“That means they—they haven’t decided?”
“Yes. More evidence is needed.”
“But—but what do they think?”
Marshall smiled a little in spite of himself.
“Oh, my dear child—who knows? And whom do you mean by they? The coroner, the jury, the police, the newspaper reporters, the fishing folk of Leathercombe Bay?”
Linda said slowly:
“I suppose I mean—the police.”
Marshall said dryly:
“Whatever the police think, they’re not giving it away at present.”
His lips closed tightly after the sentence. He went into the hotel.
As Rosamund Darnley was about to follow suit, Linda said:
“Rosamund!”
Rosamund turned. The mute appeal in the girl’s unhappy face touched her. She linked her arm through Linda’s and together they walked away from the hotel, taking the path that led to the extreme end of the island.
Rosamund said gently:
“Try not to mind so much, Linda. I know it’s all very terrible and a shock and all that, but it’s no use brooding over these things. And it can be only the—horror of it, that is worrying you. You weren’t in the least fond of Arlena, you know.”
She felt the tremor that ran through the girl’s body as Linda answered:
“No, I wasn’t fond of her….”
Rosamund went on:
“Sorrow for a person is different—one can’t put that behind one. But one can get over shock and horror by just not letting your mind dwell on it all the time.”
Linda said sharply:
“You don’t understand.”
“I think I do, my dear.”
Linda shook her head.
“No, you don’t. You don’t understand in the least—and Christine doesn’t understand either! Both of you have been nice to me, but you can’t understand what I’m feeling. You just think it’s morbid—that I’m dwelling on it all when I needn’t.”
She paused.
“But it isn’t that at all. If you knew what I know—”
Rosamund stopped dead. Her body did not tremble—on the contrary it stiffened. She stood for a minute or two, then she disengaged her arm from Linda’s.
She said:
“What is it that you know, Linda?”
The girl gazed at her. Then she shook her head.
She muttered:
“Nothing.”
Rosamund caught her by the arm. The grip hurt and Linda winced slightly.
Rosamund said:
“Be careful, Linda. Be damned careful.”
Linda had gone dead white.
She said:
“I am very careful—all the time.”
Rosamund said urgently:
“Listen, Linda, what I said a minute or two ago applies just the same—only a hundred times more so. Put the whole business out of your mind. Never think about it. Forget—forget… You can if you try! Arlena is dead and nothing can bring her back to life… Forget everything and live in the future. And above all, hold your tongue.”
Linda shrank a little. She said:
“You—you seem to know all about it?”
Rosamund said energetically:
“I don’t know anything! In my opinion a wandering maniac got on to the island and killed Arlena. That’s much the most probable solution. I’m fairly sure that the police will have to accept that in the end. That’s what must have happened! That’s what did happen!”
Linda said:
“If Father—”
Rosamund interrupted her.
“Don’t talk about it.”
Linda said:
“I’ve got to say one thing. My mother—”
“Well, what about her?”
“She—she was tried for murder, wasn’t she?”
“Yes.”
Linda said slowly:
“And then Father married her. That looks, doesn’t it, as though Father didn’t really think murder was very wrong—not always, that is.”
Rosamund said sharply:
“Don’t say things like that—even to me! The police haven’t got anything against your father. He’s got an alibi—an alibi that they can’t break. He’s perfectly safe.”
Linda whispered:
“Did they think at first that Father—?”
Rosamund cried:
“I don’t know what they thought! But they know now that he couldn’t have done it. Do you understand? He couldn’t have done it.”
She spoke with authority, her eyes commanded Linda’s acquiescence. The girl uttered a long fluttering sigh.
Rosamund said:
“You’ll be able to leave here soon. You’ll forget everything—everything!”
Linda said with sudden unexpected violence.
“I shall never forget.”
She turned abruptly and ran back to the hotel. Rosamund stared after her.
III
“There is something I want to know, Madame?”
Christine Redfern glanced up at Poirot in a slightly abstracted manner. She said:
“Yes?”
Hercule Poirot took very little notice of her abstraction. He had noted the way her eyes followed her husband’s figure where he was pacing up and down on the terrace outside the bar, but for the moment he had no interest in purely conjugal problems. He wanted information.
He said:
“Yes, Madame. It was a phrase—a chance phrase of yours the other day which roused my attention.”
Christine, her eyes still on Patrick, said:
“Yes? What did I say?”
“It was in answer to a question from the Chief Constable. You described how you went into Miss Linda Marshall’s room on the morning of the crime and how you found her absent from it and how she returned there, and it was then that the Chief Constable asked you where she had been.”
Christine said rather impatiently:
“And I said she had been bathing? Is that it?”
“Ah, but you did not say quite that. You did not say ‘she had been bathing.’ Your words were, ‘she said she had been bathing.’”
Christine said:
“It’s the same thing, surely.”
