Evil Under the Sun Read online

  Mrs. Gardener, not loquacious for once, sighed and said:

  “I really do thank you, M. Poirot. I feel so calm. It’s just wonderful.”

  II

  Major Barry came out to greet them on arrival.

  “Hullo,” he said. “Had a good day?”

  Mrs. Gardener said:

  “Indeed we did. The moors were just too lovely for anything. So English and old world. And the air delicious and invigorating. You ought to be ashamed of yourself for being so lazy as to stay behind.”

  The Major chuckled.

  “I’m too old for that kind of thing—sitting on a patch of bog and eating sandwiches.”

  A chambermaid had come out of the hotel. She was a little out of breath. She hesitated for a moment then came swiftly up to Christine Redfern.

  Hercule Poirot recognized her as Glady’s Narracott. Her voice came quick and uneven.

  “Excuse me, Madam, but I’m worried about the young lady. About Miss Marshall. I took her up some tea just now and I couldn’t get her to wake, and she looks so—so queer somehow.”

  Christine looked round helplessly. Poirot was at her side in a moment. His hand under her elbow he said quietly:

  “We will go up and see.”

  They hurried up the stairs and along the passage to Linda’s room.

  One glance at her was enough to tell them both that something was very wrong. She was an odd colour and her breathing was hardly perceptible.

  Poirot’s hand went to her pulse. At the same time he noticed an envelope stuck up against the lamp on the bedside table. It was addressed to himself.

  Captain Marshall came quickly into the room. He said:

  “What’s this about Linda? What’s the matter with her?”

  A small frightened sob came from Christine Redfern.

  Hercule Poirot turned from the bed. He said to Marshall:

  “Get a doctor—as quick as you possibly can. But I’m afraid—very much afraid—it may be too late.”

  He took the letter with his name on it and ripped open the envelope. Inside were a few lines of writing in Linda’s prim schoolgirl hand.

  I think this is the best way out. Ask Father to try and forgive me. I killed Arlena. I thought I should be glad—but I’m not. I am very sorry for everything.

  III

  They were assembled in the lounge—Marshall, the Redferns, Rosamund Darnley and Hercule Poirot.

  They sat there silent—waiting….

  The door opened and Dr. Neasden came in. He said curtly:

  “I’ve done all I can. She may pull through—but I’m bound to tell you that there’s not much hope.”

  He paused. Marshall, his face stiff, his eyes a cold frosty blue, asked:

  “How did she get hold of the stuff?”

  Neasden opened the door again and beckoned.

  The chambermaid came into the room. She had been crying:

  Neasden said:

  “Just tell us again what you saw.”

  Sniffing, the girl said:

  “I never thought—I never thought for a minute there was anything wrong—though the young lady did seem rather strange about it.” A slight gesture of impatience from the doctor started her off again. “She was in the other lady’s room. Mrs. Redfern’s. Your room, Madam. Over at the washstand, and she took up a little bottle. She did give a bit of a jump when I came in, and I thought it was queer her taking things from your room, but then, of course, it might be something she’d lent you. She just said: ‘Oh, this is what I’m looking for—’ and went out.”

  Christine said almost in a whisper.

  “My sleeping tablets.”

  The doctor said brusquely:

  “How did she know about them?”

  Christine said:

  “I gave her one. The night after it happened. She told me she couldn’t sleep. She—I remember her saying—‘Will one be enough?’—and I said, Oh yes, they were very strong—that I’d been cautioned never to take more than two at most.” Neasden nodded: “She made pretty sure,” he said. “Took six of them.”

  Christine sobbed again.

  “Oh dear, I feel it’s my fault. I should have kept them locked up.”

  The doctor shrugged his shoulders.

  “It might have been wiser, Mrs. Redfern.”

  Christine said despairingly:

  “She’s dying—and it’s my fault….”

  Kenneth Marshall stirred in his chair. He said:

  “No, you can’t blame yourself. Linda knew what she was doing. She took them deliberately. Perhaps—perhaps it was best.”

  He looked down at the crumpled note in his hand—the note that Poirot had silently handed to him.

  Rosamund Darnley cried out.

  “I don’t believe it. I don’t believe Linda killed her. Surely it’s impossible—on the evidence!”

