Agatha Christie - Evil Under the Sun

Patrick Redfern murmured mechanically:

‘Yes-yes, whatever you think best.’

As she rowed vigorously away from the shore, Emily Brewster saw Patrick drop down beside the dead woman and bury his head in his hands. There was something so forlorn about his attitude that she felt an unwilling sympathy. He looked like a dog watching by its dead master. Nevertheless her robust common sense was saying to her:

‘Best thing that could have happened for him and his wife-and for Marshall and the child-but I don’t supposehe can see it that way, poor devil.’

Emily Brewster was a woman who could always rise to an emergency.

Inspector Colgate stood back by the cliff waiting for the police-surgeon to finish with Arlena’s body. Patrick Redfern and Emily Brewster stood a little to one side.

Dr Neasden rose from his knees with a quick deft movement.

He said:

‘Strangled-and by a pretty powerful pair of hands. She doesn’t seem to have put up much of a struggle. Taken by surprise. H’m-well-nasty business.’

Emily Brewster had taken one look and then quickly averted her eyes from the dead woman’s face. That horrible purple convulsed countenance.

Inspector Colgate asked:

‘What about time of death?’

Neasden said irritably:

‘Can’t say definitely without knowing more about her. Lots of factors to take into account. Let’s see, it’s quarter to one now. What time was it when you found her?’

Patrick Redfern, to whom the question was addressed, said vaguely:

‘Some time before twelve. I don’t know exactly.’

Emily Brewster said:

‘It was exactly a quarter to twelve when we found she was dead.’

‘Ah, and you came here in the boat. What time was it when you caught sight of her lying here?’

Emily Brewster considered.

‘I should say we rounded the point about five or six minutes earlier.’ She turned to Redfern. ‘Do you agree?’

He said vaguely:

‘Yes-yes-about that, I should think.’

Neasden asked the Inspector in a low voice:

‘This the husband? Oh! I see, my mistake. Thought it might be. He seems rather done in over it.’

He raised his voice officially.

‘Let’s put it at twenty minutes to twelve. She cannot have been killed very long before that. Say between then and eleven-quarter to eleven at the earliest outside limit.’

The Inspector shut his notebook with a snap.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘That ought to help us considerably. Puts it within very narrow limits-less than an hour all told.’

He turned to Miss Brewster.

‘Now then, I think it’s all clear so far. You’re Miss Emily Brewster and this is Mr Patrick Redfern, both staying at the Jolly Roger Hotel. You identify this lady as a fellow guest of yours at the hotel-the wife of a Captain Marshall?’

Emily Brewster nodded.

‘Then, I think,’ said Inspector Colgate, ‘that we’ll adjourn to the hotel.’

He beckoned to a constable.

‘Hawkes, you stay here and don’t allow anyone on to this cove. I’ll be sending Phillips along later.’

‘Upon my soul!’ said Colonel Weston. ‘This is a surprise finding you here!’

Hercule Poirot replied to the Chief Constable’s greeting in a suitable manner. He murmured:

‘Ah, yes, many years have passed since that affair at St Loo.’

‘I haven’t forgotten it, though,’ said Weston. ‘Biggest surprise of my life. The thing I’ve never got over, though, is the way you got round me about that funeral business. Absolutely unorthodox, the whole thing. Fantastic!’

‘Tout de meme, mon Colonel,’ said Poirot. ‘It produced the goods, did it not?’

‘Er-well, possibly. I dare say we should have got there by more orthodox methods.’

‘It is possible,’ agreed Poirot diplomatically.

‘And here you are in the thick of another murder,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘Any ideas about this one?’

Poirot said slowly:

‘Nothing definite-but it is interesting.’

‘Going to give us a hand?’

‘You would permit it, yes?’

‘My dear fellow, delighted to have you. Don’t know enough yet to decide whether it’s a case for Scotland Yard or not. Off-hand it looks as though our murderer must be pretty well within a limited radius. On the other hand, all these people are strangers down here. To find out about them and their motives you’ve got to go to London.’

Poirot said:

‘Yes, that is true.’

‘First of all,’ said Weston, ‘we’ve got to find out who last saw the dead woman alive. Chambermaid took her her breakfast at nine. Girl in the bureau downstairs saw her pass through the lounge and go out about ten.’

‘My friend,’ said Poirot, ‘I suspect that I am the man you want.’

‘You saw her this morning? What time?’

‘At five minutes past ten. I assisted her to launch her float from the bathing beach.’

‘And she went off on it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you see which direction she took?’

‘She paddled round that point there to the right.’

‘In the direction of Pixy’s Cove, that is?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the time then was-?’

‘I should say she actually left the beach at a quarter past ten.’

Weston considered.

‘That fits in well enough. How long should you say that it would take her to paddle round to the Cove?’

‘Ah me, I am not an expert. I do not go in boats or expose myself on floats. Perhaps half an hour?’

‘That’s about what I think,’ said the Colonel. ‘She wouldn’t be hurrying, I presume. Well, if she arrived there at a quarter to eleven, that fits in well enough.’

‘At what time does your doctor suggest she died?’

‘Oh, Neasden doesn’t commit himself. He’s a cautious chap. A quarter to eleven is his earliest outside limit.’

Poirot nodded. He said:

‘There is one other point that I must mention. As she left, Mrs Marshall asked me not to say I had seen her.’

Weston stared.

He said:

‘H’m, that’s rather suggestive, isn’t it?’

Poirot murmured.

‘Yes. I thought so myself.’

Weston tugged at his moustache. He said:

‘Look here, Poirot. You’re a man of the world. What sort of a woman was Mrs Marshall?’

A faint smile came to Poirot’s lips.

He asked:

‘Have you not already heard?’

The Chief Constable said dryly:

‘I know what the women say of her. They would. How much truth is there in it?Was she having an affair with this fellow Redfern?’

‘I should say undoubtedly - yes.’

‘He followed her down here, eh?’

‘There is reason to suppose so.’

‘And the husband? Did he know about it? What did he feel?’

Poirot said slowly:

‘It is not easy to know what Captain Marshall feels or thinks. He is a man who does not display his emotions.’

Weston said sharply:

‘But he might have ’em, all the same.’

Poirot nodded. He said:

‘Oh yes, he might have them.’

The Chief Constable was being as tactful as it was in his nature to be with Mrs Castle.

Mrs Castle was the owner and proprietress of the Jolly Roger Hotel. She was a woman of forty odd with a large bust, rather violent henna red hair, and an almost offensively refined manner of speech.

She was saying:

‘That such a thing should happen in my hotel! Ay am sure it has always been the quayettest place imaginable! The people who come here are such naice people. No rowdiness -if you know what ay mean. Not like the big hotels in St Loo.’

‘Quite so, Mrs Castle,’ said Colonel Weston. ‘But accidents happen in the best regulated-er households.’