Evil Under the Sun (7 page)

Weston turned to Poirot.

“What do you think, Poirot?”

Hercule Poirot raised his hands.

He said:

“What can one say? He is the closed box—the fastened oyster. He has chosen his rôle. He has heard nothing, he has seen nothing, he knows nothing!”

“We've got a choice of motives,” said Colgate. “There's jealousy and there's the money motive. Of course, in a way, a husband's the obvious suspect. One naturally thinks of him first. If he knew his missus was carrying on with the other chap—”

Poirot interrupted.

He said:

“I think he knew that.”

“Why do you say so?”

“Listen, 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 together—Mrs. Marshall and Patrick Redfern. And a moment or two after I met Captain Mar
shall. His face was very stiff. It says nothing—but nothing at all! It is almost
too
blank, if you understand me. Oh! he knew all right.”

Colgate grunted doubtfully.

He said:

“Oh well, if you think so—”

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

Colonel Weston said:

“Takes her death coolly enough.”

Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.

Inspector Colgate said:

“Sometimes these quiet ones are the most violent underneath, so to speak. It's all bottled up. He may have been madly fond of her—and madly jealous. But he's not the kind to show it.”

Poirot said slowly:

“That is possible—yes. He is a very interesting character this Captain Marshall. I interest myself in him greatly. And in his
alibi.
”

“Alibi by typewriter,” said Weston with a short bark of a laugh. “What have you got to say about that, Colgate?”

Inspector Colgate screwed up his eyes. He said:

“Well, you know, sir, I rather fancy that alibi. It's not too good, if you know what I mean. It's—well, it's
natural.
And if we find the chambermaid was about, and did hear the typewriter going, well then, it seems to me that it's all right and that we'll have to look elsewhere.”

“H'm,” said Colonel Weston. “Where are you going to look?”

VI

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

Inspector Colgate spoke first. He said:

“It boils down to this—was it an outsider, or a guest at the hotel? I'm not eliminating the servants entirely, mind, but I don't expect for a minute that we'll find any of them had a hand in it. No, it's a hotel guest, or it's someone from right outside. We've got to look at it this way. First of all—motive. There's gain. The only person to gain by her death was the lady's husband, it seems. What other motives are there? First and foremost—jealousy. It seems to me—just looking at it—that if ever you've got a
crime passionnel
—(he bowed to Poirot) this is one.”

Poirot murmured as he looked up at the ceiling:

“There are so many passions.”

Inspector Colgate went on:

“Her husband wouldn't allow that she had any enemies—real enemies, that is, but I don't believe for a minute that that's so! I should say that a lady like her would—well, would make some pretty bad enemies—eh, sir, what do you say?”

Poirot responded. He said:

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

Colonel Weston grunted and said:

“Something in that. It's the women who've got their knife into her here all right.”

Poirot went on.

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

Weston grunted again. He said:

“Neasden's pretty confident that she was strangled by a man. Big hands—powerful grip. It's just possible, of course, that an unusually athletic woman might have done it—but it's damned unlikely.”

Poirot nodded.

“Exactly. Arsenic in a cup of tea—a box of poisoned chocolates—a knife—even a pistol—but strangulation—no! It is a man we have to look for.”

“And immediately,” he went on, “it becomes more difficult. There are two people here in this hotel who have a motive for wishing Arlena Marshall out of the way—but both of them are women.”

Colonel Weston asked:

“Redfern's wife is one of them, I suppose?”

“Yes. 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 loyal—not passionate. As I said just now—arsenic in the teacup, possibly—strangulation, no. I am sure, also, that she is physically incapable of committing this crime, her hands and feet are small, below the average.”

Weston nodded. He said:

“This isn't a woman's crime. No, a man did this.”

Inspector Colgate coughed.

“Let me put forward a solution, sir. Say that prior to meeting this Mr. Redfern the lady had had another affair with someone—call 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. It's a possibility!”

Weston said:

“It's
possible,
all right. And if it's 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. You'd better make inquiries.”

He looked across at Poirot.

“What do you think of Colgate's suggestion?”

Poirot said slowly:

“It leaves, somehow, too much to chance. And besides—somewhere the picture is not true. I cannot, you see, imagine this man…the man who is mad with rage and jealousy.”

Colgate said:

“People
did
go potty about her, though, sir. Look at Redfern.”

“Yes, yes… But all the same—”

Colgate looked at him questioningly.

Poirot shook his head.

He said, frowning:

“Somewhere, there is something that we have missed….”

C
olonel Weston was poring over the hotel register.

He read aloud:

He stopped.

Inspector Colgate said:

“I 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 o'clock. A man called Andrew Baston took them. We can check up from him, but I think we can put them right out of it.”

Weston nodded.

“I agree. Let's eliminate everyone we can. Can you give us a pointer on any of the rest of them, Poirot?”

Poirot said:

“Superficially, 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.”

“Sounds quite O.K.”

“Next—the 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.”

“What is that?”

“Brains.”

Inspector Colgate sighed. He said:

“Brains don't count for much when it comes to an infatuation, sir.”

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

“That may be, sir. It wouldn't be the first time that's happened.”

Poirot murmured.

“That is the pity of it! It is always the thing women find hardest to believe.”

He went on:

“Major Barry. Retired Indian Army. An admirer of women. A teller of long and boring stories.”

Inspector Colgate sighed.

“You needn't go on. I've met a few, sir.”

“Mr. Horace Blatt. He is, apparently, a rich man. He talks a good deal—about Mr. Blatt. He wants to be everybody's 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.”

He paused and went on with a change of voice:

“Next 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.” He paused and added. “And she is a very old friend of Captain Marshall's.”

Weston sat up in his chair.

“Oh, she is, is she?”

