Агата Кристи - Зло под солнцем / Evil Under the Sun

He rolled over and sat up.

“I don’t think,” he said seriously, “that I would ever regard anything you said as impertinent. You see, you belong.”

She nodded in acceptance of all that last phrase meant. She concealed only the pleasure it gave her.

“Kenneth, why don’t you get a divorce from your wife?”

His face altered. It hardened – the happy expression died out of it. He took a pipe from his pocket and began filling it. Rosamund said:

“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.”

He said quietly: “You haven’t offended me.”

“Well, then, why don’t you?”

“You don’t understand, my dear girl.”

“Are you so frightfully fond of her?”

“It’s not just a question of that. You see, I married her.”

“I know. But she’s pretty notorious.”

He considered that for a moment, ramming in the tobacco carefully.

“Is she? I suppose she is.”

“You could divorce her, Ken.”

“My dear girl, you’ve got no business to say a thing like that. Just because men lose their heads about her a bit isn’t to say that she loses hers.”

Rosamund bit off a rejoinder.

Then she said: “You could fix it so that she divorced you – if you prefer it that way.”

“I daresay I could.”

“You ought to, Ken. Really, I mean it. There’s the child.”

“Linda?”

“Yes, Linda.”

“What’s Linda got to do with it?”

“Arlena’s not good for Linda. She isn’t really. Linda, I think, feels things a good deal.”

Kenneth Marshall applied a match to his pipe.

Between puffs he said: “Yes – there’s something in that. I suppose Arlena and Linda aren’t very good for each other. Not the right thing for a girl perhaps. It’s a bit worrying.”

Rosamund said: “I like Linda – very much. There’s something – fine about her.”

Kenneth said: “She’s like her mother. She takes things hard like Ruth did.”

Rosamund said: “Then don’t you think – really – that you ought to get rid of Arlena?”

“Fix up a divorce?”

“Yes. People are doing that all the time.”

Kenneth Marshall said with sudden vehemence: “Yes, and that’s just what I hate.”

“Hate?” She was startled.

“Yes. Sort of attitude to life there is nowadays. If you take on a thing and don’t like it, then you get yourself out of it as quick as possible! Dash it all, there’s got to be such a thing as good faith. If you marry a woman and engage yourself to look after her, well, it’s up to you to do it. It’s your show. You’ve taken it on. I’m sick of quick marriage and easy divorce. Arlena’s my wife, that’s all there is to it.”

Rosamund leaned forward.

She said in a low voice: “So it’s like that with you? ‘Till death do us part’?”

Kenneth Marshall nodded his head.

He said: “That’s just it.”

Rosamund said: “I see.”

Mr Horace Blatt, returning to Leathercombe Bay down a narrow twisting lane, nearly ran down Mrs Redfern at a corner. As she flattened herself into the hedge, Mr Blatt brought his Sunbeam to a halt by applying the brakes vigorously.

“Hullo-ullo-ullo,” said Mr Blatt cheerfully.

He was a large man with a red face and a fringe of reddish hair round a shining bald spot. It was Mr Blatt’s apparent ambition to be the life and soul of any place he happened to be in. The Jolly Roger Hotel, in his opinion, given somewhat loudly, needed brightening up. He was puzzled at the way people seemed to melt and disappear when he himself arrived on the scene.

“Nearly made you into strawberry jam, didn’t I?” said Mr Blatt gaily.

Christine Redfern said: “Yes, you did.”

“Jump in,” said Mr Blatt.

“Oh, thanks I think I’ll walk.”

“Nonsense,” said Mr Blatt. “What’s a car for?”

Yielding to necessity Christine Redfern got in. Mr Blatt restarted the engine which had stopped owing to the suddenness with which he had previously pulled up. Mr Blatt inquired:

“And what are you doing walking about all alone? That’s all wrong, a nice-looking girl like you.”

Christine said hurriedly: “Oh! I like being alone.”

Mr Blatt gave her a terrific dig with his elbow, nearly sending the car into the hedge at the same time.

“Girls always say that,” he said. “They don’t mean it. You know, that place, the Jolly Roger, wants a bit of livening up. Nothing jolly about it. No life in it. Of course there’s a good amount of duds staying there. A lot of kids, to begin with, and a lot of old fogeys too. There’s that old Anglo-Indian bore and that athletic parson and those yapping Americans and that foreigner with the moustache makes me laugh that moustache of his! I should say he’s a hair-dresser, something of that sort.”

Christine shook her head.

“Oh, no, he’s a detective.”

Mr Blatt nearly let the car go into the hedge again.

“A detective? D’you mean he’s in disguise?”

Christine smiled faintly. She said: “Oh, no, he really is like that. He’s Hercule Poirot. You must have heard of him.”

Mr Blatt said: “Didn’t catch his name properly. Oh, yes, I’ve heard of him. But I thought he was dead… Dash it, he ought to be dead. What’s he after down here?”

“He’s not after anything – he’s just on a holiday.”

“Well, I suppose that might be so.” Mr Blatt seemed doubtful about it. “Looks a bit of a bounder, doesn’t he?”

“Well,” said Christine and hesitated. “Perhaps a little peculiar.”

“What I say is,” said Mr Blatt, “what’s wrong with Scotland Yard? Buy British every time for me.”

He reached the bottom of the hill and with a triumphant fanfare of the horn ran the car into the Jolly Roger’s garage which was situated, for tidal reasons, on the mainland opposite the hotel.

Linda Marshall was in the small shop which catered to the wants of visitors to Leathercombe Bay. One side of it was devoted to shelves on which were books which could be borrowed for the sum of twopence. The newest of them was ten years old, some were twenty years old and others older still.

Linda took first one and then another doubtfully from the shelf and glanced into it. She decided she couldn’t possibly read The Four Feathers or Vice Versa. She took out a small squat volume in brown calf. The time passed… With a start Linda shoved the book back in the shelf as Christine Redfern’s voice said:

“What are you reading, Linda?”

Linda said hurriedly:

“Nothing. I’m looking for a book.”

She pulled out The Marriage of William Ashe at random and advanced to the counter fumbling for twopence.

Christine said: “Mr Blatt just drove me home after nearly running over me first, I really felt I couldn’t walk all across the causeway with him, so I said I had to buy some things.”

Linda said: “He’s awful, isn’t he? Always saying how rich he is and making the most terrible jokes.”

Christine said: “Poor man. One really feels rather sorry for him.”

Linda didn’t agree. She didn’t see anything to be sorry for in Mr Blatt. She was young and ruthless. She walked with Christine Redfern out of the shop and down towards the causeway. She was busy with her own thoughts. She liked Christine Redfern. She and Rosamund Darnley were the only bearable people on the island in Linda’s opinion. Neither of them talked much to her for one thing. Now, as they walked, Christine didn’t say anything. That, Linda thought, was sensible. If you hadn’t anything worth saying why go chattering all the time? She lost herself in her own perplexities.

She said suddenly: “Mrs Redfern, have you ever felt that everything’s so awful – so terrible – that you’ll, oh, burst…”