“No, it is not the same! The form of your answer suggests a certain attitude of mind on your part. Linda Marshall came into the room—she was wearing a bathing wrap and yet—for some reason—you did not at once assume she had been bathing. That is shown by your words, ‘she said she had been bathing.’ What was there about her appearance—was it her manner, or something that she was wearing or something she said—that led you to feel surprised when she said she had been bathing?”
Christine’s attention left Patrick and focused itself entirely on Poirot. She was interested. She said:
“That’s clever of you. It’s quite true, now I remember… I was, just faintly, surprised when Linda said she had been bathing.”
“But why, Madame, why?”
“Yes, why? That’s just what I’m trying to remember. Oh yes, I think it was the parcel in her hand.”
“She had a parcel?”
“Yes.”
“You do not know what was in it?”
“Oh yes, I do. The string broke. It was loosely done up in the way they do in the village. It was candles—they were scattered on the floor. I helped her to pick them up.”
“Ah,” said Poirot. “Candles.”
Christine stared at him. She said:
“You seem excited, M. Poirot.”
Poirot asked:
“Did Linda say why she had bought candles?”
Christine reflected.
“No, I don’t think she did. I suppose it was to read by at night—perhaps the electric light wasn’t good.”
“On the contrary, Madame, there was a bedside electric lamp in perfect order.”
Christine said:
“Then I don’t know what she wanted them for.”
Poirot said:
“Wha
t was her manner—when the string broke and the candles fell out of the parcel?”
Christine said slowly:
“She was—upset—embarrassed.”
Poirot nodded his head. Then he asked:
“Did you notice a calendar in her room?”
“A calendar? What kind of a calendar?”
Poirot said:
“Possibly a green calendar—with tear-off leaves.”
Christine screwed up her eyes in an effort of memory.
“A green calendar—rather a bright green. Yes, I have seen a calendar like that—but I can’t remember where. It may have been in Linda’s room, but I can’t be sure.”
“But you have definitely seen such a thing.”
“Yes.”
Again Poirot nodded.
Christine said rather sharply:
“What are you hinting at, M. Poirot? What is the meaning of all this?”
For answer Poirot produced a small volume bound in faded brown calf. He said:
“Have you ever seen this before?”
“Why—I think—I’m not sure—yes, Linda was looking into it in the village lending library the other day. But she shut it up and thrust it back quickly when I came up to her. It made me wonder what it was.”
Silently Poirot displayed the title.
A History of Witchcraft, Sorcery and of the Compounding of Untraceable Poisons.
Christine said:
“I don’t understand. What does all this mean?”
Poirot said gravely.
“It may mean, Madame, a good deal.”
She looked at him inquiringly, but he did not go on. Instead he asked:
“One more question, Madame, did you take a bath that morning before you went out to play tennis?”
Christine stared again.
“A bath? No. I would have had no time and, anyway, I didn’t want a bath—not before tennis. I might have had one after.”
“Did you use your bathroom at all when you came in?”
“I sponged my face and hands, that’s all.”
“You did not turn on the bath at all?”
“No, I’m sure I didn’t.”
Poirot nodded. He said:
“It is of no importance.”
IV
Hercule Poirot stood by the table where Mrs. Gardener was wrestling with a jig-saw. She looked up and jumped.
“Why, M. Poirot, how very quietly you came up beside me! I never heard you. Have you just come back from the inquest? You know, the very thought of that inquest makes me so nervous, I don’t know what to do. That’s why I’m doing this puzzle. I just felt I couldn’t sit outside on the beach as usual. As Mr. Gardener knows, when my nerves are all upset, there’s nothing like one of these puzzles for calming me. There now, where does this white piece fit in? It must be part of the fur rug, but I don’t seem to see….”
Gently Poirot’s hand took the piece from her. He said:
“It fits, Madame, here. It is part of the cat.”
“It can’t be. It’s a black cat.”
“A black cat, yes, but you see the tip of the black cat’s tail happens to be white.”
“Why, so it does! How clever of you! But I do think the people who make puzzles are kind of mean. They just go out of their way to deceive you.”
She fitted in another piece and then resumed.
“You know, M. Poirot, I’ve been watching you this last day or two. I just wanted to watch you detecting if you know what I mean—not that it doesn’t sound rather heartless put like that, as though it were all a game—and a poor creature killed. Oh dear, every time I think of it I get the shivers! I told Mr. Gardener this morning I’d just got to get away from here, and now the inquest’s over he thinks we’ll be able to leave tomorrow, and that’s a blessing, I’m sure. But about detecting, I would so like to know your methods—you know, I’d feel privileged if you’d just explain it to me.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“It is a little like your puzzle, Madame. One assembles the pieces. It is like a mosaic—many colours and patterns—and every strange-shaped little piece must be fitted into its own place.”
“Now isn’t that interesting? Why, I’m sure you explain it just too beautifully.”
Poirot went on:
“And sometimes it is like that piece of your puzzle just now. One arranges very methodically the pieces of the puzzle—one sorts the colours—and then perhaps a piece of one colour that should fit in with—say, the fur rug, fits in instead in a black cat’s tail.”
“Why, if that doesn’t sound too fascinating! And are there a great many pieces, M. Poirot?”
