, my child, to do the best I can for you in your bitter trouble?â

Linda sprang up. She said:

âI havenât any trouble. There is nothing you can do for me. I donât know what you are talking about.â

Poirot said, watching her:

âI am talking about candlesâ¦.â

He saw the terror leap into her eyes. She cried:

âI wonât listen to you. I wonât listen.â

She ran across the beach, swift as a young gazelle and went flying up the zigzag path.

Poirot shook his head. He looked grave and troubled.

Eleven

Inspector Colgate was reporting to the Chief Constable.

âIâve got on to one thing, sir, and something pretty sensational. Itâs about Mrs. Marshallâs money. Iâve been into it with her lawyers. Iâd say itâs a bit of a shock to them. Iâve got proof of the blackmail story. You remember she was left fifty thousand pounds by old Erskine? Well, all thatâs left of that is about fifteen thousand.â

The Chief Constable whistled.

âWhew, whatâs become of the rest?â

âThatâs the interesting point, sir. Sheâs sold out stuff from time to time, and each time sheâs handled it in cash or negotiable securitiesâthatâs to say sheâs handed out money to someone that she didnât want traced. Blackmail all right.â

The Chief Constable nodded.

âCertainly looks like it. And the blackmailer is here in this hotel. That means it must be one of those three men. Got anything fresh on any of them?â

âCanât say Iâve got anything definite, sir. Major Barryâs a retired Army man, as he says. Lives in a small flat, has a pension and a small income from stocks. But heâs paid in pretty considerable sums into his account in the last year.â

âThat sounds promising. Whatâs his explanation?â

âSays theyâre betting gains. Itâs perfectly true that he goes to all the large race meetings. Places his bets on the course too, doesnât run an account.â

The Chief Constable nodded.

âHard to disprove that,â he said. âBut itâs suggestive.â

Colgate went on.

âNext, the Reverend Stephen Lane. Heâs bona fide all rightâhad a living at St. Helenâs, Whiteridge, Surreyâresigned his living just over a year ago owing to ill health. His ill health amounted to his going into a nursing home for mental patients. He was there for over a year.â

âInteresting,â said Weston.

âYes, sir. I tried to get as much as I could out of the doctor in charge but you know what these medicos areâitâs difficult to pin them down to anything you can get hold of. But as far as I can make out, his reverenceâs trouble was an obsession about the devilâespecially the devil in the guise of a womanâscarlet womanâwhore of Babylon.â

âHâm,â said Weston. âThere have been precedents for murder there.â

âYes, sir. It seems to me that Stephen Lane is at least a possibility. The late Mrs. Marshall was a pretty good example of what a clergyman would call a Scarlet Womanâhair and goings on and all. Seems to me itâs not impossible he may have felt it his appointed task to dispose of her. That is if he is really batty.â

âNothing to fit in with the blackmail theory?â

âNo, sir, I think we can wash him out as far as thatâs concerned. Has some private means of his own, but not very much, and no sudden increase lately.â

âWhat about his story of his movements on the day of the crime?â

âCanât get any confirmation of them. Nobody remembers meeting a parson in the lanes. As to the book at the church, the last entry was three days before and nobody had looked at it for about a fortnight. He could have quite easily gone over the day before, say, or even a couple of days before, and dated his entry the 25th.â

Weston nodded. He said:

âAnd the third man?â

âHorace Blatt? Itâs my opinion, sir, that thereâs definitely something fishy there. Pays income tax on a sum far exceeding what he makes out of his hardware business. And mind you, heâs a slippery customer. He could probably cook up a reasonable statementâhe gambles a bit on the Stock Exchange, and heâs in with one or two shady deals. Oh, yes, there may be plausible explanations, but thereâs no getting away from it that heâs been making pretty big sums from unexplained sources for some years now.â

âIn fact,â said Weston, âthe idea is that Mr. Horace Blatt is a successful blackmailer by profession?â

âEither that, sir, or itâs dope. I saw Chief Inspector Ridgeway whoâs in charge of the dope business, and he was no end keen. Seems thereâs been a good bit of heroin coming in lately. Theyâre on to the small distributors, and they know more or less whoâs running it the other end, but itâs the way itâs coming into the country thatâs baffled them so far.â

Weston said:

âIf the Marshall womanâs death is the result of her getting mixed-up, innocently or otherwise, with the dope-running stunt, then weâd better hand the whole thing over to Scotland Yard. Itâs their pigeon. Eh? What do you say?â

Inspector Colgate said rather regretfully:

âIâm afraid youâre right, sir. If itâs dope, then itâs a case for the Yard.â

Weston said after a moment or twoâs thought:

âIt really seems the most likely explanation.â

Colgate nodded gloomily.

âYes, it does. Marshallâs right out of itâthough I did get some information that might have been useful if his alibi hadnât been so good. Seems his firm is very near the rocks. Not his fault or his partnerâs, just the general result of the crisis last year and the general state of trade and finance. And as far as he knew, heâd come into fifty thousand pounds if his wife died. And fifty thousand would have been a very useful sum.â

He sighed.

âSeems a pity when a manâs got two perfectly good motives for murder, that he can be proved to have had nothing to do with it!â

Weston smiled.

âCheer up, Colgate. Thereâs still a chance we may distinguish ourselves. Thereâs the blackmail angle still and thereâs the batty parson, but, personally, I think the dope solution is far the most likely.â He added: âAnd if it was one of the dope gang who put her out weâll have been instrumental in helping Scotland Yard to solve the dope problem. In fact, take it all round, one way or another, weâve done pretty well.â

An unwilling smile showed on Colgateâs face.

He said:

âWell, thatâs the lot, sir. By the way, I checked up on the writer of that letter we found in her room. The one signed J.N. Nothing doing. Heâs in China safe enough. Same chap as Miss Brewster was telling us about. Bit of a young scallywag. Iâve checked up on the rest of Mrs. Marshallâs friends. No leads there. Everything there is to get, weâve got, sir.â

Weston said:

âSo now itâs up to us.â He paused and then added: âSeen anything of our Belgian colleague? Does he know all youâve told me?â

Colgate said with a grin:

âHeâs a queer little cuss, isnât he? Dâyou know what he asked me day before yesterday? He wanted particulars of any cases of strangulation in the last three years.â

Colonel Weston sat up.

âHe did, did he? Now I wonderââ he paused a minute. âWhen did you say the Reverend Stephen Lane went into that mental home?â

âA year ago last Easter, sir.â

Colonel Weston was thinking deeply. He said:

âThere was a caseâbody of a young woman found somewhere near Bagshot. Going to meet her husband somewhere and never turned up. And there was what the papers called the Lonely Copse Mystery. Both in Surrey if I remember rightly.â

His eyes met those of his Inspector. Colgate said:

âSurrey? My word, sir, it fits, doesnât it? I wonderâ¦.â

II

Hercule Poirot sat on the turf on the summit of the island.

A little to his left was the beginning of the steel ladder that led down to Pixy Cove. There were several rough boulders near the head of the ladder, he noted, forming easy concealment for anyone who proposed to descend to the beach below. Of the beach itself little could be seen from the top owing to the overhang of the cliff.

Hercule Poirot nodded his head gravely.

The pieces of his jig-saw were fitting into position.

Mentally he went over those pieces, considering each as a detached item.

A morning on the bathing beach some few days before Arlena Marshallâs death.

One, two, three, four, five separate remarks uttered on that morning.

The evening of a bridge game. He, Patrick Redfern and Rosamund Darnley had been at the table. Christine had wandered out while dummy and had overheard a certain conversation. Who else had been in the lounge at that time? Who had been absent?

The evening before the crime. The conversation he had had with Christine on the cliff and the scene he had witnessed on his way back to the hotel.

Gabrielle No. 8.

A pair of scissors.

A broken pipe stem.

A bottle thrown from a window.

A green calendar.

A packet of candles.

A mirror and a typewriter.

A skein of magenta wool.

A girlâs wristwatch.

Bathwater rushing down the waste pipe.

Each of these unrelated facts must fit into its appointed place. There must be no loose ends.

And then, with each concrete fact fitted into position, on to the next stop: his own belief in the presence of evil on the island.

Evilâ¦

He looked down at a typewritten paper in his hands.

Nellie Parsonsâfound strangled in a lonely copse near Chobham. No clue to her murderer ever discovered.

Nellie Parsons?

Alice Corrigan.

