Agatha Christie - Evil Under the Sun

Patrick Redfern rose and began to pace up and down the beach.

Mrs Gardener murmured:

‘Just like a tiger.’

Three pairs of eyes watched his pacing. Their scrutiny seemed to make Patrick Redfern uncomfortable. He looked more than sulky now. He looked in a flaming temper.

In the stillness a faint chime from the mainland came to their ears.

Emily Brewster murmured:

‘Wind’s from the east again. That’s a good sign when you can hear the church clock strike.’

Nobody said any more until Mr Gardener returned with a skein of brilliant magenta wool.

‘Why, Odell, what a long time you have been?’

‘Sorry darling, but you see it wasn’t in your bureau at all. I found it on your wardrobe shelf.’

‘Why, isn’t that too extraordinary? I could have declared I put it in that bureau drawer. I do think it’s fortunate that I’ve never had to give evidence in a court case. I’d just worry myself to death in case I wasn’t remembering a thing just right.’

Mr Gardener said:

‘Mrs Gardener is very conscientious.’

It was some five minutes later that Patrick Redfern said:

‘Going for your row this morning, Miss Brewster? Mind if I come with you?’

Miss Brewster said heartily:

‘Delighted.’

‘Let’s row right round the island,’ proposed Redfern.

Miss Brewster consulted her watch.

‘Shall we have time? Oh yes, it’s not half-past eleven yet. Come on, then, let’s start.’

They went down the beach together.

Patrick Redfern took first turn at the oars. He rowed with a powerful stroke. The boat leapt forward.

Emily Brewster said approvingly:

‘Good. We’ll see if you can keep that up.’

He laughed into her eyes. His spirits had improved.

‘I shall probably have a fine crop of blisters by the time we get back.’ He threw up his head, tossing back his black hair. ‘God, it’s a marvellous day! If you do get a real summer’s day in England there’s nothing to beat it.’

Emily Brewster said gruffly:

‘Can’t beat England anyway in my opinion. Only place in the world to live in.’

‘I’m with you.’

They rounded the point of the bay to the west and rowed under the cliffs. Patrick Redfern looked up.

‘Any one on Sunny Ledge this morning? Yes, there’s a sunshade. Who is it, I wonder?’

Emily Brewster said:

‘It’s Miss Darnley, I think. She’s got one of those Japanese affairs.’

They rowed up the coast. On their left was the open sea.

Emily Brewster said:

‘We ought to have gone the other way round. This way we’ve got the current against us.’

‘There’s very little current. I’ve swum out here and not noticed it. Anyway we couldn’t go the other way, the causeway wouldn’t be covered.’

‘Depends on the tide, of course. But they always say that bathing from Pixy Cove is dangerous if you swim out too far.’

Patrick was rowing vigorously still. At the same time he was scanning the cliffs attentively.

Emily Brewster thought suddenly:

‘He’s looking for the Marshall woman. That’s why he wanted to come with me. She hasn’t shown up this morning and he’s wondering what she’s up to. Probably she’s done it on purpose. Just a move in the game-to make him keener.’

They rounded the jutting point of rock to the south of the little bay named Pixy’s Cove. It was quite a small cove, with rocks dotted fantastically about the beach. It faced nearly north-west and the cliff overhung it a good deal. It was a favourite place for picnic teas. In the morning, when the sun was off, it was not popular and there was seldom anyone there.

On this occasion, however, there was a figure on the beach.

Patrick Redfern’s stroke checked and recovered.

He said in a would-be casual tone:

‘Hullo, who’s that?’

Miss Brewster said dryly:

‘It looks like Mrs Marshall.’

Patrick Redfern said, as though struck by the idea.

‘So it does.’

He altered his course, rowing inshore.

Emily Brewster protested.

‘We don’t want to land here, do we?’

Patrick Redfern said quickly:

‘Oh, plenty of time.’

His eyes looked into hers-something in them, a naïve pleading look rather like that of an importunate dog, silenced Emily Brewster. She thought to herself:

‘Poor boy, he’s got it badly. Oh well, it can’t be helped. He’ll get over it in time.’

The boat was fast approaching the beach.

Arlena Marshall was lying face downwards on the shingle, her arms outstretched. The white float was drawn up nearby.

Something was puzzling Emily Brewster. It was as though she was looking at something she knew quite well but which was in one respect quite wrong.

It was a minute or two before it came to her.

Arlena Marshall’s attitude was the attitude of a sun-bather. So had she lain many a time on the beach by the hotel, her bronzed body outstretched and the green cardboard hat protecting her head and neck.

But there was no sun on Pixy’s Beach and there would be none for some hours yet. The overhanging cliff protected the beach from the sun in the morning. A vague feeling of apprehension came over Emily Brewster.

The boat grounded on the shingle. Patrick Redfern called:

‘Hullo, Arlena.’

And then Emily Brewster’s foreboding took definite shape. For the recumbent figure did not move or answer.

Emily saw Patrick Redfern’s face change. He jumped out of the boat and she followed him. They dragged the boat ashore then set off up the beach to where that white figure lay so still and unresponsive near the bottom of the cliff.

Patrick Redfern got there first but Emily Brewster was close behind him.

She saw, as one sees in a dream, the bronzed limbs, the white backless bathing-dress-the red curl of hair escaping under the jade-green hat-saw something else too-the curious unnatural angle of the outspread arms. Felt, in that minute, that this body had notlain down but had been thrown…

She heard Patrick’s voice-a mere frightened whisper. He knelt down beside that still form-touched the hand-the arm…

He said in a low shuddering whisper:

‘My God, she’s dead…’

And then, as he lifted the hat a little, peered at the neck:

‘Oh, God, she’s been strangled… murdered.’

It was one of those moments when time stands still.

With an odd feeling of unreality Emily Brewster heard herself saying:

‘We musn’t touch anything… Not until the police come.’

Redfern’s answer came mechanically.

‘No-no-of course not.’ And then in a deep agonized whisper. ‘Who? Who? Who could have done that to Arlena. She can’t have-have been murdered. It can’t be true!’

Emily Brewster shook her head, not knowing quite what to answer.

She heard him draw in his breath-heard the low controlled rage in his voice as he said:

‘My God, if I get my hands on the foul fiend who did this.’

Emily Brewster shivered. Her imagination pictured a lurking murderer behind one of the boulders. Then she heard her voice saying:

‘Whoever did it wouldn’t be hanging about. We must get the police. Perhaps-’ she hesitated-‘one of us ought to stay with-with the body.’

Patrick Redfern said:

‘I’ll stay.’

Emily Brewster drew a little sigh of relief. She was not the kind of woman who would ever admit to feeling fear, but she was secretly thankful not to have to remain on that beach alone with the faint possibility of a homicidal maniac lingering close at hand.

She said:

‘Good. I’ll be as quick as I can. I’ll go in the boat. Can’t face that ladder. There’s a constable at Leathercombe Bay.’