Evil Under the Sun hp-25 Read online

  He went out again.

  Hercule Poirot stayed behind. He found something that interested him in the grate. Something had been burnt there recently. He knelt down, working patiently. He laid out his finds on a sheet of paper. A large irregular blob of candle grease-some fragments of green paper or cardboard, possibly a pull-off calendar for with it was an unburnt fragment bearing a large figure 5 and a scrap of printing…noble deeds…There was also an ordinary pin and some burnt animal matter which might have been hair.

  Poirot arranged them neatly in a row and stared at them.

  He murmured:

  ‘Do noble deeds, not dream them all day long. C’est possible. But what is one to make of this collection? C’est fantastique! ’

  And then he picked up the pin and his eyes grew sharp and green.

  He murmured:

  ‘Pour l’amour de Dieu! Is it possible?’

  Hercule Poirot got up from where he had been kneeling by the grate.

  Slowly he looked round the room and this time there was an entirely new expression on his face. It was grave and almost stern.

  To the left of the mantelpiece there were some shelves with a row of books. Hercule Poirot looked thoughtfully along the titles.

  A Bible, a battered copy of Shakespeare’s plays, The Marriage of William Ashe, by Mrs Humphry Ward. The Young Stepmother, by Charlotte Yonge. The Shropshire Lad. Eliot’s Murder in the Cathedral. Bernard Shaw’s St Joan. Gone With the Wind, by Margaret Mitchell. The Burning Court, by Dickson Carr.

  Poirot took out two books. The Young Stepmother and William Ashe, and glanced inside at the blurred stamp affixed to the title page. As he was about to replace them, his eye caught sight of a book that had been shoved behind the other books. It was a small dumpy volume bound in brown calf.

  He took it out and opened it. Very slowly he nodded his head.

  He murmured:

  ‘So I was right… Yes, I was right. But for the other-is that possible too? No, it is not possible, unless…’

  He stayed there, motionless, stroking his moustaches whilst his mind ranged busily over the problem.

  He said again, softly:

  ‘Unless-’

  II

  Colonel Weston looked in at the door.

  ‘Hullo, Poirot, still there?’

  ‘I arrive. I arrive,’ cried Poirot.

  He hurried out into the corridor.

  The room next to Linda’s was that of the Redferns.

  Poirot looked into it, noting automatically the trace of two different individualities-a neatness and tidiness which he associated with Christine, and a picturesque disorder which was characteristic of Patrick. Apart from these sidelights on personality the room did not interest him.

  Next to it again was Rosamund Darnley’s room, and here he lingered for a moment in the sheer pleasure of the owner’s personality.

  He noted the few books that lay on the table next to the bed, the expensive simplicity of the toilet set on the dressing-table. And there came gently to his nostrils the elusive expensive perfume that Rosamund Darnley used.

  Next to Rosamund Darnley’s room at the northern end of the corridor was an open window leading to a balcony from which an outside stair led down to the rocks below.

  Weston said:

  ‘That’s the way people go down to bathe before breakfast-that is, if they bathe off the rocks as most of them do.’

  Interest came into Hercule Poirot’s eyes. He stepped outside and looked down.

  Below, a path led to steps cut zigzag leading down the rocks to the sea. There was also a path that led round the hotel to the left. He said:

  ‘One could go down these stairs, go to the left round the hotel and join the main path up from the causeway.’

  Weston nodded. He amplified Poirot’s statement.

  ‘One could go right across the island without going through the hotel at all.’ He added: ‘But one might still be seen from a window.’

  ‘What window?’

  ‘Two of the public bathrooms look out that way-north-and the staff bathroom, and the cloakrooms on the ground floor. Also the billiard room.’

  Poirot nodded. He said:

  ‘And all the former have frosted glass windows, and one does not play billiards on a fine morning.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Weston paused and said:

  ‘If he did it, that’s the way he went.’

  ‘You mean Captain Marshall?’

  ‘Yes. Blackmail, or no blackmail. I still feel it points to him. And his manner-well, his manner is unfortunate.’

  Hercule Poirot said dryly:

  ‘Perhaps-but a manner does not make a murderer!’