He read very carefully the details of Alice Corriganâs death.

III

To Hercule Poirot, sitting on the ledge overlooking the sea, came Inspector Colgate.

Poirot liked Inspector Colgate. He liked his rugged face, his shrewd eyes, and his slow unhurried manner.

Inspector Colgate sat down. He said, glancing down at the typewritten sheets in Poirotâs hand:

âDone anything with those cases, sir?â

âI have studied themâyes.â

Colgate got up, he walked along and peered into the next niche. He came back, saying:

âOne canât be too careful. Donât want to be overheard.â

Poirot said:

âYou are wise.â

Colgate said:

âI donât mind telling you, M. Poirot, that Iâve been interested in those cases myselfâthough perhaps I shouldnât have thought about them if you hadnât asked for them.â He paused: âIâve been interested in one case in particular.â

âAlice Corrigan?â

âAlice Corrigan.â He paused. âIâve been on to the Surrey police about that caseâwanted to get all the ins and outs of it.â

âTell me, my friend. I am interestedâvery interested.â

âI thought you might be. Alice Corrigan was found strangled in Caesarâs Grove on Blackridge Heathânot ten miles from Marley Copse where Nellie Parsons was foundâand both those places are within twelve miles of Whiteridge where Mr. Lane was vicar.â

Poirot said:

âTell me more about the death of Alice Corrigan.â

Colgate said:

âThe Surrey police didnât at first connect her death with that of Nellie Parsons. Thatâs because theyâd pitched on the husband as the guilty party. Donât quite know why except that he was a bit of what the Press calls a âmystery manâânot much known about himâwho he was or where he came from. Sheâd married him against her peopleâs wishes, sheâd a bit of money of her ownâand sheâd insured her life in his favourâall that was enough to raise suspicion, as I think youâll agree, sir?â

Poirot nodded.

âBut when it came down to brass tacks the husband was washed right out of the picture. The body was discovered by one of these women hikersâhefty young women in shorts. She was an absolutely competent and reliable witnessâgames mistress at a school in Lancashire. She noted the time when she found the bodyâit was exactly four-fifteenâand gave it as her opinion that the woman had been dead quite a short timeânot more than ten minutes. That fitted in well enough with the police surgeonâs view when he examined the body at 5:45. She left everything as it was and tramped across country to Bagshot police station where she reported the death. Now from three oâclock to four-ten, Edward Corrigan was in the train coming down from London where heâd gone up for the day on business. Four other people were in the carriage with him. From the station he took the local bus, two of his fellow passengers travelling by it also. He got off at the Pine Ridge CafÃ© where heâd arranged to meet his wife for tea. Time then was four twenty-five. He ordered tea for them both, but said not to bring it till she came. Then he walked about outside waiting for her. When, by five oâclock she hadnât turned up, he was getting alarmedâthought she might have sprained her ankle. The arrangement was that she was to walk across the moors from the village where they were staying to the Pine Ridge CafÃ© and go home by bus. Caesarâs Grove is not far from the cafÃ©, and itâs thought that as she was ahead of time she sat down there to admire the view for a bit before going on, and that some tramp or madman came upon her there and caught her unawares. Once the husband was proved to be out of it, naturally they connected up her death with that of Nellie Parsonsâthat rather flighty servant girl who was found strangled in Marley Copse. They decided that the same man was responsible for both crimes, but they never caught himâand whatâs more they never came near to catching him! Drew a blank everywhere.â

He paused and then he said slowly:

âAnd nowâhereâs a third woman strangledâand a certain gentleman we wonât name right on the spot.â

He stopped.

His small shrewd eyes came round to Poirot. He waited hopefully.

Poirotâs lips moved. Inspector Colgate leaned forward.

Poirot was murmuring:

ââso difficult to know which pieces are part of the fur rug and which are the catâs tail.â

âI beg pardon, sir?â said Inspector Colgate, startled.

Poirot said quickly:

âI apologize. I was following a train of thought of my own.â

âWhatâs this about a fur rug and a cat?â

âNothingânothing at all.â He paused. âTell me, Inspector Colgate, if you suspected someone of telling liesâmany, many lies but you had no proof, what would you do?â

Inspector Colgate considered.

âItâs difficult, that is. But itâs my opinion that if anyone tells enough lies, theyâre bound to trip up in the end.â

Poirot nodded.

âYes, that is very true. You see, it is only in my mind that certain statements are lies. I think that they are lies, but I cannot know that they are lies. But one might perhaps make a testâa test of one little not very noticeable lie. And if that were proved to be a lieâwhy then, one would know that all the rest were lies, too!â

Inspector Colgate looked at him curiously.

âYour mind works a funny way, doesnât it, sir? But I dare say it comes out all right in the end. If youâll excuse me asking, what put you on to asking about strangulation cases in general?â

Poirot said slowly:

âYou have a word in your languageâslick. This crime seemed to me a very slick crime! It made me wonder if, perhaps, it was not a first attempt.â

Inspector Colgate said:

âI see.â

Poirot went on:

âI said to myself, let us examine past crimes of a similar kind and if there is a crime that closely resembles this oneâeh bien, we shall have there a very valuable clue.â

âYou mean using the same method of death, sir?â

âNo, no, I mean more than that. The death of Nellie Parsons for instance tells me nothing. But the death of Alice Corriganâtell me, Inspector Colgate, do you not notice one striking form of similarity in this crime?â

Inspector Colgate turned the problem over in his mind. He said at last.

âNo, sir, I canât say that I do really. Unless itâs that in each case the husband has got a cast-iron alibi.â

Poirot said softly:

âAh, so you have noticed that?â

IV

âHa, Poirot. Glad to see you. Come in. Just the man I want.â

Hercule Poirot responded to the invitation.

The Chief Constable pushed over a box of cigarettes, took one himself and lighted it. Between puffs he said:

âIâve decided, more or less, on a course of action. But Iâd like your opinion on it before I act decisively.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âTell me, my friend.â

Weston said:

âIâve decided to call in Scotland Yard and hand the case over to them. In my opinion, although there have been grounds for suspicion against one or two people, the whole case hinges on dope smuggling. It seems clear to me that that place, Pixyâs Cave, was a definite rendezvous for the stuff.â

Poirot nodded.

âI agree.â

âGood man. And Iâm pretty certain who our dope smuggler is. Horace Blatt.â

Again Poirot assented. He said:

âThat, too, is indicated.â

âI see our minds have both worked the same way. Blatt used to go sailing in that boat of his. Sometimes heâd invite people to go with him, but most of the time he went out alone. He had some rather conspicuous red sails on that boat, but weâve found that he had some white sails as well stowed away. I think he sailed out on a good day to an appointed spot, and was met by another boatâsailing boat or motor yachtâsomething of the kind and the stuff was handed over. Then Blatt would run ashore into Pixy Cove at a suitable time of dayââ

Hercule Poirot smiled:

âYes, yes, at half past one. The hour of the British lunch when everyone is quite sure to be in the dining room. The island is private. It is not a place where outsiders come for picnics. People take their tea sometimes from the hotel to Pixy Cove in the afternoon when the sun is on it, or if they want a picnic they would go somewhere far afield, many miles away.â

The Chief Constable nodded.

âQuite,â he said. âTherefore, Blatt ran ashore there and stowed the stuff on that ledge in the cave. Somebody else was to pick it up there in due course.â

Poirot murmured:

âThere was a couple, you remember, who came to the island for lunch on the day of the murder? That would be a way of getting the stuff. Some summer visitors from a hotel on the Moor or at St. Loo come over to Smugglersâ Island. They announce that they will have lunch. They walk round the island first. How easy to descend to the beach, pick up the sandwich box, place it, no doubt, in Madameâs bathing bag which she carriesâand return for lunch to the hotelâa little late, perhaps, say at ten minutes to two, having enjoyed their walk whilst everyone else was in the dining room.â

Weston said:

âYes, it all sounds practicable enough. Now these dope organizations are pretty ruthless. If any one blundered in and got wise to things they wouldnât make any bones about silencing that person. It seems to me that that is the right explanation of Arlena Marshallâs death. Itâs possible that on that morning Blatt was actually at the cove stowing the stuff away. His accomplices were to come for it that very day. Arlena arrives on her float and sees him going into the cave with the box. She asks him about it and he kills her then and there and sheers off in his boat as quick as possible.â

Poirot said:

âYou think definitely that Blatt is the murderer?â

âIt seems the most probable solution. Of course itâs possible that Arlena might have got on to the truth earlier, said something to Blatt about it, and some other member of the gang fixed a fake appointment with her and did her in. As I say, I think the best course is to hand the case over to Scotland Yard. Theyâve a far better chance than we have of proving Blattâs connection with the gang.â

Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

Weston said:

âYou think thatâs the wise thing to doâeh?â

Poirot was thoughtful. He said at last: âIt may be.â

âDash it all, Poirot, have you got something up your sleeve, or havenât you?â

Poirot said gravely:

âIf I have, I am not sure that I can prove it.â

Weston said:

âOf course, I know that you and Colgate have other ideas. Seems a bit fantastic to me, but Iâm bound to admit there may be something in it. But even if youâre right. I still think itâs a case for the Yard. Weâll give them the facts and they can work in with the Surrey police. What I feel is that it isnât really a case for us. Itâs not sufficiently localized.â

He paused.

âWhat do you think, Poirot? What do you feel ought to be done about it?â

Poirot seemed lost in thought. At last he said:

âI know what I should like to do.â

âYes, man.â

Poirot murmured:

âI should like to go for a picnic.â

Colonel Weston stared at him.

Twelve

âA picnic, M. Poirot?â

Emily Brewster stared at him as though he were out of his senses.

Poirot said engagingly:

âIt sounds to you, does it not, very outrageous? But indeed it seems to me a most admirable idea. We need something of the every day, the usual, to restore life to the normal. I am most anxious to see something of Dartmoor, the weather is good. It willâhow shall I say, it will cheer everybody up! So aid me in this matter. Persuade everyone.â

The idea met with unexpected success. Everyone was at first dubious and then grudgingly admitted it might not be such a bad idea after all.

It was not suggested that Captain Marshall should be asked. He had himself announced that he had to go to Plymouth that day. Mr. Blatt was of the party, enthusiastically so. He was determined to be the life and soul of it. Besides him there was Emily Brewster, the Redferns, Stephen Lane, the Gardeners, who were persuaded to delay their departure by one day, Rosamund Darnley and Linda.

Poirot had been eloquent to Rosamund and had dwelt on the advantage it would be to Linda to have something to take her out of herself. To this Rosamund agreed. She said:

âYouâre quite right. The shock has been very bad for a child of that age. It has made her terribly jumpy.â

âThat is only natural, Mademoiselle. But at any age one soon forgets. Persuade her to come. You can, I know.â

Major Barry had refused firmly. He said he didnât like picnics. âLots of baskets to carry,â he said. âAnd darned uncomfortable. Eating my food at a tableâs good enough for me.â

The party assembled at ten oâclock. Three cars had been ordered. Mr. Blatt was loud and cheerful, imitating a tourist guide.

âThis way, ladies and gentlemenâthis way for Dartmoor. Heather and bilberries, Devonshire cream and convicts. Bring your wives, gentlemen, or bring the other thing! Everyone welcome! Scenery guaranteed. Walk up. Walk up.â

At the last minute Rosamund Darnley came down looking concerned. She said:

âLindaâs not coming. She says sheâs got a frightful headache.â

Poirot cried:

âBut it will do her good to come. Persuade her, Mademoiselle.â

Rosamund said firmly:

âItâs no good. Sheâs absolutely determined. Iâve given her some aspirin and sheâs gone to bed.â

She hesitated and said:

âI think, perhaps, I wonât go, either.

âCanât allow that, dear lady, canât allow that,â cried Mr. Blatt, seizing her facetiously by the arm. âLa haute Mode must grace the occasion. No refusals! Iâve taken you into custody, ha, ha. Sentenced to Dartmoor.â

He led her firmly to the first car. Rosamund threw a black look at Hercule Poirot.

âIâll stay with Linda,â said Christine Redfern. âI donât mind a bit.â

Patrick said: âOh, come on, Christine.â

And Poirot said:

âNo, no, you must come, Madame. With a headache one is better alone. Come, let us start.â

The three cars drove off. They went first to the real Pixyâs Cave on Sheepstor, and had a good deal of fun looking for the entrance and at last finding it, aided by a picture postcard.

It was precarious going on the big boulders and Hercule Poirot did not attempt it. He watched indulgently while Christine Redfern sprang lightly from stone to stone and observed that her husband was never far from her. Rosamund Darnley and Emily Brewster had joined in the search though the latter slipped once and gave a slight twist to her ankle. Stephen Lane was indefatigable, his long lean figure turning and twisting among the boulders. Mr. Blatt contented himself with going a little way and shouting encouragement, also taking photographs of the searchers.

The Gardeners and Poirot remained staidly sitting by the wayside whilst Mrs. Gardenerâs voice upraised itself in a pleasant even-toned monologue, punctuated now and then by the obedient âYes, darlingsâ of her spouse.

ââand what I always have felt, M. Poirot, and Mr. Gardener agrees with me, is that snapshots can be very annoying. Unless, that is to say, they are taken among friends. That Mr. Blatt has just no sensitiveness of any kind. He just comes right up to everyone and talks away and takes pictures of you and, as I said to Mr. Gardener, that really is very ill-bred. Thatâs what I said, Odell, wasnât it?â

âYes, darling.â

âThat group he took of us all sitting on the beach. Well, thatâs all very well, but he should have asked first. As it was, Miss Brewster was just getting up from the beach, and it certainly makes her look a very peculiar shape.â

âIâll say it does,â said Mr. Gardener with a grin.

âAnd thereâs Mr. Blatt giving round copies to everybody without so much as asking first. He gave one to you, M. Poirot, I noticed.â

Poirot nodded. He said:

âI value that group very much.â

Mrs. Gardener went on:

âAnd look at his behaviour todayâso loud and noisy and common. Why, it just makes me shudder. You ought to have arranged to leave that man at home, M. Poirot.â

Hercule Poirot murmured:

âAlas, Madame, that would have been difficult.â

âI should say it would. That man just pushes his way in anywhere. Heâs just not sensitive at all.â

At this moment the discovery of the Pixyâs Cave was hailed from below with loud cries.

The party now drove on, under Hercule Poirotâs directions, to a spot where a short walk from the car down a hillside of heather led to a delightful spot by a small river.

A narrow plank bridge crossed the river and Poirot and her husband induced Mrs. Gardener to cross it to where a delightful heathery spot free from prickly furze looked an ideal spot for a picnic lunch.

Talking volubly about her sensations when crossing on a plank bridge Mrs. Gardener sank down. Suddenly there was a slight outcry.

The others had run across the bridge lightly enough, but Emily Brewster was standing in the middle of the plank, her eyes shut, swaying to and fro.

Poirot and Patrick Redfern rushed to the rescue.

Emily Brewster was gruff and ashamed.

âThanks, thanks. Sorry. Never was good at crossing running water. Get giddy. Stupid, very.â

Lunch was spread out and the picnic began.

All the people concerned were secretly surprised to find how much they enjoyed this interlude. It was, perhaps, because it afforded an escape from an atmosphere of suspicion and dread. Here, with the trickling of the water, the soft peaty smell in the air and the warm colouring of bracken and heather, a world of murder and police inquiries and suspicion seemed blotted out as though it had never existed. Even Mr. Blatt forgot to be the life and soul of the party. After lunch he went to sleep a little distance away and subdued snores testified to his blissful unconsciousness.

It was quite a grateful party of people who packed up the picnic baskets and congratulated Hercule Poirot on his good idea.

The sun was sinking as they returned along the narrow winding lanes. From the top of the hill above Leathercombe Bay they had a brief glimpse of the island with the white hotel on it.

It looked peaceful and innocent in the setting sun.

Mrs. Gardener, not loquacious for once, sighed and said:

âI really do thank you, M. Poirot. I feel so calm. Itâs just wonderful.â

II

Major Barry came out to greet them on arrival.

âHullo,â he said. âHad a good day?â

Mrs. Gardener said:

âIndeed we did. The moors were just too lovely for anything. So English and old world. And the air delicious and invigorating. You ought to be ashamed of yourself for being so lazy as to stay behind.â

The Major chuckled.

âIâm too old for that kind of thingâsitting on a patch of bog and eating sandwiches.â

A chambermaid had come out of the hotel. She was a little out of breath. She hesitated for a moment then came swiftly up to Christine Redfern.

