Evil Under the Sun (14 page)

“And what is that?”

Hercule Poirot, his eyes raised to the ceiling, murmured:

“I think that he is—
nervous!
”

IV

Inspector Colgate said:

“I've got those times worked out. From the hotel to the ladder down to Pixy Cove three minutes. That's walking till you are out of sight of the hotel and then running like hell.”

Weston raised his eyebrows. He said:

“That's quicker than I thought.”

“Down ladder to beach one minute and three quarters. Up same two minutes. That's P.C. Flint. He's a bit of an athlete. Walking and taking the ladder in the normal way, the whole business takes close on a quarter of an hour.”

Weston nodded. He said:

“There's another thing we must go into, the pipe question.”

Colgate said:

“Blatt smokes a pipe, so does Marshall, so does the parson. Redfern smokes cigarettes, the American prefers a cigar. Major Barry doesn't smoke at all. There's one pipe in Marshall's room, two in Blatt's, and one in the parson's. Chambermaid says Marshall has two pipes. The other chambermaid isn't a very bright girl. Doesn't know how many pipes the other two have. Says vaguely she's noticed two or three about in their rooms.”

Weston nodded.

“Anything else?”

“I've checked up on the staff. They all seem quite O.K. Henry, in the bar, checks Marshall's statement about seeing him at ten to eleven. William, the beach attendant, was down repairing the ladder on the rocks by the hotel most of the morning. He seems all right. George marked the tennis court and then bedded out some
plants round by the dining room. Neither of them would have seen anyone who came across the causeway to the island.”

“When was the causeway uncovered?”

“Round about 9:30, sir.”

Weston pulled at his moustache.

“It's possible somebody did come that way. We've got a new angle, Colgate.”

He told of the discovery of the sandwich box in the cave.

V

There was a tap on the door.

“Come in,” said Weston.

It was Captain Marshall.

He said:

“Can you tell me what arrangements I can make about the funeral?”

“I think we shall manage the inquest for the day after tomorrow, Captain Marshall.”

“Thank you.”

Inspector Colgate said:

“Excuse me, sir, allow me to return you these.”

He handed over the three letters.

Kenneth Marshall smiled rather sardonically.

He said:

“Has the police department been testing the speed of my typing? I hope my character is cleared.”

Colonel Weston said pleasantly.

“Yes, Captain Marshall, I think we can give you a clean bill of health. Those sheets take fully an hour to type. Moreover you were heard typing them by the chambermaid up till five minutes to eleven and you were seen by another witness at twenty minutes past.”

Captain Marshall murmured:

“Really? That all seems very satisfactory!”

“Yes. Miss Darnley came to your room at twenty minutes past eleven. You were so busy typing that you did not observe her entry.”

Kenneth Marshall's face took on an impassive expression. He said:

“Does Miss Darnley say that?” He paused. “As a matter of fact she is wrong. I
did
see her, though she may not be aware of the fact. I saw her in the mirror.”

Poirot murmured:

“But you did not interrupt your typing?”

Marshall said shortly:

“No. I wanted to get finished.”

He paused a minute, then, in an abrupt voice, he said:

“Nothing more I can do for you?”

“No, thank you, Captain Marshall.”

Kenneth Marshall nodded and went out.

Weston said with a sigh:

“There goes our most hopeful suspect—cleared! Hullo, here's Neasden.”

The doctor came in with a trace of excitement in his manner. He said:

“That's a nice little death lot you sent me along.”

“What is it?”

“What is it? Diamorphine Hydrochloride. Stuff that's usually called Heroin.”

Inspector Colgate whistled. He said:

“Now we're getting places, all right! Depend upon it, this dope stunt is at the bottom of the whole business.”

T
he little crowd of people flocked out of the Red Bull. The brief inquest was over—adjourned for a fortnight.

Rosamund Darnley joined Captain Marshall. She said in a low voice:

“That wasn't so bad, was it, Ken?”

He did not answer at once. Perhaps he was conscious of the staring eyes of the villagers, the fingers that nearly pointed to him and only just did not quite do so!

“That's 'im, my dear.” “See, that's 'er 'usband.” “That be the 'usband.” “Look, there 'e goes….”

The murmurs were not loud enough to reach his ears, but he was none the less sensitive to them. This was the modern-day pillory. The Press he had already encountered—self-confident, persuasive young men, adept at battering down his wall of silence of “Nothing to say” that he had endeavoured to erect. Even the curt monosyllables that he had uttered, thinking that they at least could
not lead to misapprehension, had reappeared in his morning's papers in a totally different guise. “Asked whether he agreed that the mystery of his wife's death could only be explained on the assumption that a homicidal murderer had found his way on to the island, Captain Marshall declared that—” and so on and so forth.

Cameras had clicked ceaselessly. Now, at this minute, the well-known sound caught his ear. He half-turned—a smiling young man was nodding cheerfully, his purpose accomplished.

Rosamund murmured:

“Captain Marshall and a friend leaving the Red Bull after the inquest.”

Marshall winced.

Rosamund said:

“It's no use, Ken! You've got to face it! I don't mean just the fact of Arlena's death—I mean all the attendant beastliness. The staring eyes and gossiping tongues, the fatuous interviews in the papers—and the best way to meet it is to find it funny! Come out with all the old inane cliches and curl a sardonic lip at them.”

He said:

“Is that your way?”

“Yes.” She paused. “It isn't yours, I know. Protective colouring is your line. Remain rigidly nonactive and fade into the background! But you can't do that here—you've no background to fade into. You stand out clear for all to see—like a striped tiger against a white backcloth.
The husband of the murdered woman!
”

“For God's sake, Rosamund—”

She said gently:

“My dear, I'm trying to be good for you!”

They walked for a few steps in silence. Then Marshall said in a different voice:

“I know you are. I'm not really ungrateful, Rosamund.”

They had progressed beyond the limits of the village. Eyes followed them but there was no one very near. Rosamund Darnley's voice dropped as she repeated a variant of her first remark.

“It didn't really go so badly, did it?”

He was silent for a moment, then he said:

“I don't know.”

“What do the police think?”

“They're noncommittal.”

After a minute Rosamund said:

“That little man—Poirot—is he really taking an active interest!”

Kenneth Marshall said:

“Seemed to be sitting in the Chief Constable's pocket all right the other day.”

“I know—but is he
doing
anything?”

“How the hell should I know, Rosamund?”

She said thoughtfully:

“He's pretty old. Probably more or less ga ga.”

“Perhaps.”

They came to the causeway. Opposite them, serene in the sun, lay the island.

Rosamund said suddenly:

“Sometimes—things seem unreal. I can't believe, this minute, that it ever happened….”

Marshall said slowly:

“I think I know what you mean. Nature is so regardless! One ant the less—that's all it is in Nature!”

Rosamund said:

“Yes—and that's the proper way to look at it really.”

He gave her one very quick glance. Then he said in a low voice:

“Don't worry, my dear. It's all right.
It's all right.
”

II

Linda came down to the causeway to meet them. She moved with the spasmodic jerkiness of a nervous colt. Her young face was marred by deep black shadows under her eyes. Her lips were dry and rough.

She said breathlessly:

“What happened—what—what did they say?”

Her father said abruptly:

“Inquest adjourned for a fortnight.”

“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:

“What 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: