Evil Under the Sun

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

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First published in Great Britain by Collins 1941

Copyright © 1941 Agatha Christie Ltd. All rights reserved.

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Source ISBN: 9780007527571

Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2010 ISBN: 9780007422333

Version: 2017-04-12

To John

In memory of our last season in Syria

Contents

Cover

Title

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

When Captain Roger Angmering built himself a house in the…

Chapter 2

When Rosamund Darnley came and sat down by him, Hercule…

Chapter 3 Rosamund Darnley and Kenneth Marshall sat on the short springy…

Chapter 4 The morning of the 25th of August dawned bright and…

Chapter 5 Inspector Colgate stood back by the cliff waiting for the…

Chapter 6 Colonel Weston was poring over the hotel register.

Chapter 7 Christine stared at him, not seeming at once to take…

Chapter 8 They were standing in the bedroom that had been Arlena…

Chapter 9 For the second time that morning Patrick Redfern was rowing…

Chapter 10 The little crowd of people flocked out of the Red…

Chapter 11 Inspector Colgate was reporting to the Chief Constable.

Chapter 12

‘A picnic, M. Poirot?’

Chapter 13

Poirot said reflectively:

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Chapter 1

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 house—a sturdy house too, as it needed to be, on the little windswept gull-haunted promontory—cut 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. ‘Walks’ and ‘Nooks’ 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, Smugglers’ 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:

‘Ever 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.’

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 non-bathers 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 Poirot’s 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 Poirot’s 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:

‘And 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, we’ve done England pretty well and all I want now is to get to some quiet spot by the seaside and just relax. That’s what I said, wasn’t it, Odell? Just relax. I feel I must relax, I said. That’s so, isn’t it, Odell?’

Mr Gardener, from behind his hat, murmured:

‘Yes, darling.’

Mrs Gardener pursued the theme.

‘And so, when I mentioned it to Mr Kelso, at Cook’s—He’s arranged all our itinerary for us and been most helpful in every way. I don’t really know what we’d have done without him!—well, as I say, when I mentioned it to him, Mr Kelso said that we couldn’t 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 you’ll believe me, M. Poirot, a sister of Mr Gardener’s 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, didn’t it, Odell?’

‘Why, yes, darling,’ said Gardener.

‘But Mr Kelso reassured us at once. The sanitation, he said, was absolutely the latest word, and the cooking was excellent. And I’m sure that’s so. And what I like about it is, it’s 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 they’re inclined to be a bit stand-offish until they’ve 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. There’s you, M. Poirot and Miss Darnley. Oh! I was just tickled to death when I found out who you were, wasn’t I, Odell?’

‘You were, darling.’

‘Ha!’ said Miss Brewster, breaking in explosively. ‘What a thrill, eh, M. Poirot?’

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

‘You see, M. Poirot, I’d heard a lot about you from Cornelia Robson who was. 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 I’ve always been simply crazy to meet you, haven’t I, Odell?’

‘Yes, darling.’

‘And then Miss Darnley, too. I get a lot of my things at Rose Mond’s and of course she is Rose Mond, isn’t she? I think her clothes are ever so clever. Such a marvellous line. That dress I had on last night was one of hers. She’s just a lovely woman in every way, I think.’

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

‘Distinguished lookin’ gal!’

Mrs Gardener clacked her needles.

‘I’ve just got to confess one thing, M. Poirot. It gave me a kind of a turn meeting you here—not that I wasn’t just thrilled to meet you, because I was. Mr Gardener knows that. But it just came to me that you might be here—well, professionally. You know what I mean? Well, I’m just terribly sensitive, as Mr Gardener will tell you, and I just couldn’t bear it if I was to be mixed up in crime of any kind. You see—’

Mr Gardener cleared his throat. He said:

‘You see, M. Poirot, Mrs Gardener is very sensitive.’

The hands of Hercule Poirot shot into the air.

‘But let me assure you, Madame, that I am here simply in the same way that you are here yourselves—to enjoy myself—to spend the holiday. I do not think of crime even.’

Miss Brewster said again, giving her short gruff bark:

‘No bodies on Smugglers’ Island.’

Hercule Poirot said:

‘Ah! but that, it is not strictly true.’ He pointed downward. ‘Regard them there, lying out in rows. What are they? They are not men and women. There is nothing personal about them. They are just—bodies!’

Major Barry said appreciatively:

‘Good-looking fillies, some of ’em. Bit on the thin side, perhaps.’

Poirot cried:

‘Yes, 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 calf—a knee—a beribboned garter—’

‘Naughty, naughty!’ said Major Barry hoarsely.

‘Much more sensible—the things we wear nowadays,’ said Miss Brewster.

‘Why, yes, M. Poirot,’ said Mrs Gardener. ‘I do think, you know, that our girls and boys nowadays lead a much more natural healthy life. They just romp about together and they—well, they—’ Mrs Gardener blushed slightly for she had a nice mind—‘they think nothing of it, if you know what I mean?’

‘I do know,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘It is deplorable!’

‘Deplorable?’ squeaked Mrs Gardener.

‘To remove all the romance—all the mystery! Today everything is standardized!’ He waved a hand towards the recumbent figures. ‘That reminds me very much of the Morgue in Paris.’

‘M. Poirot!’ Mrs Gardener was scandalized.

‘Bodies—arranged on slabs—like butcher’s meat!’

‘But M. Poirot, isn’t that too far-fetched for words?’

Hercule Poirot admitted:

‘It may be, yes.’