  Christine said eagerly:

  “Yes, she can’t have done it! She must have got overwrought and imagined it all.”

  The door opened and Colonel Weston came in. He said:

  “What’s all this I hear?”

  Dr. Neasden took the note from Marshall’s hand and handed it to the Chief Constable. The latter read it. He exclaimed incredulously:

  “What? But this is nonsense—absolute nonsense! It’s impossible.” He repeated with assurance. “Impossible! Isn’t it, Poirot?”

  Hercule Poirot moved for the first time. He said in a slow sad voice:

  “No, I’m afraid it is not impossible.”

  Christine Redfern said:

  “But I was with her, M. Poirot. I was with her up to a quarter to twelve. I told the police so.”

  Poirot said:

  “Your evidence gave her an alibi—yes. But what was your evidence based on? It was based on Linda Marshall’s own wristwatch. You do not know of your own knowledge that it was a quarter to twelve when you left her—you only know that she told you so. You said yourself the time seemed to have gone very fast.”

  She stared at him, stricken.

  He said:

  “Now, think, Madame, when you left the beach, did you walk back to the hotel fast or slow?”

  “I—well, fairly slowly, I think.”

  “Do you remember much about that walk back?”

  “Not very much, I’m afraid. I—I was thinking.”

  Poirot said:

  “I am sorry to ask you this, but will you tell just what you were thinking about during that walk?”

  Christine flushed.

  “I suppose—if it is necessary… I was considering the question of—of leaving here. Just going away without telling my husband. I—I was very unhappy just then, you see.”

  Patrick Redfern cried:

  “Oh, Christine! I know… I know….”

  Poirot’s precise voice cut in.

  “Exactly. You were concerned over taking a step of some importance. You were, I should say, deaf and blind to your surroundings. You probably walked very slowly and occasionally stopped for some minutes whilst you puzzled things out.”

  Christine nodded.

  “How clever you are. It was just like that. I woke up from a kind of dream just outside the hotel and hurried in thinking I should be very late, but when I saw the clock in the lounge I realized I had plenty of time.”

  Hercule Poirot said again:

  “Exactly.”

  He turned to Marshall.

  “I must now describe to you certain things I found in your daughter’s room after the murder. In the grate was a large blob of melted wax, some burnt hair, fragments of cardboard and paper and an ordinary household pin. The paper and the cardboard might not be relevant, but the other three things were suggestive—particularly when I found tucked away in the bookshelf a volume from the local library here dealing with witchcraft and magic. It opened very easily at a certain page. On that page were described various methods of causing death by moulding in was a figure supposed to represent the victim. This was then slowly roasted till it melte
d away—or alternatively you would pierce the wax figure to the heart with a pin. Death of the victim would ensue. I later heard from Mrs. Redfern that Linda Marshall had been out early that morning and had bought a packet of candles, and had seemed embarrassed when her purchase was revealed. I had no doubt what had happened after that. Linda had made a crude figure of the candle wax—possibly adorning it with a snip of Arlena’s red hair to give the magic force—had then stabbed it to the heart with a pin and finally melted the figure away by lighting strips of cardboard under it.

  “It was crude, childish, superstitious, but it revealed one thing: the desire to kill.

  “Was there any possibility that there had been more than a desire? Could Linda Marshall have actually killed her stepmother?

  “At first sight it seemed as though she had a perfect alibi—but in actuality, as I have just pointed out, the time evidence was supplied by Linda herself. She could easily have declared the time to be a quarter of an hour later than it really was.

  “It was quite possible once Mrs. Redfern had left the beach for Linda to follow her up and then strike across the narrow neck of land to the ladder, hurry down it, meet her stepmother there, strangle her and return up the ladder before the boat containing Miss Brewster and Patrick Redfern came in sight. She could then return to Gull Cove, take her bathe and return to the hotel at her leisure.

  “But that entailed two things. She must have definite knowledge that Arlena Marshall would be at Pixy Cove and she must be physically capable of the deed.