  Weston said:

  ‘Then you think he’s out of it?’

  Poirot shook his head. He said:

  ‘No, I would not say that.’

  Weston said:

  ‘We’ll see what Colgate can make out of the typewriting alibi. In the meantime I’ve got the chambermaid of this floor waiting to be interviewed. A good deal may depend on her evidence.’

  The chambermaid was a woman of thirty, brisk, efficient and intelligent. Her answers came readily.

  Captain Marshall had come up to his room not long after ten-thirty. She was then finishing the room. He had asked her to be as quick as possible. She had not seen him come back but she had heard the sound of the typewriter a little later. She put it at about five minutes to eleven. She was then in Mr and Mrs Redfern’s room. After she had done that she moved on to Miss Darnley’s room at the end of the corridor. She could not hear the typewriter from there. She went to Miss Darnley’s room, as near as she could say, at just after eleven o’clock. She remembered hearing Leathercombe Church strike the hour as she went in. At a quarter-past eleven she had gone downstairs for her eleven o’clock cup of tea and ‘snack’. Afterwards she had gone to do the rooms in the other wing of the hotel. In answer to the Chief Constable’s question she explained that she had done the rooms in this corridor in the following order:

  Miss Linda Marshall’s, the two public bathrooms, Mrs Marshall’s room and private bath, Captain Marshall’s room. Mr and Mrs Redfern’s room and private bath, Miss Darnley’s room and private bath. Captain Marshall’s and Miss Marshall’s rooms had no adjoining bathrooms.

  During the time she was in Miss Darnley’s room and bathroom she had not heard any one pass the door or go out by the staircase to the rocks, but it was quite likely she wouldn’t have heard if any one went quietly.

  Weston then directed his questions to the subject of Mrs Marshall.

  No, Mrs Marshall wasn’t one for rising early as a rule. She, Gladys Narracott, had been surprised to find the door open and Mrs Marshall gone down at just after ten. Something quite unusual, that was.

  ‘Did Mrs Marshall always have her breakfast in bed?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir, always. Not very much of it either. Just tea and orange juice and one piece of toast. Slimming like so many ladies.’

  No, she hadn’t noticed anything unusual in Mrs Marshall’s manner that morning. She’d seemed quite as usual.

  Hercule Poirot murmured:

  ‘What did you think of Mrs Marshall, Mademoiselle?’

  Gladys Narracott stared at him. She said:

  ‘Well, that’s hardly for me to say, is it, sir?’

  ‘But yes, it is for you to say. We are anxious-very anxious-to hear your impression.’

  Gladys gave a slightly uneasy glance towards the Chief Constable, who endeavoured to make his face sympathetic and approving, though actually he felt slightly embarrassed by his foreign colleague’s methods of approach. He said:

  ‘Er-yes, certainly. Go ahead.’

  For the first time Gladys Narracott’s brisk efficiency deserted her. Her fingers fumbled with her print dress. She said:

  ‘Well, Mrs Marshall-she wasn’t exactly a lady, as you might say. What I mean is she was more like an actress.’

  Colonel Weston said:

  ‘Sh
e was an actress.’

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s what I’m saying. She just went on exactly as she felt like it. She didn’t-well, she didn’t trouble to be polite if she wasn’t feeling polite. And she’d be all smiles one minute and then, if she couldn’t find something or the bell wasn’t answered at once or her laundry wasn’t back, well, be downright rude and nasty about it. None of us you might say liked her. But her clothes were beautiful, and, of course, she was a very handsome lady, so it was only natural she should be admired.’

  Colonel Weston said:

  ‘I am sorry to have to ask you what I am going to ask you, but it is a very vital matter. Can you tell me how things were between her and her husband?’

  Gladys Narracott hesitated a minute.

  She said:

  ‘You don’t-it wasn’t-you don’t think as he did it?’

  Hercule Poirot said quickly:

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Oh! I wouldn’t like to think so. He’s such a nice gentleman, Captain Marshall. He couldn’t do a thing like that-I’m sure he couldn’t.’

  ‘But you are not very sure-I hear it in your voice.’

