Poirot said gently:
“No, it is not at all the same.”
Linda nodded. A queer sort of spasm passed across her face. She said:
“And anyway, Mrs. Redfern could never do a thing like that—kill anybody. She isn’t—she isn’t violent, if you know what I mean.”
Weston and Poirot nodded. The latter said:
“I know exactly what you mean, my child, and I agree with you. Mrs. Redfern is not of those who, as your saying goes, ‘sees red.’ She would not be”—he leaned back half closing his eyes, picking his words with care—“shaken by a storm of feeling—seeing life narrowing in front of her—seeing a hated face—a hated white neck—feeling her hands clench—longing to feel them press into flesh—”
He stopped.
Linda moved jerkily back from the table. She said in a trembling voice:
“Can I go now? Is that all?”
Colonel Weston said:
“Yes, yes, that’s all. Thank you, Miss Linda.”
He got up to open the door for her. Then came back to the table and lit a cigarette.
“Phew,” he said. “Not a nice job, ours. I can tell you I felt a bit of a cad questioning that child about the relations between her father and her stepmother. More or less inviting a daughter to put a rope round her father’s neck. All the same, it had to be done. Murder is murder. And she’s the person most likely to know the truth of things. I’m rather thankful, though, that she’d nothing to tell us in that line.”
Poirot said:
“Yes, I thought you were.”
Weston said with an embarrassed cough:
“By the way, Poirot, you went a bit far, I thought at the end. All that hands sinking into flesh business! Not quite the sort of idea to put into a kid’s head.”
Hercule Poirot looked at him with thoughtful eyes. He said:
“So you thought I put ideas into her head?”
“Well, didn’t you? Come now.”
Poirot shook his head.
Weston sheered away from the point. He said:
“On the whole we got very little useful stuff out of her. Except a more or less complete alibi for the Redfern woman. If they were together from half past ten to a quarter to twelve that lets Christine Redfern out of it. Exit the jealous wife suspect.”
Poirot said:
“There are better reasons than that for leaving Mrs. Redfern out of it. It would, I am convinced, be physically impossible and mentally impossible for her to strangle anyone. She is cold rather than warm blooded, capable of deep devotion and unswerving constancy, but not of hot-blooded passion or rage. Moreover, her hands are far too small and delicate.”
Colgate said:
“I agree with M. Poirot. She’s out of it. Dr. Neasden says it was a full-sized pair of hands that throttled that dame.”
Weston said:
“Well, I suppose we’d better see the Redferns next. I expect he’s recovered a bit from the shock now.”
III
Patrick Redfern had recovered full composure by now. He looked pale and haggard and suddenly very young, but his manner was quite composed.
“You are Mr. Patrick Redfern of Crossgates, Seldon, Princes Risborough?”
“Yes.”
“How long had you known Mrs. Marshall?”
Patrick Redfern hesitated, then said:
“Three months.”
Weston went on:
“Captain Marshall has told us that you and she met casually at a cocktail party. Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s how it came about.”
Weston said:
“Captain Marshall has implied that until you both met down here you did not know each other well. Is that the truth, Mr. Redfern?”
Again Patrick Redfern hesitated a minute. Then he said:
“Well—not exactly. As a matter of fact I saw a fair amount of her one way and another.”
“Without Captain Marshall’s knowledge?”
Redfern flushed slightly. He said:
“I don’t know whether he knew about it or not.”
Hercule Poirot spoke. He murmured:
“And was it also without your wife’s knowledge, Mr. Redfern?”
“I believe I mentioned to my wife that I had met the famous Arlena Stuart.”
Poirot persisted.
“But she did not know how often you were seeing her?”
“Well, perhaps not.”
Weston said:
“Did you and Mrs. Marshall arrange to meet down here?”
Redfern was silent a minute or two. Then he shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh well,” he said, “I suppose it’s bound to come out now. It’s no good my fencing with you. I was crazy about the woman—mad—infatuated—anything you like. She wanted me to come down here. I demurred a bit and then I agreed. I—I—well, I would have agreed to do any mortal thing she liked. She had that kind of effect on people.”
Hercule Poirot murmured:
“You paint a very clear picture of her. She was the eternal Circe. Just that!”
Patrick Redfern said bitterly:
“She turned men into swine all right!” He went on: “I’m being frank with you, gentlemen. I’m not going to hide anything. What’s the use? As I say, I was infatuated with her. Whether she cared for me or not, I don’t know. She pretended to, but I think she was one of those women who lose interest in a man once they’ve got him body and soul. She knew she’d got me all right. This morning, when I found her there on the beach, dead, it was as though”—he paused—“as though something had hit me straight between the eyes. I was dazed—knocked out!”
Poirot leaned forward. “And now?”
Patrick Redfern met his eyes squarely.
He said:
“I’ve told you the truth. What I want to ask is this—how much of it has got to be made public? It’s not as though it could have any bearing on her death. And if it all comes out, it’s going to be pretty rough on my wife.”