  “Well, the first was quite possible—if Linda Marshall had written a note to Arlena herself in someone else’s name. As to the second, Linda has very large strong hands. They are as large as a man’s. As to the strength, she is at the age when one is prone to be mentally unbalanced. Mental derangement often is accompanied by unusual strength. There was one other small point. Linda Marshall’s mother had actually been accused and tried for murder.”

  Kenneth Marshall lifted his head. He said fiercely: “She was also acquitted.”

  “She was acquitted,” Poirot agreed.

  Marshall said:

  “And I’ll tell you this, M. Poirot. Ruth—my wife—was innocent. That I know with complete and absolute certainty. In the intimacy of our life I could not have been deceived. She was an innocent victim of circumstances.”

  He paused.

  “And I don’t believe that Linda killed Arlena. It’s ridiculous—absurd!”

  Poirot said:

  “Do you believe that letter, then, to be a forgery?”

  Marshall held out his hand for it and Weston gave it to him. Marshall studied it attentively. Then he shook his head.

  “No,” he said unwillingly. “I believe Linda did write this.”

  Poirot said:

  “Then if she wrote it, there are only two explanations. Either she wrote it in all good faith, knowing herself to be the murderess or—or, I say—she wrote it deliberately to shield someone else, someone whom she feared was suspected.”

  Kenneth Marshall said:

  “You mean me?”

  “It is possible, is it not?”

  Marshall considered for a moment or two, then he said quietly:

  “No, I think that idea is absurd. Linda may have realized that I was regarded with suspicion at first. But she knew definitely by now that that was over and done with—that the police had accepted my alibi and turned their attention elsewhere.”

  Poirot said:

  “And supposing that it was not so much that she thought that you were suspected as that she knew you were guilty.”

  Marshall stared at him. He gave a short laugh.

  “That’s absurd.”

  Poirot said:

  “I wonder. There are, you know, several possibilities about Mrs. Marshall’s death. There is the theory that she was being blackmailed, that she went that morning to meet the blackmailer and that the blackmailer killed her. There is the theory that Pixy Cove and Cave were being used for drug running, and that she was killed because she accidentally learned something about that. There is a third possibility—that she was killed by a religious maniac. And there is a fourth possibility—you stood to gain a lot of money by your wife’s death, Captain Marshall?”

  “I’ve just told you—”

  “Yes, yes—I agree that it is impossible that you could have killed your wife—if you were acting alone. But supposing someone helped you?”

  “What the devil do you mean?”

  The quiet man was roused at last. He half rose from his chair. His voice was menacing. There was a hard angry light in his eyes.

  Poirot said:

  “I mean that this is not a crime that was committed single-handed. Two people were in it. It is quite true that you could not have typed that letter and at the same time gone to the cove—but there would have been time for you to have jotted down that letter in shorthand—and for someone else to have typed it in your room while you yourself were absent on your murderous errand.”

  Hercule Poirot looked towards Rosamund Darnley. He said:

  “Miss Darnley states that she left Sunny Ledge at ten minutes past eleven and saw you typing in your room. But just about that time Mr. Gardener went up to the hotel to fetch a skein of wool for his wife. He did not meet Miss Darnley or see her. That is rather remarkable. It looks as though either Miss Darnley never left Sunny Ledge, or else she had left it much earlier and was in your room typing industriously. Another point, you stated that when Miss Darnley looked into your room at a quarter past eleven you saw her in the mirror. But on the day of the murder your typewriter and papers were all on the writing desk across the corner of the room, whereas the mirror was between the windows. So that statement was a deliberate lie. Later, you moved your typewriter to the table under the mirror so as to substantiate your story—but it was too late. I was aware that both you and Miss Darnley had lied.”

  Rosamund Darnley spoke. Her voice was low and clear.

  She said:

  “How devilishly ingenious you are!”

  Hercule Poirot said, raising his voice:

  “But not so devilish and so ingenious as the man who killed Arlena Marshall! Think back for a moment. Who did I think—who did everybody think—that Arlena Marshall had gone to meet that morning? We all jumped to the same conclusion. Patrick Redfern. It was not to meet a blackmailer that she went. Her face alone would have told me that. Oh no, it was a lover she was going to meet—or thought she was going to meet.

  “Yes, I was quite sure of that. Arlena Marshall was going to meet Patrick Redfern. But a minute later Patrick Redfern appeared on the beach and was obviously looking for her. So what then?”