“Yes. They had not met for some years.”

Weston asked:

“Did she know he was going to be down here?”

“She says not.”

Poirot paused and then went on.

“Who comes next? Miss Brewster. I find her just a little alarming.” He shook his head. “She has a voice like a man's. She is gruff and what you call hearty. She rows boats and has a handicap of four at golf.” He paused. “I think, though, that she has a good heart.”

Weston said:

“That leaves only the Reverend Stephen Lane. Who's the Reverend Stephen Lane?”

“I 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.”

Inspector Colgate said:

“Oh, that kind of person.”

Weston said:

“And that's the lot!” He looked at Poirot. “You seem very lost in thought, my friend?”

Poirot said:

“Yes. 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.”

He paused.

“But 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 also—and 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?
”

Inspector Colgate said:

“That fits in with
my
idea. A man from London or somewhere.”

Hercule Poirot shook his head. He said:

“But, 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?”

Inspector Colgate shook his head. He said:

“Who do
you
think it was?”

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

Weston murmured:

“You don't think she just went off by herself?”

Poirot shook his head.

“
Mon cher,
” he said. “It 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 man's admiration. No, Arlena Marshall went to meet
someone
this morning.
Who was it?
”

II

Colonel Weston sighed, shook his head and said:

“Well, 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 we'd better see the Marshall girl now. She might be able to tell us something useful.”

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:

“Poor kid—she's nothing but a kid after all. This must have been a pretty bad shock to her.”

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

“Sorry to put you through this, Miss—Linda, isn't it?”

“Yes, Linda.”

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

“A kid oughtn't to be mixed up in this sort of thing.”

He said reassuringly.

“There's nothing very alarming about all this. We just want you to tell us anything you know that might be useful, that's all.”

Linda said:

“You mean—about Arlena?”

“Yes. Did you see her this morning at all?”

The girl shook her head.

“No. Arlena always gets down rather late. She has breakfast in bed.”

Hercule Poirot said:

“And you, Mademoiselle?”

“Oh, I get up. Breakfast in bed's so
stuffy.
”

Weston said:

“Will you tell us what you did this morning?”

“Well, I had a bathe first and then breakfast, and then I went with Mrs. Redfern to Gull Cove.”

Weston said:

“What time did you and Mrs. Redfern start?”

“She said she'd 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.”

Poirot said:

“And what did you do at Gull Cove?”

“Oh, 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.”

Weston said, keeping his voice quite casual:

“Do you remember what time that was?”

“When Mrs. Redfern went back to the hotel? Quarter to twelve.”

“Sure of that time—quarter to twelve?”

Linda, opening her eyes wide, said:

“Oh
yes.
I looked at my watch.”

“The watch you have on now?”

Linda glanced down at her wrist.

“Yes.”

Weston said:

“Mind if I see?”

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

He said, smiling:

“Correct to a second. And after that you had a bathe?”

“Yes.”

“And you got back to the hotel—when?”

“Just about one o'clock. And—and then—I heard—about Arlena….”

Her voice changed.

Colonel Weston said:

“Did you—er—get on with your stepmother all right?”

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

“Oh yes.”

Poirot asked:

“Did you like her, Mademoiselle?”

Linda said again:

“Oh yes.” She added: “Arlena was quite kind to me.”

Weston said with rather uneasy facetiousness.

“Not the cruel stepmother, eh?”

Linda shook her head without smiling.

Weston said:

“That's good. That's good. Sometimes, you know, there's a bit of difficulty in families—jealousy—all that. Girl and her father great pals and then she resents it a bit when he's all wrapped up in the new wife. You didn't feel like that, eh?”

Linda stared at him. She said with obvious sincerity:

“Oh no.”

Weston said:

“I suppose your father was—er—very wrapped up in her?”

Linda said simply:

“I don't know.”

Weston went on:

“All sorts of difficulties, as I say, arise in families. Quarrels—rows—that sort of thing. If husband and wife get ratty with each other, that's a bit awkward for a daughter too. Anything of that sort?”

Linda said clearly:

“Do you mean, did Father and Arlena quarrel?”

“Well—yes.”

Weston thought to himself:

“Rotten business—questioning a child about her father. Why is one a policeman? Damn it all, it's got to be done, though.”

Linda said positively:

“Oh no.” She added: “Father doesn't quarrel with people. He's not like that at all.”

Weston said:

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

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

“No, I don't know who could have wanted to kill Arlena.” She added: “Except, of course, Mrs. Redfern.”

Weston said:

“You think Mrs. Redfern wanted to kill her? Why?”

Linda said:

“Because her husband was in love with Arlena. But I don't think she would really want to
kill
her. I mean she'd just feel that she wished she was dead—and that isn't the same thing at all, is it?”

Poirot said gently:

“No, it is not at all the same.”

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

“And anyway, Mrs. Redfern could never do a thing like that—kill anybody. She isn't—she isn't
violent,
if you know what I mean.”

Weston and Poirot nodded. The latter said:

“I know exactly what you mean, my child, and I agree with you. Mrs. Redfern is not of those who, as your saying goes, ‘sees red.' She would not be”—he leaned back half closing his eyes, picking his words with care—“shaken by a storm of feeling—seeing life narrowing in front of her—seeing a hated face—a hated white neck—feeling her hands clench—longing to feel them press into flesh—”

He stopped.

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

“Can I go now? Is that all?”

Colonel Weston said:

“Yes, yes, that's all. Thank you, Miss Linda.”

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

“Phew,” he said. “Not 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 father's neck. All the same, it had to be done. Murder is murder. And she's the person most likely to know the truth of things. I'm rather thankful, though, that she'd nothing to tell us in that line.”

Poirot said:

“Yes, I thought you were.”

Weston said with an embarrassed cough: