Agatha Christie - Evil Under the Sun

‘Yes, of course. I’d forgotten that.’

Poirot said:

‘And you were wrong, Mademoiselle, when you thought that Captain Marshall did not see you.’

Rosamund said incredulously:

‘Kenneth did see me? Did-did he say so?’

Poirot nodded.

‘He saw you, Mademoiselle, in the mirror that hangs over the table.’

Rosamund caught her breath. She said:

‘Oh! I see.’

Poirot was no longer looking out to sea. He was looking at Rosamund Darnley’s hands as they lay folded in her lap. They were well-shaped hands, beautifully moulded with very long fingers.

Rosamund, shooting a quick look at him, followed the direction of his eyes. She said sharply:

‘What are you looking at my hands for? Do you think-do you think-?’

Poirot said:

‘Do I think-what, Mademoiselle?’

Rosamund Darnley said:

‘Nothing.’

It was perhaps an hour later that Hercule Poirot came to the top of the path leading to Gull Cove. There was someone sitting on the beach. A slight figure in a red shirt and dark blue shorts.

Poirot descended the path, stepping carefully in his tight smart shoes.

Linda Marshall turned her head sharply. He thought that she shrank a little.

Her eyes, as he came and lowered himself gingerly to the shingle beside her, rested on him with the suspicion and alertness of a trapped animal. He realized, with a pang, how young and vulnerable she was.

She said:

‘What is it? What do you want?’

Hercule Poirot did not answer for a minute or two. Then he said:

‘The other day you told the Chief Constable that you were fond of your stepmother and that she was kind to you.’

‘Well?’

‘That was not true, was it, Mademoiselle?’

‘Yes, it was.’

Poirot said:

‘She may not have been actively unkind-that I will grant. But you were not fond of her-Oh no-I think you disliked her very much. That was very plain to see.’

Linda said:

‘Perhaps I didn’t like her very much. But one can’t say that when a person is dead. It wouldn’t be decent.’

Poirot sighed. He said:

‘They taught you that at your school?’

‘More or less, I suppose.’

Hercule Poirot said:

‘When a person has been murdered, it is more important to be truthful than to be decent.’

Linda said:

‘I suppose you would say a thing like that.’

‘I would say it and I do say it. It is my business, you see, to find out who killed Arlena Marshall.’

Linda muttered:

‘I want to forget it all. It’s so horrible.’

Poirot said gently:

‘But you can’t forget, can you?’

Linda said:

‘I suppose some beastly madman killed her.’

Hercule Poirot murmured:

‘No, I do not think it was quite like that.’

Linda caught her breath. She said:

‘You sound-as though you knew?’

Poirot said:

‘Perhaps I do know.’ He paused and went on: ‘Will you trust me, my child, to do the best I can for you in your bitter trouble?’

Linda sprang up. She said:

‘I haven’t any trouble. There is nothing you can do for me. I don’t know what you are talking about.’

Poirot said, watching her:

‘I am talking about candles…’

He saw the terror leap into her eyes. She cried:

‘I won’t listen to you. I won’t listen.’

She ran across the beach, swift as a young gazelle and went flying up the zigzag path.

Poirot shook his head. He looked grave and troubled.

Inspector Colgate was reporting to the Chief Constable.

‘I’ve got on to one thing, sir, and something pretty sensational. It’s about Mrs Marshall’s money. I’ve been into it with her lawyers. I’d say it’s a bit of a shock to them. I’ve got proof of the blackmail story. You remember she was left fifty thousand pounds by old Erskine? Well, all that’s left of that is about fifteen thousand.’

The Chief Constable whistled.

‘Whew, what’s become of the rest?’

‘That’s the interesting point, sir. She’s sold out stuff from time to time, and each time she’s handled it in cash or negotiable securities-that’s to say she’s handed out money to someone that she didn’t want traced. Blackmail all right.’

The Chief Constable nodded.

‘Certainly looks like it. And the blackmailer is here in this hotel. That means it must be one of those three men. Got anything fresh on any of them?’

‘Can’t say I’ve got anything definite, sir. Major Barry’s a retired Army man, as he says. Lives in a small flat, has a pension and a small income from stocks. But he’s paid in pretty considerable sums into his account in the last year.’

‘That sounds promising. What’s his explanation?’

‘Says they’re betting gains. It’s perfectly true that he goes to all the large race meetings. Places his bets on the course too, doesn’t run an account.’

The Chief Constable nodded.

‘Hard to disprove that,’ he said. ‘But it’s suggestive.’

Colgate went on.

‘Next, the Reverend Stephen Lane. He’s bona fide all right-had a living at St Helen’s, Whiteridge, Surrey-resigned his living just over a year ago owing to ill-health. His ill-health amounted to his going into a nursing home for mental patients. He was there for over a year.’

‘Interesting,’ said Weston.

‘Yes, sir. I tried to get as much as I could out of the doctor in charge but you know what these medicos are-it’s difficult to pin them down to anything you can get hold of. But as far as I can make out, his reverence’s trouble was an obsession about the devil-especially the devil in the guise of a woman-scarlet woman-whore of Babylon.’

‘H’m,’ said Weston. ‘There have been precedents for murder there.’

‘Yes, sir. It seems to me that Stephen Lane is at least a possibility. The late Mrs Marshall was a pretty good example of what a clergyman would call a Scarlet Woman-hair and goings on and all. Seems to me it’s not impossible he may have felt it his appointed task to dispose of her. That is if he is really batty.’

‘Nothing to fit in with the blackmail theory?’

‘No, sir, I think we can wash him out as far as that’s concerned. Has some private means of his own, but not very much, and no sudden increase lately.’

‘What about his story of his movements on the day of the crime?’

‘Can’t get any confirmation of them. Nobody remembers meeting a parson in the lanes. As to the book at the church, the last entry was three days before and nobody had looked at it for about a fortnight. He could have quite easily gone over the day before, say, or even a couple of days before, and dated his entry the 25th.’

Weston nodded. He said:

‘And the third man?’

‘Horace Blatt? It’s my opinion, sir, that there’s definitely something fishy there. Pays income-tax on a sum far exceeding what he makes out of his hardware business. And mind you, he’s a slippery customer. He could probably cook up a reasonable statement-he gambles a bit on the Stock Exchange, and he’s in with one or two shady deals. Oh, yes, there may be plausible explanations, but there’s no getting away from it that he’s been making pretty big sums from unexplained sources for some years now.’

‘In fact,’ said Weston, ‘the idea is that Mr Horace Blatt is a successful blackmailer by profession?’

‘Either that, sir, or it’s dope. I saw Chief Inspector Ridgeway who’s in charge of the dope business, and he was no end keen. Seems there’s been a good bit of heroin coming in lately. They’re on to the small distributors, and they know more or less who’s running it the other end, but it’s the way it’s coming into the country that’s baffled them so far.’