Hercule Poirot recognized her as Gladyâs Narracott. Her voice came quick and uneven.

âExcuse me, Madam, but Iâm worried about the young lady. About Miss Marshall. I took her up some tea just now and I couldnât get her to wake, and she looks soâso queer somehow.â

Christine looked round helplessly. Poirot was at her side in a moment. His hand under her elbow he said quietly:

âWe will go up and see.â

They hurried up the stairs and along the passage to Lindaâs room.

One glance at her was enough to tell them both that something was very wrong. She was an odd colour and her breathing was hardly perceptible.

Poirotâs hand went to her pulse. At the same time he noticed an envelope stuck up against the lamp on the bedside table. It was addressed to himself.

Captain Marshall came quickly into the room. He said:

âWhatâs this about Linda? Whatâs the matter with her?â

A small frightened sob came from Christine Redfern.

Hercule Poirot turned from the bed. He said to Marshall:

âGet a doctorâas quick as you possibly can. But Iâm afraidâvery much afraidâit may be too late.â

He took the letter with his name on it and ripped open the envelope. Inside were a few lines of writing in Lindaâs prim schoolgirl hand.

I think this is the best way out. Ask Father to try and forgive me. I killed Arlena. I thought I should be gladâbut Iâm not. I am very sorry for everything.

III

They were assembled in the loungeâMarshall, the Redferns, Rosamund Darnley and Hercule Poirot.

They sat there silentâwaitingâ¦.

The door opened and Dr. Neasden came in. He said curtly:

âIâve done all I can. She may pull throughâbut Iâm bound to tell you that thereâs not much hope.â

He paused. Marshall, his face stiff, his eyes a cold frosty blue, asked:

âHow did she get hold of the stuff?â

Neasden opened the door again and beckoned.

The chambermaid came into the room. She had been crying:

Neasden said:

âJust tell us again what you saw.â

Sniffing, the girl said:

âI never thoughtâI never thought for a minute there was anything wrongâthough the young lady did seem rather strange about it.â A slight gesture of impatience from the doctor started her off again. âShe was in the other ladyâs room. Mrs. Redfernâs. Your room, Madam. Over at the washstand, and she took up a little bottle. She did give a bit of a jump when I came in, and I thought it was queer her taking things from your room, but then, of course, it might be something sheâd lent you. She just said: âOh, this is what Iâm looking forââ and went out.â

Christine said almost in a whisper.

âMy sleeping tablets.â

The doctor said brusquely:

âHow did she know about them?â

Christine said:

âI gave her one. The night after it happened. She told me she couldnât sleep. SheâI remember her sayingââWill one be enough?ââand I said, Oh yes, they were very strongâthat Iâd been cautioned never to take more than two at most.â Neasden nodded: âShe made pretty sure,â he said. âTook six of them.â

Christine sobbed again.

âOh dear, I feel itâs my fault. I should have kept them locked up.â

The doctor shrugged his shoulders.

âIt might have been wiser, Mrs. Redfern.â

Christine said despairingly:

âSheâs dyingâand itâs my faultâ¦.â

Kenneth Marshall stirred in his chair. He said:

âNo, you canât blame yourself. Linda knew what she was doing. She took them deliberately. Perhapsâperhaps it was best.â

He looked down at the crumpled note in his handâthe note that Poirot had silently handed to him.

Rosamund Darnley cried out.

âI donât believe it. I donât believe Linda killed her. Surely itâs impossibleâon the evidence!â

Christine said eagerly:

âYes, she canât have done it! She must have got overwrought and imagined it all.â

The door opened and Colonel Weston came in. He said:

âWhatâs all this I hear?â

Dr. Neasden took the note from Marshallâs hand and handed it to the Chief Constable. The latter read it. He exclaimed incredulously:

âWhat? But this is nonsenseâabsolute nonsense! Itâs impossible.â He repeated with assurance. âImpossible! Isnât it, Poirot?â

Hercule Poirot moved for the first time. He said in a slow sad voice:

âNo, Iâm afraid it is not impossible.â

Christine Redfern said:

âBut I was with her, M. Poirot. I was with her up to a quarter to twelve. I told the police so.â

Poirot said:

âYour evidence gave her an alibiâyes. But what was your evidence based on? It was based on Linda Marshallâs own wristwatch. You do not know of your own knowledge that it was a quarter to twelve when you left herâyou only know that she told you so. You said yourself the time seemed to have gone very fast.â

She stared at him, stricken.

He said:

âNow, think, Madame, when you left the beach, did you walk back to the hotel fast or slow?â

âIâwell, fairly slowly, I think.â

âDo you remember much about that walk back?â

âNot very much, Iâm afraid. IâI was thinking.â

Poirot said:

âI am sorry to ask you this, but will you tell just what you were thinking about during that walk?â

Christine flushed.

âI supposeâif it is necessaryâ¦ I was considering the question ofâof leaving here. Just going away without telling my husband. IâI was very unhappy just then, you see.â

Patrick Redfern cried:

âOh, Christine! I knowâ¦ I knowâ¦.â

Poirotâs precise voice cut in.

âExactly. You were concerned over taking a step of some importance. You were, I should say, deaf and blind to your surroundings. You probably walked very slowly and occasionally stopped for some minutes whilst you puzzled things out.â

Christine nodded.

âHow clever you are. It was just like that. I woke up from a kind of dream just outside the hotel and hurried in thinking I should be very late, but when I saw the clock in the lounge I realized I had plenty of time.â

Hercule Poirot said again:

âExactly.â

He turned to Marshall.

âI must now describe to you certain things I found in your daughterâs room after the murder. In the grate was a large blob of melted wax, some burnt hair, fragments of cardboard and paper and an ordinary household pin. The paper and the cardboard might not be relevant, but the other three things were suggestiveâparticularly when I found tucked away in the bookshelf a volume from the local library here dealing with witchcraft and magic. It opened very easily at a certain page. On that page were described various methods of causing death by moulding in was a figure supposed to represent the victim. This was then slowly roasted till it melted awayâor alternatively you would pierce the wax figure to the heart with a pin. Death of the victim would ensue. I later heard from Mrs. Redfern that Linda Marshall had been out early that morning and had bought a packet of candles, and had seemed embarrassed when her purchase was revealed. I had no doubt what had happened after that. Linda had made a crude figure of the candle waxâpossibly adorning it with a snip of Arlenaâs red hair to give the magic forceâhad then stabbed it to the heart with a pin and finally melted the figure away by lighting strips of cardboard under it.

âIt was crude, childish, superstitious, but it revealed one thing: the desire to kill.

âWas there any possibility that there had been more than a desire? Could Linda Marshall have actually killed her stepmother?

âAt first sight it seemed as though she had a perfect alibiâbut in actuality, as I have just pointed out, the time evidence was supplied by Linda herself. She could easily have declared the time to be a quarter of an hour later than it really was.

âIt was quite possible once Mrs. Redfern had left the beach for Linda to follow her up and then strike across the narrow neck of land to the ladder, hurry down it, meet her stepmother there, strangle her and return up the ladder before the boat containing Miss Brewster and Patrick Redfern came in sight. She could then return to Gull Cove, take her bathe and return to the hotel at her leisure.

âBut that entailed two things. She must have definite knowledge that Arlena Marshall would be at Pixy Cove and she must be physically capable of the deed.

âWell, the first was quite possibleâif Linda Marshall had written a note to Arlena herself in someone elseâs name. As to the second, Linda has very large strong hands. They are as large as a manâs. As to the strength, she is at the age when one is prone to be mentally unbalanced. Mental derangement often is accompanied by unusual strength. There was one other small point. Linda Marshallâs mother had actually been accused and tried for murder.â

Kenneth Marshall lifted his head. He said fiercely: âShe was also acquitted.â

âShe was acquitted,â Poirot agreed.

Marshall said:

âAnd Iâll tell you this, M. Poirot. Ruthâmy wifeâwas innocent. That I know with complete and absolute certainty. In the intimacy of our life I could not have been deceived. She was an innocent victim of circumstances.â

He paused.

âAnd I donât believe that Linda killed Arlena. Itâs ridiculousâabsurd!â

Poirot said:

âDo you believe that letter, then, to be a forgery?â

Marshall held out his hand for it and Weston gave it to him. Marshall studied it attentively. Then he shook his head.

âNo,â he said unwillingly. âI believe Linda did write this.â

Poirot said:

âThen if she wrote it, there are only two explanations. Either she wrote it in all good faith, knowing herself to be the murderess orâor, I sayâshe wrote it deliberately to shield someone else, someone whom she feared was suspected.â

Kenneth Marshall said:

âYou mean me?â

âIt is possible, is it not?â

Marshall considered for a moment or two, then he said quietly:

âNo, I think that idea is absurd. Linda may have realized that I was regarded with suspicion at first. But she knew definitely by now that that was over and done withâthat the police had accepted my alibi and turned their attention elsewhere.â

Poirot said:

âAnd supposing that it was not so much that she thought that you were suspected as that she knew you were guilty.â

Marshall stared at him. He gave a short laugh.

âThatâs absurd.â

Poirot said:

âI wonder. There are, you know, several possibilities about Mrs. Marshallâs death. There is the theory that she was being blackmailed, that she went that morning to meet the blackmailer and that the blackmailer killed her. There is the theory that Pixy Cove and Cave were being used for drug running, and that she was killed because she accidentally learned something about that. There is a third possibilityâthat she was killed by a religious maniac. And there is a fourth possibilityâyou stood to gain a lot of money by your wifeâs death, Captain Marshall?â

âIâve just told youââ

âYes, yesâI agree that it is impossible that you could have killed your wifeâif you were acting alone. But supposing someone helped you?â

âWhat the devil do you mean?â

The quiet man was roused at last. He half rose from his chair. His voice was menacing. There was a hard angry light in his eyes.

Poirot said:

âI mean that this is not a crime that was committed single-handed. Two people were in it. It is quite true that you could not have typed that letter and at the same time gone to the coveâbut there would have been time for you to have jotted down that letter in shorthandâand for someone else to have typed it in your room while you yourself were absent on your murderous errand.â

Hercule Poirot looked towards Rosamund Darnley. He said:

âMiss Darnley states that she left Sunny Ledge at ten minutes past eleven and saw you typing in your room. But just about that time Mr. Gardener went up to the hotel to fetch a skein of wool for his wife. He did not meet Miss Darnley or see her. That is rather remarkable. It looks as though either Miss Darnley never left Sunny Ledge, or else she had left it much earlier and was in your room typing industriously. Another point, you stated that when Miss Darnley looked into your room at a quarter past eleven you saw her in the mirror. But on the day of the murder your typewriter and papers were all on the writing desk across the corner of the room, whereas the mirror was between the windows. So that statement was a deliberate lie. Later, you moved your typewriter to the table under the mirror so as to substantiate your storyâbut it was too late. I was aware that both you and Miss Darnley had lied.â

Rosamund Darnley spoke. Her voice was low and clear.

She said:

âHow devilishly ingenious you are!â

Hercule Poirot said, raising his voice:

âBut not so devilish and so ingenious as the man who killed Arlena Marshall! Think back for a moment. Who did I thinkâwho did everybody thinkâthat Arlena Marshall had gone to meet that morning? We all jumped to the same conclusion. Patrick Redfern. It was not to meet a blackmailer that she went. Her face alone would have told me that. Oh no, it was a lover she was going to meetâor thought she was going to meet.

âYes, I was quite sure of that. Arlena Marshall was going to meet Patrick Redfern. But a minute later Patrick Redfern appeared on the beach and was obviously looking for her. So what then?â

Patrick Redfern said with subdued anger:

âSome devil used my name.â

Poirot said:

âYou were very obviously upset and surprised by her nonappearance. Almost too obviously, perhaps. It is my theory, Mr. Redfern, that she went to Pixy Cove to meet you, and that she did meet you, and that you killed her there as you had planned to do.â

Patrick Redfern stared. He said in his high good-humoured Irish voice:

âIs it daft you are? I was with you on the beach until I went round in the boat with Miss Brewster and found her dead.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âYou killed her after Miss Brewster had gone off in the boat to fetch the police. Arlena Marshall was not dead when you got to the beach. She was waiting hidden in the cave until the coast could be clear.â

âBut the body! Miss Brewster and I both saw the body.â

âA bodyâyes. But not a dead body. The live body of the woman who helped you, her arms and legs stained with tan, her face hidden by a green cardboard hat. Christine, your wife (or possibly not your wifeâbut still your partner), helping you to commit this crime as she helped you to commit that crime in the past when she âdiscoveredâ the body of Alice Corrigan at least twenty minutes before Alice Corrigan diedâkilled by her husband Edward Corriganâyou!â

Christine spoke. Her voice was sharpâcold. She said:

âBe careful, Patrick, donât lose your temper.â

Poirot said:

âYou will be interested to hear that both you and your wife Christine were easily recognized and picked out by the Surrey police from a group of people photographed here. They identified you both at once as Edward Corrigan and Christine Deverill, the young woman who found the body.â

Patrick Redfern had risen. His handsome face was transformed, suffused with blood, blind with rage. It was the face of a killerâof a tiger. He yelled:

âYou damned interfering murdering lousy little worm!â

He hurled himself forward, his fingers stretching and curling, his voice raving curses, as he fastened his fingers round Hercule Poirotâs throatâ¦.

Thirteen

Poirot said reflectively:

âIt was on a morning when we were sitting out here that we talked of suntanned bodies lying like meat upon a slab, and it was then that I reflected how little difference there was between one body and another. If one looked closely and appraisinglyâyesâbut to the casual glance? One moderately well-made young woman is very like another. Two brown legs, two brown arms, a little piece of bathing suit in betweenâjust a body lying out in the sun. When a woman walks, when she speaks, laughs, turns her head, moves a handâthen, yes then, there is personalityâindividuality. But in the sun ritualâno.

âIt was that day that we spoke of evilâevil under the sun as Mr. Lane put it. Mr. Lane is a very sensitive personâevil affects himâhe perceives its presenceâbut though he is a good recording instrument, he did not really know exactly where the evil was. To him, evil was focused in the person of Arlena Marshall, and practically everyone present agreed with him.

âBut to my mind, though evil was present, it was not centralized in Arlena Marshall at all. It was connected with her, yesâbut in a totally different way. I saw her, first, last and all the time, as an eternal and predestined victim. Because she was beautiful, because she had glamour, because men turned their heads to look at her, it was assumed that she was the type of woman who wrecked lives and destroyed souls. But I saw her very differently. It was not she who fatally attracted menâit was men who fatally attracted her. She was the type of woman whom men care for easily and of whom they as easily tire. And everything that I was told or found out about her strengthened my conviction on this point. The first thing that was mentioned about her was how the man in whose divorce case she had been cited refused to marry her. It was then that Captain Marshall, one of those incurably chivalrous men, stepped in and asked her to marry him. To a shy retiring man of Captain Marshallâs type, a public ordeal of any kind would be the worst tortureâhence his love and pity for his first wife who was publicly accused and tried for a murder she had not committed. He married her and found himself amply justified in his estimate of her character. After her death another beautiful woman, perhaps something of the same type (since Linda has red hair which she probably inherited from her mother), is held up to public ignominy. Again Marshall performs a rescue act. But this time he finds little to sustain his infatuation. Arlena is stupid, unworthy of his sympathy and protection, mindless. Nevertheless, I think he always had a fairly true vision of her. Long after he ceased to love her and was irked by her presence, he remained sorry for her. She was to him like a child who cannot get farther than a certain page in the book of life.

âI saw in Arlena Marshall with her passion for men, a predestined prey for an unscrupulous man of a certain type. In Patrick Redfern, with his good looks, his easy assurance, his undeniable charm for women, I recognized at once that type. The adventurer who makes his living, one way or another, out of women. Looking on from my place on the beach I was quite certain that Arlena was Patrickâs victim, not the other way about. And I associated that focus of evil with Patrick Redfern, not with Arlena Marshall.

âArlena had recently come into a large sum of money, left her by an elderly admirer who had not had time to grow tired of her. She was the type of woman who is invariably defrauded of money by some man or other. Miss Brewster mentioned a young man who had been âruinedâ by Arlena, but a letter from him which was found in her room, though it expressed a wish (which cost nothing) to cover her with jewels, in actual fact acknowledged a cheque from her by means of which he hoped to escape prosecution. A clear case of a young waster sponging on her. I have no doubt that Patrick Redfern found it easy to induce her to hand him large sums from time to time âfor investment.â He probably dazzled her with stories of great opportunitiesâhow he would make her fortune and his own. Unprotected women, living alone, are easy prey to that type of manâand he usually escapes scot free with the booty. If, however, there is a husband, or a brother, or a father about, things are apt to take an unpleasant turn for the swindler. Once Captain Marshall was to find out what had happened to his wifeâs fortune, Patrick Redfern might expect short shrift.

