Evil Under the Sun (19 page)

“Oh, poor child, poor child. And I thought—I imagined—something quite different—that she knew something which would—”

Rosamund stopped. Poirot said:

“I know what it was you thought. Actually your manner frightened Linda still further. She believed that her action had really brought about Arlena's 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.”

Rosamund said:

“What a devil!”

Poirot nodded.

“Yes, 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 further—to 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 couldn't 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 happenings—plain facts. The whole must fit into a complete and harmonious pattern. There were the scissors found on the beach—a bottle thrown from a window—a bath that no one would admit to having taken—all 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 Marshall's or Linda's, or of a dope gang's being responsible. And yet they
must
have meaning. I went back again to my first solution—that 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 Arlena's account. Who had got that money? Patrick Redfern of course. She was the type of woman easily swindled by a handsome young man—but 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 overheard—ah, but overheard by whom?
Patrick Redfern's wife.
It was her story—unsupported by any outside evidence. Why was it invented? The answer came to me like lightning. To account for the absence of Arlena's money!

“Patrick and Christine Redfern. The two of them were in it together. Christine hadn't got the physical strength to strangle her or the mental makeup. No, it was Patrick who had done it—but that was impossible! Every minute of his time was accounted for until the body was found.

“Body—the word stirred something in my mind—bodies lying on the beach—
all alike.
Patrick Redfern and Emily Brewster had got to the Cove and seen
a body
lying there. A body—suppose it was not Arlena's body but somebody else's? The face was hidden by the great Chinese hat.

“But there
was
only one dead body—Arlena's. Then, could it be—a
live
body—someone pretending to be dead? Could it be Arlena herself, inspired by Patrick to play some kind of a joke. I shook my head—no, too risky. A live body—whose? Was there any woman who would help Redfern? Of course—his wife. But she was a white-skinned delicate creature. Ah yes, but suntan can be applied out of bottles—bottles—I had one of my jig-saw pieces. Yes, and afterwards, of course, a bath—to wash that telltale stain off before she went out to play tennis. And the scissors? Why, to cut up that duplicate cardboard hat—an unwieldy thing that must be got out of the way, and in the haste the scissors were left behind—the one thing that the pair of murderers forgot.

“But where was Arlena all the time? That again was perfectly clear. Either Rosamund Darnley or Arlena Marshall had been in the Pixy's 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.

“When 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.

“Two more points had to be settled. Linda Marshall's evidence gave Christine Redfern an alibi. Yes, but that evidence depended on Linda Marshall's 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 Linda's room that morning—and there was an indirect proof. Linda was heard to say that she was ‘afraid she was going to be late,' but when she got down it was only twenty-five past ten by the lounge clock. The second opportunity was easy—she could alter the watch back again as soon as Linda turned her back and went down to bathe.

“Then there was the question of the ladder. Christine had always declared she had no head for heights. Another carefully prepared lie.

“I had my mosaic now—each piece beautifully fitted into its place. But, unfortunately, I had no definite proof. It was all in my mind.

“It was then that an idea came to me. There was an assurance—a 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 nature—a 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 Redfern's work—it might merely have suggested choice of locality to him, but in Alice Corrigan's death I found exactly what I was looking for. In essence the same method. Juggling with time—a 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.

“What 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, Caesar's Grove (which you will remember was quite nearby), killed her and returned to the café. The girl hiker who reported the crime was a most respectable young lady, games mistress in a well-known girls' 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.

“I 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 lie—then 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.”

Hercule Poirot stroked his throat reminiscently.

“What I did,” he said with importance, “was exceedingly dangerous—but I do not regret it. I succeeded! I did not suffer in vain.”

There was a moment's silence. Then Mrs. Gardener gave a deep sigh.

“Why, M. Poirot,” she said. “It's just been too wonderful—hearing just exactly how you got your results. It's every bit as fascinating as a lecture on criminology—in 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 I'm sure Mr. Gardener feels the same, don't you, Odell?”

“Yes, darling,” said Mr. Gardener.

Hercule Poirot said:

“Mr. 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.”

“Is that so,” said Mrs. Gardener. “And what did you say about her, Odell?”

Mr. Gardener coughed. He said:

“Well, darling, I never did think very much of her, you know.”

“That's the kind of thing men always say to their wives,” said Mrs. Gardener. “And 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 it's true that she wasn't a cultured woman at all, and as Captain Marshall isn't here I don't mind
saying that she always did seem to me kind of dumb. I said so to Mr. Gardener, didn't I, Odell?”

“Yes, darling,” said Mr. Gardener.

II

Linda Marshall sat with Hercule Poirot on Gull Cove.

She said:

“Of course I'm glad I didn't die after all. But you know, M. Poirot, it's just the same as if I'd killed her, isn't it? I meant to.”

Hercule Poirot said energetically:

“It 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 ‘no.' It is the same with me. I enrage myself at an imbecile. I say, ‘I would like to kick him.' Instead, I kick the table. I say, ‘This table, it is the imbecile, I kick him so.' 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, yes—but 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 destroyed—not your stepmother—but the hate you bore her. Afterwards, even before you heard of her death, you felt cleansed, did you not—you felt lighter—happier?”

Linda nodded. She said:

“How did you know? That's just how I did feel.”

Poirot said:

“Then do not repeat to yourself the imbecilities. Just make up your mind not to hate your next stepmother.”

Linda said startled:

“Do you think I'm going to have another? Oh, I see, you mean Rosamund. I don't mind her.” She hesitated a minute. “She's
sensible.
”

It was not the adjective that Poirot himself would have selected for Rosamund Darnley, but he realized that it was Linda's idea of high praise.

III

Kenneth Marshall said:

“Rosamund, did you get some extraordinary idea into your head that I'd killed Arlena.”

Rosamund looked rather shamefaced. She said:

“I suppose I was a damned fool.”

“Of course you were.”

“Yes, but Ken, you are such an oyster. I never knew what you really felt about Arlena. I didn't know if you accepted her as she was and were just frightfully decent about her, or whether you—well, 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. I've heard stories about you. You're always very quiet but you're rather frightening sometimes.”

“So you thought I just took her by the throat and throttled the life out of her?”

“Well—yes—that's just exactly what I did think. And your
alibi seemed a bit on the light side. That's 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 you'd seen me look in—well, that made me quite sure you'd done it. That, and Linda's queerness.”

Kenneth Marshall said with a sigh:

“Don't you realize that I said I'd seen you in the mirror in order to back up
your
story. I—I thought you needed it corroborated.”

Rosamund stared at him.

“You don't mean you thought that I killed your wife?”

Kenneth Marshall shifted uneasily. He mumbled:

“Dash it all, Rosamund, don't you remember how you nearly killed that boy about that dog once? How you hung on to his throat and wouldn't let go.”

“But that was years ago.”

“Yes, I know—”

Rosamund said sharply:

“What earthly motive do you think I had to kill Arlena?”

His glance shifted. He mumbled something again.

Rosamund cried:

“Ken, you mass of conceit! You thought I killed her out of altruism on your behalf, did you? Or—did you think I killed her because I wanted you myself?”

“Not at all,” said Kenneth Marshall indignantly. “But you know what you said that day—about Linda and everything—and—and you seemed to care what happened to me.”

Rosamund said:

“I've always cared about that.”

“I believe you have. You know, Rosamund—I can't usually
talk about things—I'm not good at talking—but I'd like to get this clear. I didn't care for Arlena—only just a little at first—and 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 fool—crazy about men—she just couldn't help it—and they always let her down and treated her rottenly. I simply felt I couldn't be the one to give her the final push. I'd 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 was—she was a pathetic sort of creature really.”