‘All the same,’ Mrs Gardener knitted with energy, ‘I’m 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. I’ve said so to Irene—that’s my daughter, M. Poirot. Irene, I said to her, if you lie out like that in the sun, you’ll 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. Didn’t I, Odell?’

‘Yes, darling,’ 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:

‘I wonder now—’

Mr Gardener said:

‘Yes, darling?’

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

‘What about joining us for a drink, Miss Brewster?’

‘Not just now, thanks.’

The Gardeners went up to the hotel.

Miss Brewster said:

‘American husbands are wonderful!’

III

Mrs Gardener’s 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:

‘Marvellous country! I’ve been from Leathercombe Bay to Harford and back over the cliffs.’

‘Warm work walking today,’ said Major Barry who never walked.

‘Good exercise,’ said Miss Brewster. ‘I haven’t been for my row yet. Nothing like rowing for your stomach muscles.’

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

Miss Brewster, noting the glance, said kindly:

‘You’d soon get that off, M. Poirot, if you took a rowing-boat out every day.’

‘Merci, Mademoiselle. I detest boats!’

‘You mean small boats?’

‘Boats of all sizes!’ He closed his eyes and shuddered. ‘The movement of the sea, it is not pleasant.’

‘Bless the man, the sea is as calm as a mill pond today.’

Poirot replied with conviction:

‘There is no such thing as a really calm sea. Always, always, there is motion.’

‘If you ask me,’ said Major Barry, ‘seasickness is nine-tenths nerves.’

‘There,’ said the clergyman, smiling a little, ‘speaks the good sailor—eh, Major?’

‘Only been ill once—and that was crossing the Channel! Don’t think about it, that’s my motto.’

‘Seasickness is really a very odd thing,’ mused Miss Brewster. ‘Why should some people be subject to it and not others? It seems so unfair. And nothing to do with one’s ordinary health. Quite sickly people are good sailors. Someone told me once it was something to do with one’s spine. Then there’s the way some people can’t stand heights. I’m 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. She’d gone up without thinking but coming down did for her.’

‘She’d better not go down the ladder to Pixy Cove, then,’ observed Lane.

Miss Brewster made a face.

‘I funk that myself. It’s all right for the young. The Cowan boys and the young Mastermans, they run up and down and enjoy it.’

Lane said.

‘Here comes Mrs Redfern now, coming up from her bathe.’

Miss Brewster remarked:

‘M. Poirot ought to approve of her. She’s no sun-bather.’

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:

‘Looks a bit uncooked among the others, doesn’t she?’

Wrapping herself in a long bath-robe 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:

‘You have earned M. Poirot’s good opinion. He doesn’t like the sun-tanning crowd. Says they’re like joints of butcher’s meat, or words to that effect.’

Christine Redfern smiled ruefully. She said:

‘I wish I could sun-bathe! But I don’t go brown. I only blister and get the most frightful freckles all over my arms.’

‘Better than getting hair all over them like Mrs Gardener’s Irene,’ said Miss Brewster. In answer to Christine’s inquiring glance she went on: ‘Mrs Gardener’s been in grand form this morning. Absolutely non-stop. “Isn’t that so, Odell?” “Yes, darling.” ’ She paused and then said: ‘I wish, though, M. Poirot, that you’d played up to her a bit. Why didn’t you? Why didn’t 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?’

Hercule Poirot sighed. He said:

‘I very much fear she would have believed me.’

Major Barry gave a wheezy chuckle. He said:

‘She certainly would.’

Emily Brewster said:

‘No, I don’t believe even Mrs Gardener would have believed in a crime staged here. This isn’t the sort of place you’d get a body!’

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

‘But why not, Mademoiselle? Why should there not be what you call a “body” here on Smugglers’ Island?’

Emily Brewster said:

‘I don’t know. I suppose some places are more unlikely than others. This isn’t the kind of spot—’ She broke off, finding it difficult to explain her meaning.

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

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

Miss Brewster shrugged her shoulders.

‘Oh! of course I realize that, but all the same—’

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

‘Human nature, I suppose?’

‘That, 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.’

Emily Brewster turned a puzzled face to him.

‘I don’t understand.’

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

‘Let us say, you have an enemy. If you seek him out in his flat, in his office, in the street—eh bien, you must have a reason—you 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 August—one goes to the seaside in August—one is on one’s 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.’

‘Well,’ admitted Miss Brewster, ‘that’s certainly a very ingenious idea. But what about the Gardeners? They’re American.’

Poirot smiled.

‘Even Mrs Gardener, as she told us, feels the need to relax. Also, since she is “doing” England, she must certainly spend a fortnight at the seaside—as a good tourist, if nothing else. She enjoys watching people.’

Mrs Redfern murmured:

‘You like watching the people too, I think?’

‘Madame, I will confess it. I do.’

She said thoughtfully: ‘You see—a good deal.’

IV

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

‘I 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.’ He paused and then quoted himself: ‘Yea, also the heart of the sons of men is full of evil, and madness is in their heart while they live.’ His face lit up with an almost fanatical light. ‘I 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 better—who are undeveloped—who 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!’

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

‘I’m sorry. I got carried away.’

Poirot said calmly:

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

Major Barry cleared his throat.

‘Talking of that sort of thing, some of these fakir fellers in India—’

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.

‘That’s your husband swimming in now, isn’t it, Mrs Redfern? How magnificent his crawl stroke is. He’s an awfully good swimmer.’

At the same moment Mrs Redfern said:

‘Oh look! What a lovely little boat that is out there with the red sails. It’s Mr Blatt’s, isn’t it?’