âThat did not worry him, however, because he contemplated quite calmly doing away with her when he judged it necessaryâencouraged by having already got away with one murderâthat of a young woman whom he had married in the name of Corrigan and whom he had persuaded to insure her life for a large sum.

âIn his plans he was aided and abetted by the woman who down here passed as his wife and to whom he was genuinely attached. A young woman as unlike the type of his victims as could well be imaginedâcool, calm, passionless, but steadfastly loyal to him and an actress of no mean ability. From the time of her arrival here Christine Redfern played a part, the part of the âpoor little wifeââfrail, helpless, intellectual rather than athletic. Think of the points she made one after another. Her tendency to blister in the sun and her consequent white skin, her giddiness at heightsâstories of getting stuck on Milan Cathedral, etc. An emphasis on her frailty and delicacyânearly every one spoke of her as a âlittle woman.â She was actually as tall as Arlena Marshall, but with very small hands and feet. She spoke of herself as a former school-teacher, and thereby emphasized an impression of book learning and lack of athletic prowess. Actually, it is quite true that she had worked in a school, but the position she held there was that of games mistress, and she was an extremely active young woman who could climb like a cat and run like an athlete.

âThe crime itself was perfectly planned and timed. It was, as I mentioned before, a very slick crime. The timing was a work of genius.

âFirst of all there were certain preliminary scenesâone played on the cliff ledge when they knew me to be occupying the next recessâa conventional jealous wife dialogue between her and her husband. Later she played the same part in a scene with me. At the time I remember a vague feeling of having read all this in a book. It did not seem real. Because, of course, it was not real. Then came the day of the crime. It was a fine dayâan essential. Redfernâs first act was to slip out very earlyâby the balcony door which he unlocked from the inside (if found open it would only be thought someone had gone for an early bathe). Under his bathing wrap he concealed a green Chinese hat, the duplicate of the one Arlena was in the habit of wearing. He slipped across the island, down the ladder and stowed it away in an appointed place behind some rocks. Part I.

âOn the previous evening he had arranged a rendezvous with Arlena. They were exercising a good deal of caution about meeting as Arlena was slightly afraid of her husband. She agreed to go round to Pixy Cove early. Nobody went there in the morning. Redfern was to join her there, taking a chance to slip away unobtrusively. If she heard anyone descending the ladder or a boat came in sight she was to slip inside the Pixyâs Cave, the secret of which he had told her, and wait there until the coast was clear. Part II.

âIn the meantime Christine went to Lindaâs room at a time when she judged Linda would have gone for her early morning dip. She would then alter Lindaâs watch, putting it on twenty minutes. There was, of course, a risk that Linda might notice her watch was wrong, but it did not much matter if she did. Christineâs real alibi was the size of her hands which made it a physical impossibility for her to have committed the crime. Nevertheless, an additional alibi would be desirable. Then in Lindaâs room she noticed the book on witchcraft and magic, open at a certain page. She read it, and when Linda came in and dropped a parcel of candles she realized what was in Lindaâs mind. It opened up some new ideas to her. The original idea of the guilty pair had been to cast a reasonable amount of suspicion on Kenneth Marshall, hence the abstracted pipe, a fragment of which was to be planted on the Cove underneath the ladder.

âOn Lindaâs return Christine easily arranged an outing together to Gull Cove. She then returned to her own room, took out from a locked suitcase a bottle of artificial suntan, applied it carefully and threw the empty bottle out of the window where it narrowly escaped hitting Emily Brewster who was bathing. Part II successfully accomplished.

âChristine then dressed herself in a white bathing suit, and over it a pair of beach trousers and coat with long floppy sleeves which effectually concealed her newly-browned arms and legs.

âAt 10:15 Arlena departed for her rendezvous, a minute or two later Patrick Redfern came down and registered surprise, annoyance etc. Christineâs task was easy enough. Keeping her own watch concealed she asked Linda at twenty-five past eleven what time it was. Linda looked at her watch and replied that it was a quarter to twelve. She then starts down to the sea and Christine packs up her sketching things. As soon as Lindaâs back is turned Christine picks up the girlâs watch which she has necessarily discarded before going into the sea and alters it back to the correct time. Then she hurries up the cliff path, runs across the narrow neck of land to the top of the ladder, strips off her pyjamas and shoves them and her sketching box behind a rock and swarms rapidly down the ladder in her best gymnastic fashion.

âArlena is on the beach below wondering why Patrick is so long in coming. She sees or hears someone on the ladder, takes a cautious observation, and to her annoyance sees that inconvenient personâthe wife! She hurries along the beach and into the Pixyâs Cave.

âChristine takes the hat from its hiding place, a false red curl pinned underneath the brim at the back, and disposes herself in a sprawling attitude with the hat and curl shielding her face and neck. The timing is perfect. A minute or two later the boat containing Patrick and Emily Brewster comes round the point. Remember it is Patrick who bends down and examines the body, Patrick who is stunnedâshockedâbroken down by the death of his lady love! His witness has been carefully chosen. Miss Brewster has not got a good head, she will not attempt to go up the ladder. She will leave the Cove by boat, Patrick naturally being the one to remain with the bodyââin case the murderer may still be about.â Miss Brewster rows off to fetch the police. Christine, as soon as the boat has disappeared, springs up, cuts the hat into pieces with the scissors Patrick has carefully brought, stuffs them into her bathing-suit and swarms up the ladder in double quick time, slips into her beach-pyjamas and runs back to the hotel. Just time to have a quick bath, washing off the brown suntan application, and into her tennis dress. One other thing she does. She burns the pieces of the green cardboard hat and the hair in Lindaâs grate, adding a leaf of a calendar so that it may be associated with the cardboard. Not a Hat but a Calendar has been burnt. As she suspected, Linda has been experimenting in magicâthe blob of wax and the pin shows that.

âThen, down to the tennis court, arriving the last, but showing no signs of flurry or haste.

âAnd, meanwhile, Patrick has gone to the cave. Arlena has seen nothing and heard very littleâa boatâvoicesâshe has prudently remained hidden. But now it is Patrick calling.

ââAll clear, darling,â and she comes out, and his hands fasten round her neckâand that is the end of poor foolish beautiful Arlena Marshallâ¦.â

His voice died away.

For a moment there was silence, then Rosamund Darnley said with a little shiver:

âYes, you make one see it all. But thatâs the story from the other side. You havenât told us how you came to get at the truth?â

Hercule Poirot said:

âI told you once that I had a very simple mind. Always, from the beginning, it seemed to me that the most likely person had killed Arlena Marshall. And the most likely person was Patrick Redfern. He was the type, par excellenceâthe type of man who exploits women like herâand the type of the killerâthe kind of man who will take a womanâs savings and cut her throat into the bargain. Who was Arlena going to meet that morning? By the evidence of her face, her smile, her manner, her words to meâPatrick Redfern. And therefore, in the very nature of things, it should be Patrick who killed her.

âBut at once I came up, as I told you, against impossibility. Patrick Redfern could not have killed her since he was on the beach and in Miss Brewsterâs company until the actual discovery of the body. So I looked about for other solutionsâand there were several. She could have been killed by her husbandâwith Miss Darnleyâs connivance. (They too had both lied as to one point which looked suspicious.) She could have been killed as a result of her having stumbled on the secret of the dope smuggling. She could have been killed, as I said, by a religious maniac, and she could have been killed by her stepdaughter. The latter seemed to me at one time to be the real solution. Lindaâs manner in her very first interview with the police was significant. An interview that I had with her later assured me of one point. Linda considered herself guilty.â

âYou mean she imagined that she had actually killed Arlena?â

Rosamundâs voice was incredulous.

Hercule Poirot nodded.

âYes. Rememberâshe is really little more than a child. She read that book on witchcraft and she half-believed it. She hated Arlena. She deliberately made the wax doll, cast her spell, pierced it to the heart, melted it awayâand that very day Arlena dies. Older and wiser people than Linda have believed fervently in magic. Naturally, she believed that it was all trueâthat by using magic she had killed her stepmother.â

Rosamund cried:

âOh, poor child, poor child. And I thoughtâI imaginedâsomething quite differentâthat she knew something which wouldââ

Rosamund stopped. Poirot said:

âI know what it was you thought. Actually your manner frightened Linda still further. She believed that her action had really brought about Arlenaâs death and that you knew it. Christine Redfern worked on her too, introducing the idea of the sleeping tablets to her mind, showing her the way to a speedy and painless expiation of her crime. You see, once Captain Marshall was proved to have an alibi, it was vital for a new suspect to be found. Neither she nor her husband knew about the dope smuggling. They fixed on Linda to be the scapegoat.â

Rosamund said:

âWhat a devil!â

Poirot nodded.

âYes, you are right. A cold-blooded and cruel woman. For me, I was in great difficulty. Was Linda guilty only of the childish attempt at witchcraft, or had her hate carried her still furtherâto the actual act? I tried to get her to confess to me. But it was no good. At that moment I was in grave uncertainty. The Chief Constable was inclined to accept the dope smuggling explanation. I couldnât let it go at that. I went over the facts again very carefully. I had, you see, a collection of jig-saw puzzle pieces, isolated happeningsâplain facts. The whole must fit into a complete and harmonious pattern. There were the scissors found on the beachâa bottle thrown from a windowâa bath that no one would admit to having takenâall perfectly harmless occurrences in themselves, but rendered significant by the fact that no one would admit to them. Therefore, they must be of significance. Nothing about them fitted in with the theories of either Captain Marshallâs or Lindaâs, or of a dope gangâs being responsible. And yet they must have meaning. I went back again to my first solutionâthat Patrick Redfern had committed the murder. Was there anything in support of that? Yes, the fact that a very large sum of money was missing from Arlenaâs account. Who had got that money? Patrick Redfern of course. She was the type of woman easily swindled by a handsome young manâbut she was not at all the type of woman to be blackmailed. She was far too transparent, not good enough at keeping a secret. The blackmailer story had never rung true to my mind. And yet there had been that conversation overheardâah, but overheard by whom? Patrick Redfernâs wife. It was her storyâunsupported by any outside evidence. Why was it invented? The answer came to me like lightning. To account for the absence of Arlenaâs money!

âPatrick and Christine Redfern. The two of them were in it together. Christine hadnât got the physical strength to strangle her or the mental makeup. No, it was Patrick who had done itâbut that was impossible! Every minute of his time was accounted for until the body was found.

âBodyâthe word stirred something in my mindâbodies lying on the beachâall alike. Patrick Redfern and Emily Brewster had got to the Cove and seen a body lying there. A bodyâsuppose it was not Arlenaâs body but somebody elseâs? The face was hidden by the great Chinese hat.

âBut there was only one dead bodyâArlenaâs. Then, could it beâa live bodyâsomeone pretending to be dead? Could it be Arlena herself, inspired by Patrick to play some kind of a joke. I shook my headâno, too risky. A live bodyâwhose? Was there any woman who would help Redfern? Of courseâhis wife. But she was a white-skinned delicate creature. Ah yes, but suntan can be applied out of bottlesâbottlesâI had one of my jig-saw pieces. Yes, and afterwards, of course, a bathâto wash that telltale stain off before she went out to play tennis. And the scissors? Why, to cut up that duplicate cardboard hatâan unwieldy thing that must be got out of the way, and in the haste the scissors were left behindâthe one thing that the pair of murderers forgot.

âBut where was Arlena all the time? That again was perfectly clear. Either Rosamund Darnley or Arlena Marshall had been in the Pixyâs Cave, the scent they both used told me that. It was certainly not Rosamund Darnley. Then it was Arlena, hiding till the coast should clear.

âWhen Emily Brewster went off in the boat, Patrick had the beach to himself and full opportunity to commit the crime. Arlena Marshall was killed after a quarter to twelve, but the medical evidence was only concerned with the earliest possible time the crime could have been committed. That Arlena was dead at a quarter to twelve was what was told to the doctor, not what he told the police.

âTwo more points had to be settled. Linda Marshallâs evidence gave Christine Redfern an alibi. Yes, but that evidence depended on Linda Marshallâs wristwatch. All that was needed was to prove that Christine had had two opportunities of tampering with the watch. I found those easily enough. She had been alone in Lindaâs room that morningâand there was an indirect proof. Linda was heard to say that she was âafraid she was going to be late,â but when she got down it was only twenty-five past ten by the lounge clock. The second opportunity was easyâshe could alter the watch back again as soon as Linda turned her back and went down to bathe.

âThen there was the question of the ladder. Christine had always declared she had no head for heights. Another carefully prepared lie.

âI had my mosaic nowâeach piece beautifully fitted into its place. But, unfortunately, I had no definite proof. It was all in my mind.

âIt was then that an idea came to me. There was an assuranceâa slickness about the crime. I had no doubt that in the future Patrick Redfern would repeat his crime. What about the past? It was remotely possible that this was not his first killing. The method employed, strangulation, was in harmony with his natureâa killer for pleasure as well as for profit. If he was already a murderer I was sure that he would have used the same means. I asked Inspector Colgate for a list of women victims of strangulation. The result filled me with joy. The death of Nellie Parson found strangled in a lonely copse might or might not be Patrick Redfernâs workâit might merely have suggested choice of locality to him, but in Alice Corriganâs death I found exactly what I was looking for. In essence the same method. Juggling with timeâa murder committed not, as is the usual way, before it is supposed to have happened, but afterwards. A body supposedly discovered at a quarter past four. A husband with an alibi up to twenty-five past four.

âWhat really happened? It was said that Edward Corrigan arrived at the Pine Ridge, found his wife not there, and went out and walked up and down. Actually, of course, he ran full speed to the rendezvous, Caesarâs Grove (which you will remember was quite nearby), killed her and returned to the cafÃ©. The girl hiker who reported the crime was a most respectable young lady, games mistress in a well-known girlsâ school. Apparently she had no connection with Edward Corrigan. She had to walk some way to report the death. The police surgeon only examined the body at a quarter to six. As in this case the time of death was accepted without question.

âI made one final test. I must know definitely if Mrs. Redfern was a liar. I arranged our little excursion to Dartmoor. If anyone has a bad head for heights, they are never comfortable crossing a narrow bridge over running water. Miss Brewster, a genuine sufferer, showed giddiness. But Christine Redfern, unconcerned, ran across without a qualm. It was a small point, but it was a definite test. If she had told one unnecessary lieâthen all the other lies were possible. In the meantime Colgate had got the photograph identified by the Surrey Police. I played my hand in the only way I thought likely to succeed. Having lulled Patrick Redfern into security, I turned on him and did my utmost to make him lose his self-control. The knowledge that he had been identified with Corrigan caused him to lose his head completely.â

Hercule Poirot stroked his throat reminiscently.

âWhat I did,â he said with importance, âwas exceedingly dangerousâbut I do not regret it. I succeeded! I did not suffer in vain.â

There was a momentâs silence. Then Mrs. Gardener gave a deep sigh.

âWhy, M. Poirot,â she said. âItâs just been too wonderfulâhearing just exactly how you got your results. Itâs every bit as fascinating as a lecture on criminologyâin fact it is a lecture on criminology. And to think my magenta wool and that sunbathing conversation actually had something to do with it? That really makes me too excited for words, and Iâm sure Mr. Gardener feels the same, donât you, Odell?â

âYes, darling,â said Mr. Gardener.

Hercule Poirot said:

âMr. Gardener too was of assistance to me. I wanted the opinion of a sensible man about Mrs. Marshall. I asked Mr. Gardener what he thought of her.â

âIs that so,â said Mrs. Gardener. âAnd what did you say about her, Odell?â

Mr. Gardener coughed. He said:

âWell, darling, I never did think very much of her, you know.â

âThatâs the kind of thing men always say to their wives,â said Mrs. Gardener. âAnd if you ask me, even M. Poirot here is what I should call a shade on the indulgent side about her, calling her a natural victim and all that. Of course itâs true that she wasnât a cultured woman at all, and as Captain Marshall isnât here I donât mind saying that she always did seem to me kind of dumb. I said so to Mr. Gardener, didnât I, Odell?â

âYes, darling,â said Mr. Gardener.

II

Linda Marshall sat with Hercule Poirot on Gull Cove.