“Oh, I know,” he went on quickly. “You think I haven’t thought much about her up to now? Perhaps that’s true. But, though I may sound the worst kind of hypocrite, the real truth is that I care for my wife—care for her very deeply. The other”—he twitched his shoulders—“it was a madness—the kind of idiotic fool thing men do—but Christine is different. She’s real. Badly as I’ve treated her, I’ve known all along, deep down, that she was the person who really counted.” He paused—sighed—and said rather pathetically: “I wish I could make you believe that.”
Hercule Poirot leant forward. He said:
“But I do believe it. Yes, yes, I do believe it!”
Patrick Redfern looked at him gratefully. He said:
“Thank you.”
Colonel Weston cleared his throat. He said:
“You may take it, Mr. Redfern, that we shall not go into irrelevancies. If your infatuation for Mrs. Marshall played no part in the murder then there will be no point in dragging it into the case. But what you don’t seem to realize is that that—er—intimacy—may have a very direct bearing on the murder. It might establish, you understand, a motive for the crime.”
Patrick Redfern said:
“Motive?”
Weston said:
“Yes, Mr. Redfern, motive! Captain Marshall, perhaps, was unaware of the affair. Suppose that he suddenly found out?”
Redfern said:
“Oh God! You mean he got wise and—and killed her?”
The Chief Constable said rather dryly:
“That solution had not occurred to you?”
Redfern shook his head. He said:
“No—funny. I never thought of it. You see, Marshall’s such a quiet chap. I—oh, it doesn’t seem likely.”
Weston asked:
“What was Mrs. Marshall’s attitude to her husband in all this? Was she—well, uneasy—in case it should come to his ears? Or was she indifferent?”
Redfern said slowly:
“She was—a bit ne
rvous. She didn’t want him to suspect anything.”
“Did she seem afraid of him?”
“Afraid. No, I wouldn’t say that.”
Poirot murmured:
“Excuse me, M. Redfern, there was not, at any time, the question of a divorce?”
Patrick Redfern shook his head decisively.
“Oh no, there was no question of anything like that. There was Christine, you see. And Arlena, I am sure, never thought of such a thing. She was perfectly satisfied married to Marshall. He’s—well, rather a big bug in his way—” He smiled suddenly. “County—all that sort of thing, and quite well off. She never thought of me as a possible husband. No, I was just one of a succession of poor mutts—just something to pass the time with. I knew that all along, and yet, queerly enough, it didn’t alter my feeling towards her….”
His voice trailed off. He sat there thinking.
Weston recalled him to the needs of the moment.
“Now, Mr. Redfern, had you any particular appointment with Mrs. Marshall this morning?”
Patrick Redfern looked slightly puzzled.
He said:
“Not a particular appointment, no. We usually met every morning on the beach. We used to paddle about on floats.”
“Were you surprised not to find Mrs. Marshall there this morning?”
“Yes, I was. Very surprised. I couldn’t understand it at all.”
“What did you think?”
“Well, I didn’t know what to think. I mean, all the time I thought she would be coming.”
“If she were keeping an appointment elsewhere you had no idea with whom that appointment might be?”
Patrick Redfern merely stared and shook his head.
“When you had a rendezvous with Mrs. Marshall, where did you meet?”
“Well, sometimes I’d meet her in the afternoon down at Gull Cove. You see the sun is off Gull Cove in the afternoon and so there aren’t usually many people there. We met there once or twice.”
“Never on the other cove?” Pixy Cove?”
“No. You see Pixy Cove faces west and people go round there in boats or on floats in the afternoon. We never tried to meet in the morning. It would have been too noticeable. In the afternoon people go and have a sleep or mouch around and nobody knows much where any one else is.”
Weston nodded:
Patrick Redfern went on:
“After dinner, of course, on the fine nights, we used to go off for a stroll together to different parts of the island.”
Hercule Poirot murmured:
“Ah, yes!” and Patrick Redfern shot him an inquiring glance.
Weston said:
“Then you can give us no help whatsoever as to the cause that took Mrs. Marshall to Pixy Cove this morning?”
Redfern shook his head. He said, and his voice sounded honestly bewildered:
“I haven’t the faintest idea! It wasn’t like Arlena.”
Weston said:
“Had she any friends down here staying in the neighbourhood?”
“Not that I know of. Oh, I’m sure she hadn’t.”
“Now, Mr. Redfern, I want you to think very carefully. You knew Mrs. Marshall in London. You must be acquainted with various members of her circle. Is there anyone you know of who could have had a grudge against her? Someone, for instance, whom you may have supplanted in her fancy?”
Patrick Redfern thought for some minutes. Then he shook his head.
“Honestly,” he said. “I can’t think of anyone.”
Colonel Weston drummed with his fingers on the table.
He said at last:
“Well, that’s that. We seem to be left with three possibilities. That of an unknown killer—some monomaniac—who happened to be in the neighbourhood—and that’s a pretty tall order—”
Redfern said, interrupting:
“And yet surely, it’s by far the most likely explanation.”
Weston shook his head. He said:
“This isn’t one of the ‘lonely copse’ murders. This cove place was pretty inaccessible. Either the man would have to come up from the causeway past the hotel, over the top of the island and down by that ladder contraption, or else he came there by boat. Either way is unlikely for a casual killing.”
