Poirot cut in:
“That, you would say, is the advantage of strangulation! No bloodstains, no weapon—nothing to get rid of or conceal! Nothing is needed but physical strength—and the soul of a killer!”
His voice was so fierce, so charged with feeling, that Weston recoiled a little.
Hercule Poirot smiled at him apologetically.
“No one,” he said, “the bath is probably of no importance. Anyone may have had a bath. Mrs. Redfern before she went to play tennis, Captain Marshall, Miss Darnley. As I say, anyone. There is nothing in that.”
A police constable knocked at the door, and put in his head.
“It’s Miss Darnley, sir. She says she’d like to see you again for a minute. There’s something she forgot to tell you, she says.”
Weston said:
“We’re coming down—now.”
III
The first person they saw was Colgate. His face was gloomy.
“Just a minute, sir.”
Weston and Poirot followed him into Mrs. Castle’s office.
Colgate said:
“I’ve been checking up with Heald on this typewriting business. Not a doubt of it, it couldn’t be done under an hour. Longer, if you had to stop and think here and there. That seems to me pretty well to settle it. And look at this letter.”
He held it out.
“My dear Marshall—Sorry to worry you on your holiday but an entirely unforseen situation has arisen over the Burley and Tender contracts…”
“Etcetera, etcetera,” said Colgate. “Dated the 24th—that’s yesterday. Envelope postmarked yesterday evening E.C.1. and Leathercombe Bay this morning. Same typewriter used on envelope and in letter. And by the contents it was clearly impossible for Marshall to prepare his answer beforehand. The figures arise out of the ones in the letter—the whole thing is quite intricate.”
“H’m,” said Weston gloomily. “That seems to let Marshall out. We’ll have to look elsewhere.” He added: “I’ve got to see Miss Darnley again. She’s waiting now.”
Rosamund came in crisply. Her smile held an apologetic nuance.
She said:
“I’m frightfully sorry. Probably it isn’t worth bothering about. But one does forget things so.”
“Yes, Miss Darnley?”
The Chief Constable indicated a chair.
She shook her shapely black head.
“Oh, it isn’t worth sitting down. It’s simply this. I told you that I spent the morning lying out on Sunny Ledge. That isn’t quite accurate. I forgot that once during the morning I went back to the hotel and out again.”
“What time was that, Miss Darnley?”
“It must have been about a quarter past eleven.”
“You went back to the hotel, you said?”
“Yes, I’d forgotten my glare glasses. At first I thought I wouldn’t bother and then my eyes got tired and I decided to go in and get them.”
“You went straight to your room and out again?”
“Yes. At least, as a matter of fact, I just looked in on Ken—Captain Marshall. I heard his machine going and I thought it was so stupid of him to stay indoors typing on such a lovely day. I thought I’d tell him to come out.”
“And what did Captain Marshall say?”
Rosamund smiled rather shamefacedly.
“Well, when I opened the door he was typing so vigorously, and frowning and looking so concentrated, that I just went away quietly. I don’t think he even saw me come in.”
“And that was—at what time, Miss Darnley?”
“Just about twenty past eleven. I noticed the clock in the hall as I went out again.”
IV
“And that puts the lid on it finally,” said Inspector Colgate. “The chambermaid heard him typing up till five minutes to eleven. Miss Darnley saw him at twenty minutes past, and the woman was dead at a quarter to twelve. He says he spent that hour typing in his room, and it seems quite clear that he was typing in his room. That washes Captain Marshall right out.”
He stopped, then looking at Poirot with some curiosity, he asked:
“M. Poirot’s looking very serious over something.”
Poirot said thoughtfully:
“I was wondering why Miss Darnley suddenly volunteered this extra evidence.”
Inspector Colgate cocked his head alertly.
“Think there’s something fishy about it? That it isn’t just a question of ‘forgetting?’”
He considered for a minute or two, then he said slowly:
“Look here, sir, let’s look at it this way. Supposing Miss Darnley wasn’t on Sunny Ledge this morning as she says. That story’s a lie. Now suppose that after telling us her story, she finds that somebody saw her somewhere else or alternatively that someone went to the Ledge and didn’t find her there. Then she thinks up this story quick and comes and tells it to us to account for her absence. You’ll notice that she was careful to say Captain Marshall didn’t see her when she looked into his room.”
Poirot murmured:
“Yes, I noticed that.”
Weston said incredulously:
“Are you suggesting that Miss Darnley’s mixed up in this? Nonsense, seems absurd to me. Why should she be?”
Inspector Colgate coughed.
He said:
“You’ll remember what the American lady, Mrs. Gardener, said. She sort of hinted that Miss Darnley was sweet on Captain Marshall. There’d be a motive there, sir.”
Weston said impatiently:
“Arlena Marshall wasn’t killed by a woman. It’s a man we’ve got to look for. We’ve got to stick to the men in the case.”
Inspector Colgate sighed. He said:
“Yes, that’s true, sir. We always come back to that, don’t we?”
Weston went on:
“Better put a constable on to timing one or two things. From the hotel across the island to the top of the ladder. Let him do it running and walking. Same thing with the ladder itself. And somebody had better check the time it takes to go on a float from the bathing beach to the cove.”
Inspector Colgate nodded.
“I’ll attend to all that, sir,” he said confidently.
The Chief Constable said:
“Think I’ll go along to the cove now. See if Phillips has found anything. Then there’s that Pixy’s Cave we’ve been hearing about. Ought to see if there are any traces of a man waiting in there. Eh, Poirot? What do you think?”
“By all means. It is a possibility.”
Weston said:
“If somebody from outside had nipped over to the island that would be a good hiding place—if he knew about it. I suppose the locals know?”
Colgate said:
“Don’t believe the younger generation would. You see, ever since this hotel was started the coves have been private property. Fishermen don’t go there, or picnic parties. And the hotel people aren’t local. Mrs. Castle’s a Londoner.”
Weston said:
“We might take Redfern with us. He told us about it. What about you, M. Poirot?”
Hercule Poirot hesitated. He said, his foreign intonation very pronounced:
“Me, I am like Miss Brewster and Mrs. Redfern, I do not like to descend perpendicular ladders.”
Weston said: “You can go round by boat.”
Again Hercule Poirot sighed.
“My stomach, it is not happy on the sea.”
“Nonsense, man, it’s a beautiful day. Calm as a mill pond. You can’t let us down, you know.”
Hercule Poirot hardly looked like responding to this British adjuration. But at that moment, Mrs. Castle poked her ladylike face and elaborate coiffure round the door.
“Ay’m sure ay hope ay am not intruding,” she said. “But Mr. Lane, the clergyman, you know, has just returned. Ay thought you might like to know.”
“Ah yes, thanks, Mrs. Castle. We’ll see him right away.”
Mrs. Castle came a little farther into the room. She said:
&n
bsp; “Ay don’t know if it is worth mentioning, but ay have heard that the smallest incident should not be ignored—”
“Yes, yes?” said Weston impatiently.
“It is only that there was a lady and gentleman here about one o’clock. Came over from the mainland. For luncheon. They were informed that there had been an accident and that under the circumstances no luncheons could be served.”
“Any idea who they were?”
“Ay couldn’t say at all. Naturally no name was given. They expressed disappointment and a certain amount of curiosity as to the nature of the accident. Ay couldn’t tell them anything, of course. Ay should say, myself, they were summer visitors of the better class.”
Weston said brusquely:
“Ah well, thank you for telling us. Probably not important but quite right—er—to remember everything.”
“Naturally,” said Mrs. Castle, “ay wish to do my Duty!”
“Quite, quite. Ask Mr. Lane to come here.”
V
Stephen Lane strode into the room with his usual vigour.
Weston said:
“I’m the Chief Constable of the County, Mr. Lane. I suppose you’ve been told what has occurred here?”