She said:

âOf course Iâm glad I didnât die after all. But you know, M. Poirot, itâs just the same as if Iâd killed her, isnât it? I meant to.â

Hercule Poirot said energetically:

âIt is not at all the same thing. The wish to kill and the action of killing are two different things. If in your bedroom instead of a little wax figure you had had your stepmother bound and helpless and a dagger in your hand instead of a pin, you would not have pushed it into her heart! Something within you would have said âno.â It is the same with me. I enrage myself at an imbecile. I say, âI would like to kick him.â Instead, I kick the table. I say, âThis table, it is the imbecile, I kick him so.â And then, if I have not hurt my toe too much, I feel much better and the table it is not usually damaged. But if the imbecile himself was there I should not kick him. To make the wax figures and stick in the pins, it is silly, yes, it is childish, yesâbut it does something useful too. You took the hate out of yourself and put it into that little figure. And with the pin and the fire you destroyedânot your stepmotherâbut the hate you bore her. Afterwards, even before you heard of her death, you felt cleansed, did you notâyou felt lighterâhappier?â

Linda nodded. She said:

âHow did you know? Thatâs just how I did feel.â

Poirot said:

âThen do not repeat to yourself the imbecilities. Just make up your mind not to hate your next stepmother.â

Linda said startled:

âDo you think Iâm going to have another? Oh, I see, you mean Rosamund. I donât mind her.â She hesitated a minute. âSheâs sensible.â

It was not the adjective that Poirot himself would have selected for Rosamund Darnley, but he realized that it was Lindaâs idea of high praise.

III

Kenneth Marshall said:

âRosamund, did you get some extraordinary idea into your head that Iâd killed Arlena.â

Rosamund looked rather shamefaced. She said:

âI suppose I was a damned fool.â

âOf course you were.â

âYes, but Ken, you are such an oyster. I never knew what you really felt about Arlena. I didnât know if you accepted her as she was and were just frightfully decent about her, or whether youâwell, just believed in her blindly. And I thought if it was that, and you suddenly found out that she was letting you down you might go mad with rage. Iâve heard stories about you. Youâre always very quiet but youâre rather frightening sometimes.â

âSo you thought I just took her by the throat and throttled the life out of her?â

âWellâyesâthatâs just exactly what I did think. And your alibi seemed a bit on the light side. Thatâs when I suddenly decided to take a hand, and made up that silly story about seeing you typing in your room. And when I heard that you said youâd seen me look inâwell, that made me quite sure youâd done it. That, and Lindaâs queerness.â

Kenneth Marshall said with a sigh:

âDonât you realize that I said Iâd seen you in the mirror in order to back up your story. IâI thought you needed it corroborated.â

Rosamund stared at him.

âYou donât mean you thought that I killed your wife?â

Kenneth Marshall shifted uneasily. He mumbled:

âDash it all, Rosamund, donât you remember how you nearly killed that boy about that dog once? How you hung on to his throat and wouldnât let go.â

âBut that was years ago.â

âYes, I knowââ

Rosamund said sharply:

âWhat earthly motive do you think I had to kill Arlena?â

His glance shifted. He mumbled something again.

Rosamund cried:

âKen, you mass of conceit! You thought I killed her out of altruism on your behalf, did you? Orâdid you think I killed her because I wanted you myself?â

âNot at all,â said Kenneth Marshall indignantly. âBut you know what you said that dayâabout Linda and everythingâandâand you seemed to care what happened to me.â

Rosamund said:

âIâve always cared about that.â

âI believe you have. You know, RosamundâI canât usually talk about thingsâIâm not good at talkingâbut Iâd like to get this clear. I didnât care for Arlenaâonly just a little at firstâand living with her day after day was a pretty nerve-racking business. In fact it was absolute hell, but I was awfully sorry for her. She was such a damned foolâcrazy about menâshe just couldnât help itâand they always let her down and treated her rottenly. I simply felt I couldnât be the one to give her the final push. Iâd married her and it was up to me to look after her as best I could. I think she knew that and was grateful to me really. She wasâshe was a pathetic sort of creature really.â

Rosamund said gently:

âItâs all right, Ken. I understand now.â

Without looking at her Kenneth Marshall carefully filled a pipe. He mumbled:

âYouâreâpretty good at understanding, Rosamund.â

A faint smile curved Rosamundâs ironic mouth. She said:

âAre you going to ask me to marry you now, Ken, or are you determined to wait six months?â

Kenneth Marshallâs pipe dropped from his lips and crashed on the rocks below.

He said:

âDamn, thatâs the second pipe Iâve lost down here. And I havenât got another with me. How the devil did you know Iâd fixed six months as the proper time?â

âI suppose because it is the proper time. But Iâd rather have something definite now, please. Because in the intervening months you may come across some other persecuted female and rush to the rescue in chivalrous fashion again.â

He laughed.

âYouâre going to be the persecuted female this time, Rosamund. Youâre going to give up that damned dress-making business of yours and weâre going to live in the country.â

âDonât you know that I make a very handsome income out of my business? Donât you realize that itâs my businessâthat I created it and worked it up, and that Iâm proud of it! And youâve got the damned nerve to come along and say, âGive it all up, dear.ââ

âIâve got the damned nerve to say it, yes.â

âAnd you think I care enough for you to do it?â

âIf you donât,â said Kenneth Marshall, âyouâd be no good to me.â

Rosamund said softly:

âOh, my dear, Iâve wanted to live in the country with you all my life. Nowâitâs going to come trueâ¦.â

Â 

The
Agatha Christie
Collection

THE HERCULE POIROT MYSTERIES

Match your wits with the famous Belgian detective.

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

Â 

The
Agatha Christie
Collection

THE MISS MARPLE MYSTERIES

Join the legendary spinster sleuth from
St. Mary Mead in solving murders far and wide.

The Murder at the Vicarag

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 From Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

THE TOMMY AND TUPPENCE MYSTERIES

Jump on board with the entertaining crime-solving
couple from Young Adventurers Ltd.

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

Â 

The
Agatha Christie
Collection

Donâ€™t miss a single one of Agatha Christieâ€™s
stand-alone novels and short-story collections.

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

About the Author

Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She is the author of eighty crime novels and short-story collections, nineteen plays, two memoirs, and six novels written under the name Mary Westmacott.

She first tried her hand at detective fiction while working in a hospital dispensary during World War I, creating the now legendary Hercule Poirot with her debut novel The Mysterious Affair at Styles. With The Murder in the Vicarage, published in 1930, she introduced another beloved sleuth, Miss Jane Marple. Additional series characters include the husband-and-wife crime-fighting team of Tommy and Tuppence Beresford, private investigator Parker Pyne, and Scotland Yard detectives Superintendent Battle and Inspector Japp.

Many of Christieâ€™s novels and short stories were adapted into plays, films, and television series. The Mousetrap, her most famous play of all, opened in 1952 and is the longest-running play in history. Among her best-known film adaptations are Murder on the Orient Express (1974) and Death on the Nile (1978), with Albert Finney and Peter Ustinov playing Hercule Poirot, respectively. On the small screen Poirot has been most memorably portrayed by David Suchet, and Miss Marple by Joan Hickson and subsequently Geraldine McEwan and Julia McKenzie.

Christie was first married to Archibald Christie and then to archaeologist Sir Max Mallowan, whom she accompanied on expeditions to countries that would also serve as the settings for many of her novels. In 1971 she achieved one of Britainâ€™s highest honors when she was made a Dame of the British Empire. She died in 1976 at the age of eighty-five. Her one hundred and twentieth anniversary was celebrated around the world in 2010.

www.AgathaChristie.com

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

THE AGATHA CHRISTIE COLLECTION

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and
Â Â Â Â Â Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and
Â Â Â Â Â Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

The Hercule Poirot Mysteries

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

The Miss Marple Mysteries

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 from Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete
Â Â Â Â Â Short Stories

The Tommy and Tuppence Mysteries

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Memoirs

An Autobiography

Come, Tell Me How You Live

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the authorâ€™s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

AGATHA CHRISTIEÂ® POIROTÂ® EVIL UNDER THE SUNâ„¢. Copyright Â© 1941 Agatha Christie Limited (a Chorion company). All rights reserved.

EVIL UNDER THE SUN Â© 1941. Published by permission of G.P. Putnamâ€™s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN 978-0-06-207393-8

EPub Edition Â© AUGUST 2011 ISBN: 978-0-06-174193-7

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