“Yes, Madame. Almost everyone here in this hotel has given me a piece for my puzzle. You amongst them.”
“Me?” Mrs. Gardener’s tone was shrill.
“Yes, a remark of yours, Madame, was exceedingly helpful. I might say it was illuminating.”
“Well, if that isn’t too lovely! Can’t you tell me some more, M. Poirot?”
“Ah! Madame, I reserve the explanations for the last chapter.”
Mrs. Gardener murmured:
“If that isn’t just too bad!”
V
Hercule Poirot tapped gently on the door of Captain Marshall’s room. Inside there was the sound of a typewriter.
A curt “Come in” came from the room and Poirot entered.
Captain Marshall’s back was turned to him. He was sitting typing at the table between the windows. He did not turn his head but his eyes met Poirot’s in the mirror that hung on the wall directly in front of him. He said irritably:
“Well, M. Poirot, what is it?”
Poirot said quickly:
“A thousand apologies for intruding. You are busy?”
Marshall said shortly: “I am rather.”
Poirot said:
“It is one little question that I would like to ask you.”
Marshall said:
“My God, I’m sick of answering questions. I’ve answered the police questions. I don’t feel called upon to answer yours.”
Poirot said:
“Mine is a very simple one. Only this. On the morning of your wife’s death, did you have a bath after you finished typing and before you went out to play tennis?”
“A bath? No, of course I didn’t! I’d had a bathe only an hour earlier!”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Thank you. That is all.”
“But look here. Oh—” the other paused irresolutely.
Poirot withdrew, gently closing the door.
Kenneth Marshall said:
“The fellow’s crazy!”
VI
Just outside the bar Poirot encountered Mr. Gardener. He was carrying two cocktails and was clearly on his way to where Mrs. Gardener was ensconced with her jig-saw.
He smiled at Poirot in genial fashion.
“Care to join us, M. Poirot?”
Poirot shook his head. He said:
“What did you think of the inquest, Mr. Gardener?”
Mr. Gardener lowered his voice. He said:
“Seemed kind of indeterminate to me. Your police, I gather, have got something up their sleeves.”
“It is possible,” said Hercule Poirot.
Mr. Gardener lowered his voice still further.
“I shall be glad to get Mrs. Gardener away. She’s a very, very sensitive woman, and this affair has got on her nerves. She’s very highly strung.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Will you permit me, Mr. Gardener, to ask you one question?”
“Why, certainly, M. Poirot. Delighted to assist in any way I can.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“You are a man of the world—a man, I think, of considerable acumen. What, frankly, was your opinion of the late Mrs. Marshall?”
Mr. Gardener’s eyebrows rose in surprise. He glanced cautiously round and lowered his voice.
“Well, M. Poirot, I’ve heard a few things that have been kind of goin
g around, if you get me, especially among the women.” Poirot nodded. “But if you ask me I’ll tell you my candid opinion and that is that that woman was pretty much of a darned fool!”
Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully:
“Now that is very interesting.”
VII
Rosamund Darnley said: “So it’s my turn, is it?”
“Pardon?”
She laughed.
“The other day the Chief Constable held this inquisition. You sat by. Today, I think, you are conducting your own unofficial inquiry. I’ve been watching you. First Mrs. Redfern, then I caught a glimpse of you through the lounge window where Mrs. Gardener is doing her hateful jig-saw puzzle. Now it’s my turn.”
Hercule Poirot sat down beside her. They were on Sunny Ledge. Below them the sea showed a deep-glowing green. Farther out it was a pale dazzling blue.
Poirot said:
“You are very intelligent, Mademoiselle. I have thought so ever since I arrived here. It would be a pleasure to discuss this business with you.”
Rosamund Darnley said softly:
“You want to know what I think about the whole thing?”
“It would be most interesting.”
Rosamund said:
“I think it’s really very simple. The clue is in the woman’s past.”
“The past? Not the present?”
“Oh! not necessarily the very remote past. I look at it like this. Arlena Marshall was attractive, fatally attractive, to men. It’s possible, I think, that she also tired of them rather quickly. Amongst her—followers, shall we say—was one who resented that. Oh, don’t misunderstand me, it won’t be someone who sticks out a mile. Probably some tepid little man, vain and sensitive—the kind of man who broods. I think he followed her down here, waited his opportunity and killed her.”
“You mean that he was an outsider, that he came from the mainland?”
“Yes. He probably hid in that cave until he got his chance.”
Poirot shook his head. He said:
“Would she go there to meet such a man as you describe? No, she would laugh and not go.”
Rosamund said:
“She mayn’t have known she was going to meet him. He may have sent her a message in some other person’s name.”
Poirot murmured:
“That is possible.”
Then he said:
“But you forget one thing, Mademoiselle. A man bent on murder could not risk coming in broad daylight across the causeway and past the hotel. Someone might have seen him.”
“They might have—but I don’t think that it’s certain. I think it’s quite possible that he could have come without anyone noticing him at all.”
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