Patrick Redfern said:
“You said there were three possibilities.”
“Um—yes,” said the Chief Constable. “That’s to say, there were two people on this island who had a motive for killing her. Her husband, for one, and your wife for another.”
Redfern stared at him. He looked dumbfounded. He said:
“My wife? Christine? D’you mean that Christine had anything to do with this?”
He got up and stood there stammering slightly in his incoherent haste to get the words out.
“You’re mad—quite mad—Christine? Why, it’s impossible. It’s laughable!”
Weston said:
“All the same, Mr. Redfern, jealousy is a very powerful motive. Women who are jealous lose control of themselves completely.”
Redfern said earnestly.
“Not Christine. She’s—oh she’s not like that. She was unhappy, yes. But she’s not the kind of person to—Oh, there’s no violence in her.”
Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Violence. The same word that Linda Marshall had used. As before, he agreed with the sentiment.
“Besides,” went on Redfern confidently. “It would be absurd. Arlena was twice as strong physically as Christine. I doubt if Christine could strangle a kitten—certainly not a strong wiry creature like Arlena. And then Christine could never have got down that ladder to the beach. She has no head for that sort of thing. And—oh, the whole thing is fantastic!”
Colonel Weston scratched his ear tentatively.
“Well,” he said. “Put like that it doesn’t seem likely. I grant you that. But motive’s the first thing we’ve got to look for.” He added: “Motive and opportunity.”
IV
When Redfern had left the room, the Chief Constable observed with a slight smile:
“Didn’t think it necessary to tell the fellow his wife had got an alibi. Wanted to hear what he’d have to say to the idea. Shook him up a bit, didn’t it?”
Hercule Poirot murmured:
“The arguments he advanced were quite as strong as any alibi.”
“Yes. Oh! she didn’t do it! She couldn’t have done it—physically impossible as you said. Marshall could have done it—but apparently he didn’t.”
Inspector Colgate coughed. He said:
“Excuse me, sir, I’ve been thinking about that alibi. It’s possible, you know, if he’d thought this thing out, that those letters were got ready beforehand.”
Weston said:
“That’s a good idea. We must look into—”
He broke off as Christine Redfern entered the room.
She was, as always, calm and a little precise in manner. She was wearing a white tennis frock and a pale blue pullover. It accentuated her fair, rather anaemic prettiness. Yet, Hercule Poirot thought to himself, it was neither a silly face nor a weak one. It had plenty of resolution, courage and good sense. He nodded appreciatively.
Colonel Weston thought:
“Nice little woman. Bit wishy-washy, perhaps. A lot too good for that philandering young ass of a husband of hers. Oh well, the boy’s young. Women usually make a fool of you once!”
He said:
“Sit down, Mrs. Redfern. We’ve got to go through a certain amount of routine, you see. Asking everybody for an account of their movements this morning. Just for our records.”
Christine Redfern nodded.
She said in her quiet precise voice.
“Oh yes, I quite understand. Where do you want me to begin?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“As early as possible, Madame. What did you do when you first got up this morning?”
Christine said:
“Let me see. On my way down to breakfast I went into Linda M
arshall’s room and fixed up with her to go to Gull Cove this morning. We agreed to meet in the lounge at half past ten.”
Poirot asked:
“You did not bathe before breakfast, Madame?”
“No. I very seldom do.” She smiled. “I like the sea well warmed before I get into it. I’m rather a chilly person.”
“But your husband bathes then?”
“Oh, yes. Nearly always.”
“And Mrs. Marshall, she also?”
A change came over Christine’s voice. It became cold and almost acrid.
She said:
“Oh no, Mrs. Marshall was the sort of person who never made an appearance before the middle of the morning.”
With an air of confusion, Hercule Poirot said:
“Pardon, Madame, I interrupted you. You were saying that you went to Miss Linda Marshall’s room. What time was that?”
“Let me see—half past eight—no, a little later.”
“And was Miss Marshall up then?”
“Oh yes, she had been out.”
“Out?”
“Yes, she said she’d been bathing.”
There was a faint—a very faint note of embarrassment in Christine’s voice. It puzzled Hercule Poirot.
Weston said:
“And then?”
“Then I went down to breakfast.”
“And after breakfast?”
“I went upstairs, collected my sketching box and sketching book and we started out.”
“You and Miss Linda Marshall?”
“Yes.”
“What time was that?”
“I think it was just on half past ten.”
“And what did you do?”
“We went to Gull Cove. You know, the cove on the east side of the island. We settled ourselves there. I did a sketch and Linda sunbathed.”
“What time did you leave the cove?”
“At a quarter to twelve. I was playing tennis at twelve and had to change.”
“You had your watch with you?”
“No, as a matter of fact I hadn’t. I asked Linda the time.”
“I see. And then?”
“I packed up my sketching things and went back to the hotel.”
Poirot said:
“And Mademoiselle Linda?”
“Linda?” Oh, Linda went into the sea.”
Poirot said:
“Were you far from the sea where you were sitting?”
Evil Under the Sun Page 9