  Gladys Narracott said reluctantly:

  ‘You do read such things in the papers! When there’s jealousy. If there’s been goings on-and, of course, everyone’s been talking about it-about her and Mr Redfern, I mean. And Mrs Redfern such a nice quiet lady! It does seem a shame! And Mr Redfern’s a nice gentleman too, but it seems men can’t help themselves when it’s a lady like Mrs Marshall-one who’s used to having her own way. Wives have to put up with a lot, I’m sure.’ She sighed and paused. ‘But if Captain Marshall found out about it-’

  Colonel Weston said sharply:

  ‘Well?’

  Gladys Narracott said slowly:

  ‘I did think sometimes that Mrs Marshall was frightened of her husband knowing.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘It wasn’t anything definite, sir. It was only I felt-that sometimes she was-afraid of him. He was a very quiet gentleman but he wasn’t-he wasn’t easy.’

  Weston said:

  ‘But you’ve nothing definite to go on? Nothing either of them ever said to each other.’

  Slowly Gladys Narracott shook her head.

  Weston sighed. He went on.

  ‘Now, as to letters received by Mrs Marshall this morning. Can you tell us anything about those?’

  ‘There were about six or seven, sir. I couldn’t say exactly.’

  ‘Did you take them up to her?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I got them from the office as usual and put them on her breakfast tray.’

  ‘Do you remember anything about the look of them?’

  The girl shook her head.

  ‘They were just ordinary-looking letters. Some of them were bills and circulars, I think, because they were torn up on the tray.’

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘They went into the dustbin, sir. One of the police gentlemen is going through that now.’

  Weston nodded.

  ‘And the contents of the waste-paper baskets, where are they?’

  ‘They’ll be in the dustbin too.’

  Weston said: ‘H’m-well, I think that is all at present.’ He looked inquiringly at Poirot.

  Poirot leaned forward.

  ‘When you did Miss Linda Marshall’s room this morning, did you do the fireplace?’

  ‘There wasn’t anything to do, sir. There had been no fire lit.’

  ‘And there was nothing in the fireplace itself?’

  ‘No sir, it was perfectly all right.’

  ‘What time did you do her room?’

  ‘About a quarter-past nine, sir, when she’d gone down to breakfast.’

  ‘Did she come up to her room after breakfast, do you know?’

  ‘Yes, sir. She came up about a quarter to ten.’

  ‘Did she stay in her room?’

  ‘I think so, sir. She came out, hurrying rather, just before half-past ten.’

  ‘You didn’t go into her room again?’

  ‘No, sir. I had finished with it.’

  Poirot nodded. He said:

  ‘There is another thing I want to know. What people bathed before breakfast this morning?’

  ‘I couldn’t say about the other wing and the floor above. Only about this one.’

  ‘That is all I want to know.’

  ‘Well, sir, Captain Marshall and Mr Redfern were the only ones this morning, I think. They always go down for an early dip.’

  ‘Did you see them?’

  ‘No, sir, but their wet bathing things were hanging over the balcony rail as usual.’

  ‘Miss Linda Marshall did not bathe this morning?’

  ‘No, sir. All her bathing dresses were quite dry.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Poirot. ‘That is what I wanted to know.’

  Gladys Narracott volunteered:

  ‘She does most mornings, sir.’

  ‘And the other three, Miss Darnley, Mrs Redfern and Mrs Marshall?’

  ‘Mrs Marshall never, sir. Miss Darnley has once or twice, I think. Mrs Redfern doesn’t often bathe before breakfast-only when it’s very hot, but she didn’t this morning.’

  Again Poirot nodded. Then he asked:

  ‘I wonder if you have noticed whether a bottle is missing from any of the rooms you look after in this wing?’

  ‘A bottle, sir? What kind of a bottle?’

  ‘Unfortunately I do not know. But have you noticed-or would you be likely to notice-if one had gone?’

  Gladys said frankly:

  ‘I shouldn’t from Mrs Marshall’s room, sir, and that’s a fact. She has ever so many.’

  ‘And the other rooms?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure about Miss Darnley. She has a good many creams and lotions. But from the other rooms, yes, I would, sir. I mean if I were to look special. If I were noticing, so to speak.’