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

Major Barry grunted:

‘Fanciful idea, red sails,’ 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 gaiety—a 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:

‘Come up here, Pat.’

‘I’m coming.’

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 youth—of 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 Poirot’s left the Reverend Stephen Lane drew in his breath with a little hiss and his figure stiffened.

Major Barry said in a hoarse whisper:

‘Arlena Stuart (that’s who she was before she married Marshall)—I saw her in Come and Go before she left the stage. Something worth looking at, eh?’

Christine Redfern said slowly and her voice was cold: ‘She’s handsome—yes. I think—she looks rather a beast!’

Emily Brewster said abruptly:

‘You talked about evil just now, M. Poirot. Now to my mind that woman’s a personification of evil! She’s a bad lot through and through. I happen to know a good deal about her.’

Major Barry said reminiscently:

‘I remember a gal out in Simla. She had red hair too. Wife of a subaltern. Did she set the place by the ears? I’ll 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.’

He chuckled reminiscently.

‘Husband was a nice quiet fellow. Worshipped the ground she walked on. Never saw a thing—or made out he didn’t.’

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

‘Such women are a menace—a menace to—’

He stopped.

Arlena Stuart had come to the water’s 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 Redfern’s 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:

‘It’s rather too bad. She’s a nice little thing. They’ve only been married a year or two.’

‘Gal I was speaking of,’ said Major Barry, ‘the one in Simla. She upset a couple of really happy marriages. Seemed a pity, what?’

‘There’s a type of woman,’ said Miss Brewster, ‘who likes smashing up homes.’ She added after a minute or two, ‘Patrick Redfern’s a fool!’

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

Miss Brewster said:

‘Well, I’d better go and get hold of my boat.’

She left them.

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

‘Well, Poirot,’ he said. ‘What are you thinking about? You’ve not opened your mouth. What do you think of the siren? Pretty hot?’

Poirot said:

‘C’est possible.’

‘Now then, you old dog. I know you Frenchmen!’

Poirot said coldly:

‘I am not a Frenchman!’

‘Well, don’t tell me you haven’t got an eye for a pretty girl! What do you think of her, eh?’

Hercule Poirot said:

‘She is not young.’

‘What does that matter? A woman’s as old as she looks! Her looks are all right.’

Hercule Poirot nodded. He said:

‘Yes, 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.’

‘It’s IT, my boy,’ said the Major. ‘That’s what it is—IT.’

Then he said with sudden curiosity.

‘What are you looking at so steadily?’

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

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

‘Oh, that!’ said Major Barry. ‘That’s the husband, my boy. That’s Marshall.’

Hercule Poirot said:

‘Yes, I know.’

Major Barry chuckled. He himself was a bachelor. He was accustomed to think of The Husband in three lights only—as ‘the Obstacle’, ‘the Inconvenience’ or ‘the Safeguard’.

He said:

‘Seems a nice fellow. Quiet. Wonder if my Times has come?’

He got up and went up towards the hotel.

Poirot’s 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:

‘That woman is evil through and through. Do you doubt it?’

Poirot said slowly:

‘It is difficult to be sure.’

Stephen Lane said:

‘But, man alive, don’t you feel it in the air? All round you? The presence of Evil.’

Slowly, Hercule Poirot nodded his head.

Chapter 2

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 London’s best-known dressmakers.

She said:

‘I don’t think I like this place. I’m wondering why I came here!’

‘You have been here before, have you not?’

‘Yes, two years ago, at Easter. There weren’t so many people then.’

Hercule Poirot looked at her. He said gently:

‘Something has occurred to worry you. That is right, is it not?’

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

‘I’ve met a ghost. That’s what it is.’

‘A ghost, Mademoiselle?’

‘Yes.’

‘The ghost of what? Or of whom?’

‘Oh, the ghost of myself.’

Poirot asked gently:

‘Was it a painful ghost?’

‘Unexpectedly painful. It took me back, you know…’

She paused, musing. Then she said.

‘Imagine my childhood. No, you can’t! You’re not English!’

Poirot asked:

‘Was it a very English childhood?’

‘Oh, incredibly so! The country—a big shabby house—horses, dogs—walks in the rain—wood fires—apples in the orchard—lack of money—old tweeds—evening dresses that went on from year to year—a neglected garden—with Michaelmas daisies coming out like great banners in the autumn…’

Poirot asked gently:

‘And you want to go back?’

Rosamund Darnley shook her head. She said:

‘One can’t go back, can one? That—never. But I’d like to have gone on—a different way.’

Poirot said:

‘I wonder.’

Rosamund Darnley laughed.

‘So do I, really!’

Poirot said:

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

Rosamund said:

‘No—I suppose not. It would be a big risk. One wouldn’t like to take on being Mussolini or Princess Elizabeth. As for one’s 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. I’d have changed places with her willingly. Somebody told me afterwards that in private they’d never spoken to each other for eleven years!’

She laughed.

‘That shows, doesn’t it, that you never know?’

After a moment or two Poirot said:

‘Many people, Mademoiselle, must envy you.’

Rosamund Darnley said coolly:

‘Oh, yes. Naturally.’

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

‘Yes, I’m 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. I’m very well off, I’ve a good figure, a passable face, and a not too malicious tongue.’

She paused. Her smiled widened.

‘Of course—I haven’t got a husband! I’ve failed there, haven’t I, M. Poirot?’

Poirot said gallantly:

‘Mademoiselle, 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.’

Rosamund Darnley said:

‘And yet, like all men, I’m sure you believe in your heart that no woman is content unless she is married and has children.’