“Yes—oh yes—I heard as soon as I got here. Terrible… Terrible…” His thin frame quivered. He said in a low voice: “All along—ever since I arrived here—I have been conscious—very conscious—of the forces of evil close at hand.”
His eyes, burning eager eyes, went to Hercule Poirot.
He said:
“You remember, M. Poirot? Our conversation some days ago? About the reality of evil?”
Weston was studying the tall, gaunt figure in some perplexity. He found it difficult to make this man out. Lane’s eyes came back to him. The clergyman said with a slight smile:
“I dare say that seems fantastic to you, sir. We have left off believing in evil in these days. We have abolished Hell fire! We no longer believe in the Devil! But Satan and Satan’s emissaries were never more powerful than they are today!”
Weston said:
“Er—er—yes, perhaps. That, Mr. Lane, is your province. Mine is more prosaic—to clear up a case of murder.”
Stephen Lane said:
“An awful word. Murder! One of the earliest sins known on earth—the ruthless shedding of an innocent brother’s blood…” He paused, his eyes half closed. Then, in a more ordinary voice he said:
“In what way can I help you?”
“First of all, Mr. Lane, will you tell me your own movements today?”
“Willingly. I started off early on one of my usual tramps. I am fond of walking. I have roamed over a good deal of the countryside round here. Today I went to St. Petrock-in-the-Combe. That is about seven miles from here—a very pleasant walk along winding lanes, up and down the Devon hills and valleys. I took some lunch with me and ate it in a spinney. I visited the church—it has some fragments—only fragments alas, of early glass—also a very interesting painted screen.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lane. Did you meet anyone on your walk?”
“Not to speak to. A cart passed me once and a couple of boys on bicycles and some cows. However,” he smiled, “if you want proof of my statement, I wrote my name in the book at the church. You will find it there.”
“You did not see anyone at the church itself—the Vicar, or the verger?”
Stephen Lane shook his head. He said:
“No, there was no one about and I was the only visitor. St. Petrock is a very remote spot. The village itself lies on the far side of it about half a mile farther on.”
Colonel Weston said pleasantly:
“You mustn’t think we’re—er—doubting what you say. Just a matter of checking up on everybody. Just routine, you know, routine. Have to stick to routine in cases of this kind.”
Stephen Lane said gently:
“Oh yes, I quite understand.”
Weston went on:
“Now the next point. Is there anything you know that would assist us at all? Anything about the dead woman? Anything that could give us a pointer as to who murdered her? Anything you heard or saw?”
Stephen Lane said:
“I heard nothing. All I can tell you is this: that I knew instinctively as soon as I saw her that Arlena Marshall was a focus of evil. She was Evil! Evil personified! Woman can be man’s help and inspiration in life—she can also be man’s downfall. She can drag a man down to the level of the beast. The dead woman was just such a woman. She appealed to everything base in a man’s nature. She was a woman such as Jezebel and Aholibah. Now—she has been struck down in the middle of her wickedness!”
Hercule Poirot stirred. He said:
“Not struck down—strangled! Strangled, Mr. Lane, by a pair of human hands.”
The clergyman’s own hands trembled. The fingers writhed and twitched. He said, and his voice came low and choked:
“That’s horrible—horrible—Must you put it like that?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“It is the simple truth. Have you any idea, Mr. Lane, whose hands those were?”
The other shook his head. He said: “I know nothing—nothing….”
Weston got up. He said, after a glance at Colgate to which the latter replied by an almost imperceptible nod, “Well, we must get on to the Cove.”
Lane said:
“Is that where—it happened?”
Weston nodded.
Lane said:
“Can—can I come with you?”
About to return a curt negative, Weston was forestalled by Poirot.
“But certainly,” said Poirot. “Accompany me there in a boat, Mr. Lane. We start immediately.”