  ‘But you haven’t actually noticed?’

  ‘No, because I wasn’t looking special, as I say.’

  ‘Perhaps you would go and look now, then.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  She left the room, her print dress rustling. Weston looked at Poirot. He said: ‘What’s all this?’

  Poirot murmured:

  ‘My orderly mind, that is vexed by trifles! Miss Brewster, this morning, was bathing off the rocks before breakfast, and she says that a bottle was thrown from above and nearly hit her. Eh bien, I want to know who threw that bottle and why?’

  ‘My dear man, any one may have chucked a bottle away.’

  ‘Not at all. To begin with, it could only have been thrown from a window on the east side of the hotel-that is, one of the windows of the rooms we have just examined. Now I ask you, if you have an empty bottle on your dressing-table or in your bathroom what do you do with it? I will tell you, you drop it into the waste-paper basket. You do not take the trouble to go out on your balcony and hurl it into the sea! For one thing you might hit someone, for another it would be too much trouble. No, you would only do that if you did not want any one to see that particular bottle.’

  Weston stared at him.

  Weston said:

  ‘I know that Chief Inspector Japp, whom I met over a case not long ago, always says you have a damned tortuous mind. You’re not going to tell me now that Arlena Marshall wasn’t strangled at all, but poisoned out of some mysterious bottle with a mysterious drug?’

  ‘No, no, I do not think there was poison in that bottle.’

  ‘Then what was there?’

  ‘I do not know at all. That’s why I am interested.’

  Gladys Narracott came back. She was a little breathless. She said:

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t find anything missing. I’m sure there’s nothing gone from Captain Marshall’s room, or Miss Linda Marshall’s room, or Mr and Mrs Redfern’s room, and I’m pretty sure there’s nothing gone from Miss Darnley’s either. But I couldn’t say about Mrs Marshall’s. As I say, she’s g
ot such a lot.’

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  He said:

  ‘No matter. We will leave it.’

  Gladys Narracott said:

  ‘Is there anything more, sir?’

  She looked from one to the other of them.

  Weston said:

  ‘Don’t think so. Thank you.’

  Poirot said:

  ‘I thank you, no. You are sure, are you not, that there is nothing-nothing at all, that you have forgotten to tell us?’

  ‘About Mrs Marshall, sir?’

  ‘About anything at all. Anything unusual, out of the way, unexplained, slightly peculiar, rather curious-enfin, something that has made you say to yourself or to one of your colleagues: “That’s funny!”?’

  Gladys said doubtfully:

  ‘Well, not the sort of thing that you would mean, sir.’

  Hercule Poirot said:

  ‘Never mind what I mean. You do not know what I mean. It is true, then, that you have said to yourself or to a colleague today, “that is funny!”?’

  He brought out the three words with ironic detachment.

  Gladys said:

  ‘It was nothing really. Just a bath being run. And I did pass the remark to Elsie, downstairs, that it was funny somebody having a bath round about twelve o’clock.’

  ‘Whose bath, who had a bath?’

  ‘That I couldn’t say, sir. We heard it going down the waste from this wing, that’s all, and that’s when I said what I did to Elsie.’

  ‘You’re sure it was a bath? Not one of the hand-basins?’

  ‘Oh! quite sure, sir. You can’t mistake bath-water running away.’

  Poirot displaying no further desire to keep her, Gladys Narracott was permitted to depart.

  Weston said:

  ‘You don’t think this bath question is important, do you, Poirot? I mean, there’s no point to it. No bloodstains or anything like that to wash off. That’s the-’ He hesitated.

  Poirot cut in:

  ‘That, you would say, is the advantage of strangulation! No bloodstains, no weapon-nothing to get rid of or conceal! Nothing is needed but physical strength-and the soul of a killer!’

  His voice was so fierce, so charged with feeling, that Weston recoiled a little.

  Hercule Poirot smiled at him apologetically.

  ‘No one,’ he said, ‘the bath is probably of no importance. Anyone may have had a bath. Mrs Redfern before she went to play tennis, Captain Marshall, Miss Darnley. As I say, anyone. There is nothing in that.’