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

‘To marry and have children, that is the common lot of women. Only one woman in a hundred—more, in a thousand, can make for herself a name and a position as you have done.’

Rosamund grinned at him.

‘And yet, all the same, I’m nothing but a wretched old maid! That’s what I feel today, at any rate. I’d be happier with twopence a year and a big silent brute of a husband and a brood of brats running after me. That’s true, isn’t it?’

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

‘Since you say so, then, yes, Mademoiselle.’

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

She said:

‘You 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 I’m damned well off as I am—and I know it!’

‘Then everything in the garden—or shall we say at the seaside? is lovely, Mademoiselle.’

‘Quite right.’

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:

‘So Mr—no, Captain Marshall is an old friend of yours, Mademoiselle?’

Rosamund sat up. She said:

‘Now how do you know that? Oh, I suppose Ken told you.’

Poirot shook his head.

‘Nobody has told me anything. After all, Mademoiselle, I am a detective. It was the obvious conclusion to draw.’

Rosamund Darnley said: ‘I don’t see it.’

‘But consider!’ The little man’s hands were eloquent. ‘You 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!’

Rosamund Darnley said:

‘Well, it’s true enough. Kenneth Marshall and I were more or less children together. The Marshalls lived next door to us. Ken was always nice to me—although condescending, of course, since he was four years older. I’ve not seen anything of him for a long time. It must be—fifteen years at least.’

Poirot said thoughtfully:

‘A long time.’

Rosamund nodded.

There was a pause and then Hercule Poirot said:

‘He is sympathetic, yes?’

Rosamund said warmly:

‘Ken’s a dear. One of the best. Frightfully quiet and reserved. I’d say his only fault is a penchant for making unfortunate marriages.’

Poirot said in a tone of great understanding: ‘Ah—’

Rosamund Darnley went on.

‘Kenneth’s a fool—an utter fool where women are concerned! Do you remember the Martingdale case?’

Poirot frowned.

‘Martingdale? Martingdale? Arsenic, was it not?’

‘Yes. Seventeen or eighteen years ago. The woman was tried for the murder of her husband.’

‘And he was proved to have been an arsenic eater and she was acquitted?’

‘That’s right. Well, after her acquittal, Ken married her. That’s the sort of damn silly thing he does.’

Hercule Poirot murmured:

‘But if she was innocent?’

Rosamund Darnley said impatiently:

‘Oh, 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 who’s stood her trial for murder.’

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

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

She paused.

‘And 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 didn’t 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 fool—the complete fool!’

Hercule Poirot murmured:

‘A man might be excused such a folly—she is beautiful, Mademoiselle.’

‘Yes, there’s 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 Ken’s eyes if anything would.’

‘And did it not?’

Rosamund Darnley shrugged her shoulders.

‘I tell you I’ve 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?’

There might be other reasons.’

‘Yes. Pride! Keeping a stiff upper lip! I don’t know what he really feels about her. Nobody does.’

‘And she? What does she feel about him?’

Rosamund stared at him.

She said:

‘She? She’s the world’s first gold-digger. And a man-eater as well! If anything personable in trousers comes within a hundred yards of her, it’s fresh sport for Arlena! She’s that kind.’

Poirot nodded his head slowly in complete agreement.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That is true what you say…Her eyes look for one thing only—men.’

Rosamund said:

‘She’s got her eye on Patrick Redfern now. He’s a good-looking man—and rather the simple kind—you know, fond of his wife, and not a philanderer. That’s the kind that’s meat and drink to Arlena. I like little Mrs Redfern—she’s nice-looking in her fair washed-out way—but I don’t think she’ll stand a dog’s chance against that man-eating tiger, Arlena.’

Poirot said:

‘No, it is as you say.’

He looked distressed.

Rosamund said:

‘Christine Redfern was a school teacher, I believe. She’s the kind that thinks that mind has a pull over matter. She’s got a rude shock coming to her.’

Poirot shook his head vexedly.

Rosamund got up. She said:

‘It’s a shame, you know.’ She added vaguely: ‘Somebody ought to do something about it.’

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 cheek-bones and the long aggressive line of the chin. Her mouth and teeth weren’t perhaps quite so bad—but what were teeth after all? And was that a spot coming on the side of her nose?

She decided with relief that it wasn’t a spot. She thought to herself:

‘It’s awful to be sixteen—simply awful.’

One didn’t, 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 hadn’t 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 didn’t want to go to Paris—but then she didn’t want to be at home either. She’d never realized properly, somehow, until now, how very much she disliked Arlena.

Linda’s young face grew tense, her green eyes hardened.

Arlena…

She thought to herself:

‘She’s a beast—a beast…’

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 Arlena’s movements emphasized Linda’s own adolescent clumsiness. With Arlena about, one felt, shamingly, just how immature and crude one was.

But it wasn’t that only. No, it wasn’t only that.

Linda groped haltingly in the recesses of her mind. She wasn’t very good at sorting out her emotions and labelling them. It was something that Arlena did to people—to the house—

‘She’s bad,’ thought Linda with decision. ‘She’s quite, quite bad.’

But you couldn’t even leave it at that. You couldn’t 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 different…

She puzzled over it. Father coming down to take her out from school. Father taking her once for a cruise. And Father at home—with Arlena there. All—all sort of bottled up and not—and not there.

Linda thought:

‘And it’ll go on like this. Day after day—month after month. I can’t bear it.’

Life stretched before her—endless—in a series of days darkened and poisoned by Arlena’s 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:

‘I’d like to kill her. Oh! I wish she’d die…’

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:

‘If only Arlena would go away, I could enjoy myself.’

