Evil Under the Sun Page 6
“Let’s row right round the island,” proposed Redfern.
Miss Brewster consulted her watch.
“Shall we have time? Oh yes, it’s not half past eleven yet. Come on, then, let’s start.”
They went down the beach together.
Patrick Redfern took first turn at the oars. He rowed with a powerful stroke. The boat leapt forward.
Emily Brewster said approvingly:
“Good. We’ll see if you can keep that up.”
He laughed into her eyes. His spirits had improved.
“I shall probably have a fine crop of blisters by the time we get back.” He threw up his head, tossing back his black hair. “God, it’s a marvellous day! If you do get a real summer’s day in England there’s nothing to beat it.”
Emily Brewster said gruffly:
“Can’t beat England anyway in my opinion. Only place in the world to live in.”
“I’m with you.”
They rounded the point of the bay to the west and rowed under the cliffs. Patrick Redfern looked up.
“Any one on Sunny Ledge this morning? Yes, there’s a sunshade. Who is it, I wonder?”
Emily Brewster said:
“It’s Miss Darnley, I think. She’s got one of those Japanese affairs.”
They rowed up the coast. On their left was the open sea.
Emily Brewster said:
“We ought to have gone the other way round. This way we’ve got the current against us.”
“There’s very little current. I’ve swum out here and not noticed it. Anyway we couldn’t go the other way, the causeway wouldn’t be covered.”
“Depends on the tide, of course. But they always say that bathing from Pixy Cove is dangerous if you swim out too far.”
Patrick was rowing vigorously still. At the same time he was scanning the cliffs attentively.
Emily Brewster thought suddenly:
“He’s looking for the Marshall woman. That’s why he wanted to come with me. She hasn’t shown up this morning and he’s wondering what she’s up to. Probably she’s done it on purpose. Just a move in the game—to make him keener.”
They rounded the jutting point of rock to the south of the little bay named Pixy’s Cove. It was quite a small cove, with rocks dotted fantastically about the beach. It faced nearly northwest and the cliff overhung it a good deal. It was a favourite place for picnic teas. In the morning, when the sun was off, it was not popular and there was seldom anyone there.
On this occasion, however, there was a figure on the beach.
Patrick Redfern’s stroke checked and recovered.
He said in a would-be casual tone:
“Hullo, who’s that?”
Miss Brewster said dryly:
“It looks like Mrs. Marshall.”
Patrick Redfern said, as though struck by the idea.
“So it does.”
He altered his course, rowing inshore.
Emily Brewster protested.
“We don’t want to land here, do we?”
Patrick Redfern said quickly:
“Oh, plenty of time.”
His eyes looked into hers—something in them, a naïve pleading look rather like that of an importunate dog, silenced Emily Brewster. She thought to herself:
“Poor boy, he’s got it badly. Oh well, it can’t be helped. He’ll get over it in time.”
The boat was fast approaching the beach.
Arlena Marshall was lying face downwards on the shingle, her arms outstretched. The white float was drawn up nearby.
Something was puzzling Emily Brewster. It was as though she was looking at something she knew quite well but which was in one respect quite wrong.
It was a minute or two before it came to her.
Arlena Marshall’s attitude was the attitude of a sunbather. So had she lain many a time on the beach by the hotel, her bronzed body outstretched and the green cardboard hat protecting her head and neck.
But there was no sun on Pixy’s Beach and there would be none for some hours yet. The overhanging cliff protected the beach from the sun in the morning. A vague feeling of apprehension came over Emily Brewster.
The boat grounded on the shingle. Patrick Redfern called:
“Hullo, Arlena.”
And then Emily Brewster’s foreboding took definite shape. For the recumbent figure did not move or answer.
Emily saw Patrick Redfern’s face change. He jumped out of the boat and she followed him. They dragged the boat ashore then set off up the beach to where that white figure lay so still and unresponsive near the bottom of the cliff.
Patrick Redfern got there first but Emily Brewster was close behind him.
She saw, as one sees in a dream, the bronzed limbs, the white backless bathing dress—the red curl of hair escaping under the jade green hat—saw something else too—the curious unnatural angle of the outspread arms. Felt, in that minute, that this body had not lain down but had been thrown….
She heard Patrick’s voice—a mere frightened whisper. He knelt down beside that still form—touched the hand—the arm….
He said in a low shuddering whisper:
“My God, she’s dead….”
And then, as he lifted the hat a little, peered at the neck:
“Oh, God, she’s been strangled…murdered.”
VI
It was one of those moments when time stands still.
With an odd feeling of unreality Emily Brewster heard herself saying:
“We musn’t touch anything… Not until the police come.”
Redfern’s answer came mechanically.
“No—no—of course not.” And then in a deep agonized whisper. “Who? Who? Who could have done that to Arlena. She can’t have—have been murdered. It can’t be true!”
Emily Brewster shook her head, not knowing quite what to answer.
She heard him draw in his breath—heard the low controlled rage in his voice as he said:
“My God, if I get my hands on the foul fiend who did this.”
Emily Brewster shivered. Her imagination pictured a lurking murderer behind one of the boulders. Then she heard her voice saying:
“Whoever did it wouldn’t be hanging about. We must get the police. Perhaps—” she hesitated—“one of us ought to stay with—with the body.”
Patrick Redfern said:
“I’ll stay.”
Emily Brewster drew a little sigh of relief. She was not the kind of woman who would ever admit to feeling fear, but she was secretly thankful not to have to remain on that beach alone with the faint possibility of a homicidal maniac lingering close at hand.
She said:
“Good. I’ll be as quick as I can. I’ll go in the boat. Can’t face that ladder. There’s a constable at Leathercombe Bay.”
Patrick Redfern murmured mechanically:
“Yes—yes, whatever you think best.”
As she rowed vigorously away from the shore, Emily Brewster saw Patrick drop down beside the dead woman and bury his head in his hands. There was something so forlorn about his attitude that she felt an unwilling sympathy. He looked like a dog watching by its dead master. Nevertheless her robust common sense was saying to her:
“Best thing that could have happened for him and his wife—and for Marshall and the child—but I don’t suppose he can see it that way, poor devil.”
Emily Brewster was a woman who could always rise to an emergency.
Five
Inspector Colgate stood back by the cliff waiting for the police-surgeon to finish with Arlena’s body. Patrick Redfern and Emily Brewster stood a little to one side.
Dr. Neasden rose from his knees with a quick deft movement.
He said:
“Strangled—and by a pretty powerful pair of hands. She doesn’t seem to have put up much of a struggle. Taken by surprise. H’m—well—nasty business.”
Emily Brewster had taken one look and then quickly averted her eyes from the dead woman’s face. That horrib
le purple convulsed countenance.
Inspector Colgate asked:
“What about time of death?”
Neasden said irritably:
“Can’t say definitely without knowing more about her. Lots of factors to take into account. Let’s see, it’s quarter to one now. What time was it when you found her?”
Patrick Redfern, to whom the question was addressed, said vaguely:
“Some time before twelve. I don’t know exactly.”
Emily Brewster said:
“It was exactly a quarter to twelve when we found she was dead.”
“Ah, and you came here in the boat. What time was it when you caught sight of her lying here?”
Emily Brewster considered.
“I should say we rounded the point about five or six minutes earlier.” She turned to Redfern. “Do you agree?”
He said vaguely:
“Yes—yes—about that, I should think.”
Neasden asked the Inspector in a low voice:
“This the husband? Oh! I see, my mistake. Thought it might be. He seems rather done in over it.”
He raised his voice officially.
“Let’s put it at twenty minutes to twelve. She cannot have been killed very long before that. Say between then and eleven—quarter to eleven at the earliest outside limit.”
The Inspector shut his notebook with a snap.
“Thanks,” he said. “That ought to help us considerably. Puts it within very narrow limits—less than an hour all told.”
He turned to Miss Brewster.
“Now then, I think it’s all clear so far. You’re Miss Emily Brewster and this is Mr. Patrick Redfern, both staying at the Jolly Roger Hotel. You identify this lady as a fellow guest of yours at the hotel—the wife of a Captain Marshall?”
Emily Brewster nodded.
“Then, I think,” said Inspector Colgate, “that we’ll adjourn to the hotel.”
He beckoned to a constable.
“Hawkes, you stay here and don’t allow anyone on to this cove. I’ll be sending Phillips along later.”
II
“Upon my soul!” said Colonel Weston. “This is a surprise finding you here!”
Hercule Poirot replied to the Chief Constable’s greeting in a suitable manner. He murmured:
“Ah, yes, many years have passed since that affair at St. Loo.”
“I haven’t forgotten it, though,” said Weston. “Biggest surprise of my life. The thing I’ve never got over, though, is the way you got round me about that funeral business. Absolutely unorthodox, the whole thing. Fantastic!”
“Tout de même, mon Colonel,” said Poirot. “It produced the goods, did it not?”
“Er—well, possibly. I dare say we should have got there by more orthodox methods.”
“It is possible,” agreed Poirot diplomatically.
“And here you are in the thick of another murder,” said the Chief Constable. “Any ideas about this one?”
Poirot said slowly:
“Nothing definite—but it is interesting.”
“Going to give us a hand?”
“You would permit it, yes?”
“My dear fellow, delighted to have you. Don’t know enough yet to decide whether it’s a case for Scotland Yard or not. Offhand it looks as though our murderer must be pretty well within a limited radius. On the other hand, all these people are strangers down here. To find out about them and their motives you’ve got to go to London.”
Poirot said:
“Yes, that is true.”
“First of all,” said Weston, “we’ve got to find out who last saw the dead woman alive. Chambermaid took her her breakfast at nine. Girl in the bureau downstairs saw her pass through the lounge and go out about ten.”
“My friend,” said Poirot, “I suspect that I am the man you want.”
“You saw her this morning? What time?”
“At five minutes past ten. I assisted her to launch her float from the bathing beach.”
“And she went off on it?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see which direction she took?”
“She paddled round that point there to the right.”
“In the direction of Pixy’s Cove, that is?”
“Yes.”
“And the time then was—?”
“I should say she actually left the beach at a quarter past ten.”
Weston considered.
“That fits in well enough. How long should you say that it would take her to paddle round to the Cove?”
“Ah me, I am not an expert. I do not go in boats or expose myself on floats. Perhaps half an hour?”
“That’s about what I think,” said the Colonel. “She wouldn’t be hurrying, I presume. Well, if she arrived there at a quarter to eleven, that fits in well enough.”
“At what time does your doctor suggest she died?”
“Oh, Neasden doesn’t commit himself. He’s a cautious chap. A quarter to eleven is his earliest outside limit.”
Poirot nodded. He said:
“There is one other point that I must mention. As she left, Mrs. Marshall asked me not to say I had seen her.”
Weston stared.
He said:
“H’m, that’s rather suggestive, isn’t it?”
Poirot murmured.
“Yes. I thought so myself.”
Weston tugged at his moustache. He said:
“Look here, Poirot. You’re a man of the world. What sort of a woman was Mrs. Marshall?”
A faint smile came to Poirot’s lips.
He asked:
“Have you not already heard?”
The Chief Constable said dryly:
“I know what the women say of her. They would. How much truth is there in it? Was she having an affair with this fellow Redfern?”
“I should say undoubtedly yes.”
“He followed her down here, eh?”
“There is reason to suppose so.”
“And the husband? Did he know about it? What did he feel?”
Poirot said slowly:
“It is not easy to know what Captain Marshall feels or thinks. He is a man who does not display his emotions.”
Weston said sharply:
“But he might have ’em, all the same.”
Poirot nodded. He said:
“Oh yes, he might have them.”
III
The Chief Constable was being as tactful as it was in his nature to be with Mrs. Castle.
Mrs. Castle was the owner and proprietress of the Jolly Roger Hotel. She was a woman of forty odd with a large bust, rather violent henna red hair, and an almost offensively refined manner of speech.
She was saying:
“That such a thing should happen in my hotel! Ay am sure it has always been the quayettest place imaginable! The people who come here are such naice people. No rowdiness—if you know what ay mean. Not like the big hotels in St. Loo.”
“Quite so, Mrs. Castle,” said Colonel Weston. “But accidents happen in the best regulated—er households.”
“Ay’m sure Inspector Colgate will bear me out,” said Mrs. Castle, sending an appealing glance towards the Inspector who was sitting looking very official. “As to the laycensing laws, ay am most particular. There has never been any irregularity!”
“Quite, quite,” said Weston. “We’re not blaming you in any way, Mrs. Castle.”
“But it does so reflect upon an establishment,” said Mrs. Castle, her large bust heaving. “When ay think of the noisy gaping crowds. Of course no one but hotel guests are allowed upon the island—but all the same they will no doubt come and point from the shore.”
She shuddered.
Inspector Colgate saw his chance to turn the conversation to good account.
He said:
“In regard to that point you’ve just raised. Access to the island. How do you keep people off?”
“Ay am most
particular about it.”
“Yes, but what measures do you take? What keeps ’em off? Holiday crowds in summer time swarm everywhere like flies.”
Mrs. Castle shrugged slightly again.
She said:
“That is the fault of the charabancs. Ay have seen eighteen at one time parked by the quay at Leathercombe Bay. Eighteen!”
“Just so. How do you stop them coming here?”
“There are notices. And then, of course, at high tide, we are cut off.”
“Yes, but at low tide?”
Mrs. Castle explained. At the island end of the causeway there was a gate. This said “Jolly Roger Hotel. Private. No entry except to Hotel.” The rocks rose sheer out of the sea on either side there and could not be climbed.
“Anyone could take a boat, though, I suppose, and row round and land on one of the coves? You couldn’t stop them doing that. There’s a right of access to the foreshore. You can’t stop people being on the beach between low and high watermark.”
But this, it seemed, very seldom happened. Boats could be obtained at Leathercombe Bay harbour, but from there it was a long row to the island, and there was also a strong current just outside Leathercombe Bay harbour.
There were notices, too, on both Gull Cove and Pixy Cove by the ladder. She added that George or William were always on the look out at the bathing beach proper which was the nearest to the mainland.
“Who are George and William?”
“George attends to the bathing beach. He sees to the costumes and the floats. William is the gardener. He keeps the paths and marks the tennis courts and all that.”
Colonel Weston said impatiently:
“Well, that seems clear enough. That’s not to say that nobody could have come from outside, but anyone who did so took a risk—the risk of being noticed. We’ll have a word with George and William presently.”
Mrs. Castle said:
“Ay do not care for trippers—a very noisy crowd, and they frequently leave orange peel and cigarette boxes on the causeway and down by the rocks, but all the same ay never thought one of them would turn out to be a murderer. Oh dear! it really is too terrible for words. A lady like Mrs. Marshall murdered and what’s so horrible, actually—er—strangled….”
Mrs. Castle could hardly bring herself to say the word. She brought it out with the utmost reluctance.
Inspector Colgate said soothingly:
“Yes, it’s a nasty business.”