Nine
For the second time that morning Patrick Redfern was rowing a boat into Pixy Cove. The other occupants of the boat were Hercule Poirot, very pale with a hand to his stomach, and Stephen Lane. Colonel Weston had taken the land route. Having been delayed on the way he arrived on the beach at the same time as the boat grounded. A police constable and a plainclothes sergeant were on the beach already. Weston was questioning the latter as the three from the boat walked up and joined him.
Sergeant Phillips said:
“I think I’ve been over every inch of the beach, sir.”
“Good, what did you find?”
“It’s all together here, sir, if you’d like to come and see.”
A small collection of objects was laid out neatly on a rock. There was a pair of scissors, an empty Gold Flake packet, five patent bottle tops, a number of used matches, three pieces of string, one or two fragments of newspaper, a fragment of a smashed pipe, four buttons, the drumstick bone of a chicken and an empty bottle of sunbathing oil.
Weston looked down appraisingly on the objects.
“H’m,” he said. “Rather moderate for a beach nowadays! Most people seem to confuse a beach with a public rubbish dump! Empty bottle’s been here some time by the way the label’s blurred—so have most of the other things, I should say. The scissors are new, though. Bright and shining. They weren’t out in yesterday’s rain! Where were they?”
“Close by the bottom of the ladder, sir. Also this bit of pipe.”
“H’m, probably dropped by someone going up or down. Nothing to say who they belong to?”
“No, sir. Quite an ordinary pair of nail scissors. Pipe’s a good quality brier—expensive.”
Poirot murmured thoughtfully:
“Captain Marshall told us, I think, that he had mislaid his pipe.”
Weston said:
“Marshall’s out of the picture. Anyway, he’s not the only person who smokes a pipe.”
Hercule Poirot was watching Stephen Lane as the latter’s hand went to his pocket and away again. He said pleasantly:
“You also smoke a pipe, do you not, Mr. Lane?”
The clergyman started. He looked at Poirot.
He said:
“Yes. Oh yes. My pipe is an old friend and companion.” Putting his hand in
to his pocket again he drew out a pipe, filled it with tobacco and lighted it.
Hercule Poirot moved away to where Redfern was standing, his eyes blank.
He said in a low voice:
“I’m glad—they’ve taken her away….”
Stephen Lane asked:
“Where was she found?”
The Sergeant said cheerfully:
“Just about where you’re standing, sir.”
Lane moved swiftly aside. He stared at the spot he had just vacated.
The Sergeant went on:
“Place where the float was drawn up agrees with putting the time she arrived here at 10:45. That’s going by the tide. It’s turned now.”
“Photography all done?” asked Weston.
“Yes, sir.”
Weston turned to Redfern.
“Now then, man, where’s the entrance to this cave of yours?”
Patrick Redfern was still staring down at the beach where Lane had been standing. It was as though he was seeing that sprawling body that was no longer there.
Weston’s words recalled him to himself.
He said: “It’s over here.”
He led the way to where a great mass of tumbled-down rocks were massed picturesquely against the cliff side. He went straight to where two big rocks, side by side, showed a straight narrow cleft between them. He said:
“The entrance is here.”
Weston said:
“Here? Doesn’t look as though a man could squeeze through.”
“It’s deceptive, you’ll find, sir. It can just be done.”
Weston inserted himself gingerly into the cleft. It was not as narrow as it looked. Inside, the space widened and proved to be a fairly roomy recess with room to stand upright and to move about.
Hercule Poirot and Stephen Lane joined the Chief Constable. The other stayed outside. Light filtered in through the opening, but Weston had also got a powerful torch which he played freely over the interior.
He observed:
“Handy place. You’d never suspect it from the outside.”
He played the torch carefully over the floor.
Hercule Poirot was delicately sniffing the air.
Noticing this, Weston said:
“Air quite fresh, not fishy or seaweedy, but of course this place is well above high water mark.”
But to Poirot’s sensitive nose, the air was more than fresh. It was delicately scented. He knew two people who used that elusive perfume….
Evil Under the Sun Page 13