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:

‘Why, Kenneth!’

And her father, looking frightfully surprised, had exclaimed:

‘Rosamund!’

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 nicely—as though it fitted her—most people’s hair didn’t fit them. And her clothes were nice. And she had a kind of funny amused face—as though it were amused at herself, not at you. Rosamund had been nice to her, Linda. She hadn’t been gushing or said things. (Under the term of ‘saying things’ Linda grouped a mass of miscellaneous dislikes.) And Rosamund hadn’t looked as though she thought Linda a fool. In fact she’d 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.

Funny—he’d looked quite different, all of a sudden. He’d looked—he’d looked—Linda puzzled it out—why, young, that was it! He’d laughed—a queer boyish laugh. Now Linda came to think of it, she’d very seldom heard him laugh.

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

‘I wonder what Father was like when he was my age…’

But that was too difficult. She gave it up.

An idea flashed across her mind.

What fun it would have been if they’d come here and found Miss Darnley here—just she and Father.

A vista opened out just for a minute. Father, boyish and laughing, Miss Darnley, herself—and all the fun one could have on the island—bathing—caves—

The blackness shut down again.

Arlena. One couldn’t enjoy oneself with Arlena about. Why not? Well, she, Linda, couldn’t anyway. You couldn’t be happy when there was a person there you—hated. Yes, hated. She hated Arlena.

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

Linda’s face went very white. Her lips parted a little. The pupils of her eyes contracted. And her fingers stiffened and clenched themselves…

III

Kenneth Marshall tapped on his wife’s 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:

‘Oh, it’s you, Ken.’

‘Yes. I wondered if you were ready.’

‘Just a minute.’

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:

‘Arlena?’

‘Yes?’

‘You’ve met Redfern before, I gather?’

Arlena said easily:

‘Oh yes, darling. At a cocktail party somewhere. I thought he was rather a pet.’

‘So I gather. Did you know that he and his wife were coming down here?’

Arlena opened her eyes very wide.

‘Oh no, darling. It was the greatest surprise!’

Kenneth Marshall said quietly:

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

Arlena put down the mascara. She turned towards him. She smiled—a soft seductive smile. She said:

‘Somebody told me about this place. I think it was the Rylands. They said it was simply too marvellous—so unspoilt! Don’t you like it?’

Kenneth Marshall said:

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Oh, darling, but you adore bathing and lazing about. I’m sure you’ll simply adore it here.’

‘I can see that you mean to enjoy yourself.’

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

Kenneth Marshall said:

‘I suppose the truth of it is that you told young Redfern that you were coming here?’

Arlena said:

‘Kenneth darling, you’re not going to be horrid, are you?’

Kenneth Marshall said:

‘Look here, Arlena. I know what you’re like. They’re rather a nice young couple. That boy’s fond of his wife, really. Must you upset the whole blinking show?’

Arlena said:

‘It’s so unfair blaming me. I haven’t done anything—anything at all. I can’t help it if—’

He prompted her.

‘If what?’

Her eyelids fluttered.

‘Well, of course. I know people do go crazy about me. But it’s not my doing. They just get like that.’

‘So you do admit that young Redfern is crazy about you?’

Arlena murmured:

‘It’s really rather stupid of him.’

She moved a step towards her husband.

‘But you know, don’t you, Ken, that I don’t really care for anyone but you?’

She looked up at him through her darkened lashes.

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

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

‘I think I know you pretty well, Arlena…’

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 south-west 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:

‘It’s a glorious evening, isn’t it, Christine?’

‘Yes.’

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

Christine Redfern asked in her quiet voice:

‘Did you know that woman was going to be here?’

He turned sharply. He said:

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I think you do.’

‘Look here, Christine. I don’t know what has come over you—’

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

‘Over me? It’s what has come over you!’

‘Nothing’s come over me.’

‘Oh! Patrick! it has! You insisted so on coming here. You were quite vehement. I wanted to go to Tintagel again where—where we had our honeymoon. You were bent on coming here.’

‘Well, why not? It’s a fascinating spot.’

‘Perhaps. But you wanted to come here because she was going to be here.’

‘She? Who is she?’

‘Mrs Marshall. You—you’re infatuated with her.’

‘For God’s sake, Christine, don’t make a fool of yourself. It’s not like you to be jealous.’

His bluster was a little uncertain. He exaggerated it.

She said:

‘We’ve been so happy.’

‘Happy? Of course we’ve been happy! We are happy. But we shan’t go on being happy if I can’t even speak to another woman without you kicking up a row.’

‘It’s not like that.’

‘Yes, it is. In marriage one has got to have—well—friendships with other people. This suspicious attitude is all wrong. I—I can’t speak to a pretty woman without your jumping to the conclusion that I’m in love with her—’

He stopped. He shrugged his shoulders.

Christine Redfern said:

‘You are in love with her…’

‘Oh, don’t be a fool, Christine! I’ve—I’ve barely spoken to her.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Don’t for goodness’ sake get into the habit of being jealous of every pretty woman we come across.’

Christine Redfern said:

‘She’s not just any pretty woman! She’s—she’s different! She’s a bad lot! Yes, she is. She’ll do you harm, Patrick, please, give it up. Let’s go away from here.’

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

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Christine. And—and don’t let’s quarrel about it.’

‘I don’t want to quarrel.’

‘Then behave like a reasonable human being. Come on, let’s go back to the hotel.’

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

She said:

‘Very well…’

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.

‘Besides,’ as he explained to his friend Hastings at a later date, ‘it was a question of murder.’

Hastings said, staring:

‘But the murder hadn’t happened, then.’

Hercule Poirot sighed. He said:

‘But already, mon cher, it was very clearly indicated.’

‘Then why didn’t you stop it?’

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.

Chapter 3

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:

‘It’s nice to get away from people.’

Marshall murmured inaudibly:

‘M—m, yes.’

He rolled over, sniffing at the short turf.

‘Smells good. Remember the downs at Shipley?’

‘Rather.’

‘Pretty good, those days.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve not changed much, Rosamund.’

‘Yes, I have. I’ve changed enormously.’

‘You’ve been very successful and you’re rich and all that, but you’re the same old Rosamund.’

Rosamund murmured:

‘I wish I were.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Nothing. It’s a pity, isn’t it, Kenneth, that we can’t keep the nice natures and high ideals that we had when we were young?’

‘I don’t 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.’

Rosamund laughed. She said:

‘Do you remember the day that we took Toby down to get water rats?’

They spent some minutes in recalling old adventures.

Then there came a pause.

Rosamund’s fingers played with the clasp of her bag. She said at last:

‘Kenneth?’

‘Um.’ His reply was indistinct. He was still lying on his face on the turf.

‘If I say something to you that is probably outrageously impertinent will you never speak to me again?’

He rolled over and sat up.

‘I don’t think,’ he said seriously, ‘that I would ever regard anything you said as impertinent. You see, you belong.’

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

‘Kenneth, why don’t you get a divorce from your wife?’

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

Rosamund said:

‘I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.’

He said quietly:

‘You haven’t offended me.’

‘Well then, why don’t you?’

‘You don’t understand, my dear girl.’

‘Are you—so frightfully fond of her?’

‘It’s not just a question of that. You see, I married her.’

‘I know. But she’s—pretty notorious.’

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

‘Is she? I suppose she is.’

‘You could divorce her, Ken.’

‘My dear girl, you’ve got no business to say a thing like that. Just because men lose their heads about her a bit isn’t to say that she loses hers.’

Rosamund bit off a rejoinder. Then she said:

‘You could fix it so that she divorced you—if you prefer it that way.’

‘I dare say I could.’

‘You ought to, Ken. Really, I mean it. There’s the child.’

‘Linda?’

‘Yes, Linda.’

‘What’s Linda to do with it?’

‘Arlena’s not good for Linda. She isn’t really. Linda, I think, feels things a good deal.’

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

‘Yes—there’s something in that. I suppose Arlena and Linda aren’t very good for each other. Not the right thing for a girl perhaps. It’s a bit worrying.’

Rosamund said:

‘I like Linda—very much. There’s something—fine about her.’

Kenneth said:

‘She’s like her mother. She takes things hard like Ruth did.’

Rosamund said:

‘Then don’t you think—really—that you ought to get rid of Arlena?’

‘Fix up a divorce?’

‘Yes. People are doing that all the time.’

Kenneth Marshall said with sudden vehemence:

‘Yes, and that’s just what I hate.’

‘Hate?’ She was startled.

‘Yes. Sort of attitude to life there is nowadays. If you take on a thing and don’t like it, then you get yourself out of it as quick as possible! Dash it all, there’s got to be such a thing as good faith. If you marry a woman and engage yourself to look after her, well it’s up to you to do it. It’s your show. You’ve taken it on. I’m sick of quick marriage and easy divorce. Arlena’s my wife, that’s all there is to it.’

Rosamund leaned forward. She said in a low voice:

‘So it’s like that with you? “Till death do us part”?’

Kenneth Marshall nodded his head.

He said:

‘That’s just it.’

Rosamund said:

‘I see.’

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.

‘Hullo-ullo-ullo,’ 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 Blatt’s 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.

‘Nearly made you into strawberry jam, didn’t I?’ said Mr Blatt gaily.

Christine Redfern said:

‘Yes, you did.’

‘Jump in,’ said Mr Blatt.

‘Oh, thanks—I think I’ll walk.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Mr Blatt. ‘What’s a car for?’

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:

‘And what are you doing walking about all alone? That’s all wrong, a nice-looking girl like you.’

Christine said hurriedly:

‘Oh! I like being alone.’

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

‘Girls always say that,’ he said. ‘They don’t 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 there’s a good amount of duds staying there. A lot of kids, to begin with and a lot of old fogeys too. There’s that old Anglo-Indian bore and that athletic parson and those yapping Americans and that foreigner with the moustache—makes me laugh that moustache of his! I should say he’s a hairdresser, something of that sort.’

Christine shook her head.

‘Oh no, he’s a detective.’

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

‘A detective? D’you mean he’s in disguise?’

Christine smiled faintly.

She said:

‘Oh no, he really is like that. He’s Hercule Poirot. You must have heard of him.’

Mr Blatt said:

‘Didn’t catch his name properly. Oh yes, I’ve heard of him. But I thought he was dead. Dash it, he ought to be dead. What’s he after down here?’

‘He’s not after anything—he’s just on a holiday.’

‘Well, I suppose that might be so,’ Mr Blatt seemed doubtful about it. ‘Looks a bit of a bounder, doesn’t he?’

‘Well,’ said Christine and hesitated. ‘Perhaps a little peculiar.’

‘What I say is,’ said Mr Blatt, ‘what’s wrong with Scotland Yard? Buy British every time for me.’

He reached the bottom of the hill and with a triumphant fanfare of the horn ran the car into the Jolly Roger’s 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 couldn’t possibly read The Four Feathers or Vice Versa. She took out a small squat volume in brown calf.

The time passed…

With a start Linda shoved the book back in the shelf as Christine Redfern’s voice said:

‘What are you reading, Linda?’

Linda said hurriedly:

‘Nothing. I’m looking for a book.’

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

Christine said:

‘Mr Blatt just drove me home—after nearly running over me first. I really felt I couldn’t walk all across the causeway with him, so I said I had to buy some things.’

Linda said:

‘He’s awful, isn’t he? Always saying how rich he is and making the most terrible jokes.’

Christine said:

‘Poor man. One really feels rather sorry for him.’

Linda didn’t agree. She didn’t 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 Linda’s opinion. Neither of them talked much to her for one thing. Now, as they walked, Christine didn’t say anything. That, Linda thought, was sensible. If you hadn’t anything worth saying why go chattering all the time?

She lost herself in her own perplexities.

She said suddenly:

‘Mrs Redfern, have you ever felt that everything’s so awful—so terrible—that you’ll—oh, burst…?’

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

She caught her breath sharply.

She said:

‘Yes—yes—I have felt—just that…’

IV

Mr Blatt said:

‘So you’re the famous sleuth, eh?’

They were in the cocktail bar, a favourite haunt of Mr Blatt’s.

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

Mr Blatt went on.

‘And what are you doing down here—on a job?’

‘No, no. I repose myself. I take the holiday.’

Mr Blatt winked.

‘You’d say that anyway, wouldn’t you?’

Poirot replied:

‘Not necessarily.’

Horace Blatt said:

‘Oh! Come now. As a matter of fact you’d be safe enough with me. I don’t repeat all I hear! Learnt to keep my mouth shut years ago. Shouldn’t have got on the way I have if I hadn’t known how to do that. But you know what most people are—yap, yap, yap about everything they hear! Now you can’t afford that in your trade! That’s why you’ve got to keep it up that you’re here holiday-making and nothing else.’

Poirot asked:

‘And why should you suppose the contrary?’

Mr Blatt closed one eye.

He said:

‘I’m a man of the world. I know the cut of a fellow’s jib. A man like you would be at Deauville or Le Touquet or down at Juan les Pins. That’s your—what’s the phrase?—spiritual home.’

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

‘It is possible that you are right! There, at least, in wet weather there are the distractions.’

‘Good old Casino!’ said Mr Blatt. ‘You know, I’ve 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 money’s as good as any man’s. I’ve seen a bit of life in the last few years, I can tell you.’

Poirot murmured:

‘Ah, yes?’

‘Don’t know why I came to this place,’ Mr Blatt continued.

Poirot observed:

‘I, too, wondered?’

‘Eh, what’s that?’

Poirot waved an eloquent hand.

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

‘Instead of which, we’re both here, eh?’

Mr Blatt gave a hoarse chuckle.

‘Don’t really know why I came here,’ he mused. ‘I think, you know, it sounded romantic. Jolly Roger Hotel, Smugglers’ Island. That kind of address tickles you up, you know. Makes you think of when you were a boy. Pirates, smuggling, all that.’

He laughed, rather self-consciously.

‘I 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 don’t really fancy it. I like mucking about in that little yawl of mine. Redfern’s keen on sailing, too. He’s been out with me once or twice. Can’t get hold of him now—always hanging round that red-haired wife of Marshall’s.’

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

‘Mostly a dried up lot of sticks in this hotel! Mrs Marshall’s about the only lively spot! I should think Marshall’s got his hands full looking after her. All sorts of stories about her in her stage days—and after! Men go crazy about her. You’ll see, there’ll be a spot of trouble one of these days.’

Poirot asked: ‘What kind of trouble?’

Horace Blatt replied:

‘That depends. I’d say, looking at Marshall, that he’s a man with a funny kind of temper. As a matter of fact, I know he is. Heard something about him. I’ve met that quiet sort. Never know where you are with that kind. Redfern had better look out—’

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

‘And, as I say, sailing round this coast is good fun. Hullo, Redfern, have one with me? What’ll you have? Dry Martini? Right. What about you, M. Poirot?’

Poirot shook his head.

Patrick Redfern sat down and said:

‘Sailing? It’s 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.’

Poirot said:

‘Then you know this part of the world well?’

‘Rather! I knew this place before there was a hotel on it. There were just a few fishermen’s cottages at Leathercombe Bay and a tumbledown old house, all shut up, on the island.’

‘There was a house here?’

‘Oh, yes, but it hadn’t been lived in for years. Was practically falling down. There used to be all sorts of stories of secret passages from the house to Pixy’s Cave. We were always looking for that secret passage, I remember.’

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

‘What is this Pixy’s Cave?’

Patrick said:

‘Oh, don’t you know it? It’s on Pixy Cove. You can’t find the entrance to it easily. It’s 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 don’t know about it. I asked one the other day why the place was called Pixy Cove and he couldn’t tell me.’

Hercule Poirot said:

‘But I still do not understand. What is this pixy?’

Patrick Redfern said:

‘Oh! that’s typically Devonshire. There’s the pixy’s cave at Sheepstor on the Moor. You’re supposed to leave a pin, you know, as a present for the pixy. A pixy is a kind of moor spirit.’

Hercule Poirot said:

‘Ah! but it is interesting, that.’

Patrick Redfern went on.

‘There’s 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.’

Horace Blatt said:

‘You mean when they’ve had a couple?’

Patrick Redfern said with a smile:

‘That’s certainly the commonsense explanation!’