  Patrick Redfern said with subdued anger:

  “Some devil used my name.”

  Poirot said:

  “You were very obviously upset and surprised by her nonappearance. Almost too obviously, perhaps. It is my theory, Mr. Redfern, that she went to Pixy Cove to meet you, and that she did meet you, and that you killed her there as you had planned to do.”

  Patrick Redfern stared. He said in his high good-humoured Irish voice:

  “Is it daft you are? I was with you on the beach until I went round in the boat with Miss Brewster and found her dead.”

  Hercule Poirot said:

  “You killed her after Miss Brewster had gone off in the boat to fetch the police. Arlena Marshall was not dead when you got to the beach. She was waiting hidden in the cave until the coast could be clear.”

  “But the body! Miss Brewster and I both saw the body.”

  “A body—yes. But not a dead body. The live body of the woman who helped you, her arms and legs stained with tan, her face hidden by a green cardboard hat. Christine, your wife (or possibly not your wife—but still your partner), helping you to commit this crime as she helped you to commit that crime in the past when she “discovered” the body of Alice Corrigan at least twenty minutes before Alice Corrigan died—killed by her husband Edward Corrigan—you!”<
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  Christine spoke. Her voice was sharp—cold. She said:

  “Be careful, Patrick, don’t lose your temper.”

  Poirot said:

  “You will be interested to hear that both you and your wife Christine were easily recognized and picked out by the Surrey police from a group of people photographed here. They identified you both at once as Edward Corrigan and Christine Deverill, the young woman who found the body.”

  Patrick Redfern had risen. His handsome face was transformed, suffused with blood, blind with rage. It was the face of a killer—of a tiger. He yelled:

  “You damned interfering murdering lousy little worm!”

  He hurled himself forward, his fingers stretching and curling, his voice raving curses, as he fastened his fingers round Hercule Poirot’s throat….

  Thirteen

  Poirot said reflectively:

  “It was on a morning when we were sitting out here that we talked of suntanned bodies lying like meat upon a slab, and it was then that I reflected how little difference there was between one body and another. If one looked closely and appraisingly—yes—but to the casual glance? One moderately well-made young woman is very like another. Two brown legs, two brown arms, a little piece of bathing suit in between—just a body lying out in the sun. When a woman walks, when she speaks, laughs, turns her head, moves a hand—then, yes then, there is personality—individuality. But in the sun ritual—no.

  “It was that day that we spoke of evil—evil under the sun as Mr. Lane put it. Mr. Lane is a very sensitive person—evil affects him—he perceives its presence—but though he is a good recording instrument, he did not really know exactly where the evil was. To him, evil was focused in the person of Arlena Marshall, and practically everyone present agreed with him.

  “But to my mind, though evil was present, it was not centralized in Arlena Marshall at all. It was connected with her, yes—but in a totally different way. I saw her, first, last and all the time, as an eternal and predestined victim. Because she was beautiful, because she had glamour, because men turned their heads to look at her, it was assumed that she was the type of woman who wrecked lives and destroyed souls. But I saw her very differently. It was not she who fatally attracted men—it was men who fatally attracted her. She was the type of woman whom men care for easily and of whom they as easily tire. And everything that I was told or found out about her strengthened my conviction on this point. The first thing that was mentioned about her was how the man in whose divorce case she had been cited refused to marry her. It was then that Captain Marshall, one of those incurably chivalrous men, stepped in and asked her to marry him. To a shy retiring man of Captain Marshall’s type, a public ordeal of any kind would be the worst torture—hence his love and pity for his first wife who was publicly accused and tried for a murder she had not committed. He married her and found himself amply justified in his estimate of her character. After her death another beautiful woman, perhaps something of the same type (since Linda has red hair which she probably inherited from her mother), is held up to public ignominy. Again Marshall performs a rescue act. But this time he finds little to sustain his infatuation. Arlena is stupid, unworthy of his sympathy and protection, mindless. Nevertheless, I think he always had a fairly true vision of her. Long after he ceased to love her and was irked by her presence, he remained sorry for her. She was to him like a child who cannot get farther than a certain page in the book of life.