Blatt looked at his watch. He said:

‘I’m going in to dinner. On the whole, Redfern, pirates are my favourites, not pixies.’

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

‘Faith, I’d like to see the old boy pixy led himself!’

Poirot observed meditatively:

‘For a hard-bitten business man, M. Blatt seems to have a very romantic imagination.’

Patrick Redfern said:

‘That’s because he’s only half educated. Or so my wife says. Look at what he reads! Nothing but thrillers or Wild West stories.’

Poirot said:

‘You mean that he has still the mentality of a boy?’

‘Well, don’t you think so, sir?’

‘Me, I have not seen very much of him.’

‘I haven’t either. I’ve been out sailing with him once or twice—but he doesn’t really like having anyone with him. He prefers to be on his own.’

Hercule Poirot said:

‘That is indeed curious. It is singularly unlike his practice on land.’

Redfern laughed. He said:

‘I know. We all have a bit of trouble keeping out of his way. He’d like to turn this place into a cross between Margate and Le Touquet.’

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

‘I think, M. Redfern, that you enjoy living.’

Patrick stared at him, surprised.

‘Indeed I do. Why not?’

‘Why not indeed,’ agreed Poirot. ‘I make you my felicitation on the fact.’

Smiling a little, Patrick Redfern said:

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘That is why, as an older man, a very much older man, I venture to offer you a piece of advice.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘A very wise friend of mine in the Police Force said to me years ago: “Hercule, my friend, if you would know tranquillity, avoid women.” ’

Patrick Redfern said:

‘I’m afraid it’s a bit late for that, sir. I’m married, you know.’

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

Patrick Redfern said sharply:

‘I’m very fond of her.’

‘Ah,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘I am delighted to hear it.’

Patrick’s brow was suddenly like thunder.

‘Look here, M. Poirot, what are you getting at?’

‘Les Femmes.’ Poirot leaned back and closed his eyes. ‘I 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?’

Patrick Redfern said angrily:

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Hercule Poirot said calmly:

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

‘You’ve been listening to these damned scandal-mongers. Mrs Gardener, the Brewster woman—nothing to do but to clack their tongues all day. Just because a woman’s good-looking—they’re down on her like a sack of coals.’

Hercule Poirot got up. He murmured:

‘Are you really as young as all that?’

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 open—a 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:

‘This seat is damp. You should not sit here. You will catch the chill.’

‘No, I shan’t. And what does it matter anyway.’

‘Tscha, tscha, you are not a child! You are an educated woman. You must look at things sensibly.’

She said coldly:

‘I can assure you I never take cold.’

Poirot said:

‘It 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.’

Christine said in a low fierce voice:

‘Do you know what I am most sick of in this place?’

‘What, Madame?’

‘Pity.’

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

She went on:

‘Do you think I don’t know? That I can’t see? All the time people are saying: “Poor Mrs Redfern—that poor little woman.” And anyway I’m not little, I’m tall. They say little because they are sorry for me. And I can’t bear it!’

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

‘There is something in that.’

‘That woman—’ said Christine and stopped.

Poirot said gravely:

‘Will you allow me to tell you something, Madame? Something that is as true as the stars above us? The Arlena Stuarts—or Arlena Marshalls—of this world—do not count.’

Christine Redfern said:

‘Nonsense.’

‘I assure you, it is true. Their Empire is of the moment and for the moment. To count—really and truly to count—a woman must have goodness or brains.’

Christine said scornfully:

‘Do you think men care for goodness or brains?’

Poirot said gravely:

‘Fundamentally, yes.’

Christine laughed shortly.

‘I don’t agree with you.’

Poirot said:

‘Your husband loves you, Madame. I know it.’

‘You can’t know it.’

‘Yes, yes. I know it. I have seen him looking at you.’

Suddenly she broke down. She wept stormily and bitterly against Poirot’s accommodating shoulder.

She said:

‘I can’t bear it…I can’t bear it…’

Poirot patted her arm. He said soothingly:

‘Patience—only patience.’

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

‘It’s all right. I’m better now. Leave me. I’d—I’d rather be alone.’

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 man’s voice, with the throb in it of emotion.

‘I’m crazy about you—crazy—you’ve driven me mad…You do care a little—you do care?’

He saw Arlena Marshall’s face—it was, he thought, like a sleek happy cat—it was animal, not human. She said softly:

‘Of course, Patrick darling, I adore you. You know that…’

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:

‘Remarkable night, what? After that foul day.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘Looks as though we should have fine weather tomorrow.’

Chapter 4

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 o’clock 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:

‘I’ll do it…’

She slipped out of her pyjamas and into her bathing-dress. Over it she flung on a bath-robe 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:

‘You’re up early. Going to have a dip?’

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.

‘Well, Miss, you are up early.’

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 Linda’s room when the girl returned.

‘Oh, there you are,’ Christine exclaimed. ‘I thought you couldn’t be really up yet.’

Linda said:

‘No, I’ve been bathing.’

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

‘The post has come early today.’

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:

‘What have you been buying candles for?’

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

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

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:

‘I’m playing tennis at twelve, so we’d better start fairly early. Half-past ten?’

‘Right. I’ll be ready. Meet you in the hall.’

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.

‘Oh! sorry, Miss Darnley.’

Rosamund said: ‘Lovely morning, isn’t it? One can hardly believe it after yesterday.’

‘I know. I’m going with Mrs Redfern to Gull Cove. I said I’d meet her at half-past ten. I thought I was late.’

‘No, it’s only twenty-five past.’

‘Oh! good.’

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

‘You’re not feverish, are you, Linda?’

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

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