Evil Under the Sun

Chapter 3

Rosamund Darnley and Kenneth Marshall sat on the short springy turf of the cliff overlooking Gull Cove. This was on the east side of the island. People came here in the morning sometimes to bathe when they wanted to be peaceful.

Rosamund said:

‘It’s nice to get away from people.’

Marshall murmured inaudibly:

‘M—m, yes.’

He rolled over, sniffing at the short turf.

‘Smells good. Remember the downs at Shipley?’

‘Rather.’

‘Pretty good, those days.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve not changed much, Rosamund.’

‘Yes, I have. I’ve changed enormously.’

‘You’ve been very successful and you’re rich and all that, but you’re the same old Rosamund.’

Rosamund murmured:

‘I wish I were.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Nothing. It’s a pity, isn’t it, Kenneth, that we can’t keep the nice natures and high ideals that we had when we were young?’

‘I don’t know that your nature was ever particularly nice, my child. You used to get into the most frightful rages. You half-choked me once when you flew at me in a temper.’

Rosamund laughed. She said:

‘Do you remember the day that we took Toby down to get water rats?’

They spent some minutes in recalling old adventures.

Then there came a pause.

Rosamund’s fingers played with the clasp of her bag. She said at last:

‘Kenneth?’

‘Um.’ His reply was indistinct. He was still lying on his face on the turf.

‘If I say something to you that is probably outrageously impertinent will you never speak to me again?’

He rolled over and sat up.

‘I don’t think,’ he said seriously, ‘that I would ever regard anything you said as impertinent. You see, you belong.’

She nodded in acceptance of all that last phrase meant. She concealed only the pleasure it gave her.

‘Kenneth, why don’t you get a divorce from your wife?’

His face altered. It hardened—the happy expression died out of it. He took a pipe from his pocket and began filling it.

Rosamund said:

‘I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.’

He said quietly:

‘You haven’t offended me.’

‘Well then, why don’t you?’

‘You don’t understand, my dear girl.’

‘Are you—so frightfully fond of her?’

‘It’s not just a question of that. You see, I married her.’

‘I know. But she’s—pretty notorious.’

He considered that for a moment, ramming in the tobacco carefully.

‘Is she? I suppose she is.’

‘You could divorce her, Ken.’

‘My dear girl, you’ve got no business to say a thing like that. Just because men lose their heads about her a bit isn’t to say that she loses hers.’

Rosamund bit off a rejoinder. Then she said:

‘You could fix it so that she divorced you—if you prefer it that way.’

‘I dare say I could.’

‘You ought to, Ken. Really, I mean it. There’s the child.’

‘Linda?’

‘Yes, Linda.’

‘What’s Linda to do with it?’

‘Arlena’s not good for Linda. She isn’t really. Linda, I think, feels things a good deal.’

Kenneth Marshall applied a match to his pipe. Between puffs he said:

‘Yes—there’s something in that. I suppose Arlena and Linda aren’t very good for each other. Not the right thing for a girl perhaps. It’s a bit worrying.’

Rosamund said:

‘I like Linda—very much. There’s something—fine about her.’

Kenneth said:

‘She’s like her mother. She takes things hard like Ruth did.’

Rosamund said:

‘Then don’t you think—really—that you ought to get rid of Arlena?’

‘Fix up a divorce?’

‘Yes. People are doing that all the time.’

Kenneth Marshall said with sudden vehemence:

‘Yes, and that’s just what I hate.’

‘Hate?’ She was startled.

‘Yes. Sort of attitude to life there is nowadays. If you take on a thing and don’t like it, then you get yourself out of it as quick as possible! Dash it all, there’s got to be such a thing as good faith. If you marry a woman and engage yourself to look after her, well it’s up to you to do it. It’s your show. You’ve taken it on. I’m sick of quick marriage and easy divorce. Arlena’s my wife, that’s all there is to it.’

Rosamund leaned forward. She said in a low voice:

‘So it’s like that with you? “Till death do us part”?’

Kenneth Marshall nodded his head.

He said:

‘That’s just it.’

Rosamund said:

‘I see.’

II

Mr Horace Blatt, returning to Leathercombe Bay down a narrow twisting lane, nearly ran down Mrs Redfern at a corner.

As she flattened herself into the hedge, Mr Blatt brought his Sunbeam to a halt by applying the brakes vigorously.

‘Hullo-ullo-ullo,’ said Mr Blatt cheerfully.

He was a large man with a red face and a fringe of reddish hair round a shining bald spot.

It was Mr Blatt’s apparent ambition to be the life and soul of any place he happened to be in. The Jolly Roger Hotel, in his opinion, given somewhat loudly, needed brightening up. He was puzzled at the way people seemed to melt and disappear when he himself arrived on the scene.

‘Nearly made you into strawberry jam, didn’t I?’ said Mr Blatt gaily.

Christine Redfern said:

‘Yes, you did.’

‘Jump in,’ said Mr Blatt.

‘Oh, thanks—I think I’ll walk.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Mr Blatt. ‘What’s a car for?’

Yielding to necessity Christine Redfern got in.

Mr Blatt restarted the engine which had stopped owing to the suddenness with which he had previously pulled up.

Mr Blatt inquired:

‘And what are you doing walking about all alone? That’s all wrong, a nice-looking girl like you.’

Christine said hurriedly:

‘Oh! I like being alone.’

Mr Blatt gave her a terrific dig with his elbow, nearly sending the car into the hedge at the same time.

‘Girls always say that,’ he said. ‘They don’t mean it. You know, that place, the Jolly Roger, wants a bit of livening up. Nothing jolly about it. No life in it. Of course there’s a good amount of duds staying there. A lot of kids, to begin with and a lot of old fogeys too. There’s that old Anglo-Indian bore and that athletic parson and those yapping Americans and that foreigner with the moustache—makes me laugh that moustache of his! I should say he’s a hairdresser, something of that sort.’

Christine shook her head.

‘Oh no, he’s a detective.’

Mr Blatt nearly let the car go into the hedge again.

‘A detective? D’you mean he’s in disguise?’

Christine smiled faintly.

She said:

‘Oh no, he really is like that. He’s Hercule Poirot. You must have heard of him.’

Mr Blatt said:

‘Didn’t catch his name properly. Oh yes, I’ve heard of him. But I thought he was dead. Dash it, he ought to be dead. What’s he after down here?’

‘He’s not after anything—he’s just on a holiday.’

‘Well, I suppose that might be so,’ Mr Blatt seemed doubtful about it. ‘Looks a bit of a bounder, doesn’t he?’

‘Well,’ said Christine and hesitated. ‘Perhaps a little peculiar.’

‘What I say is,’ said Mr Blatt, ‘what’s wrong with Scotland Yard? Buy British every time for me.’

He reached the bottom of the hill and with a triumphant fanfare of the horn ran the car into the Jolly Roger’s garage which was situated, for tidal reasons, on the mainland opposite the hotel.

III

Linda Marshall was in the small shop which catered for the wants of visitors to Leathercombe Bay. One side of it was devoted to shelves on which were books which could be borrowed for the sum of twopence. The newest of them was ten years old, some were twenty years old and others older still.

Linda took first one and then another doubtfully from the shelf and glanced into it. She decided that she couldn’t possibly read The Four Feathers or Vice Versa. She took out a small squat volume in brown calf.

The time passed…

With a start Linda shoved the book back in the shelf as Christine Redfern’s voice said:

‘What are you reading, Linda?’

Linda said hurriedly:

‘Nothing. I’m looking for a book.’

She pulled out The Marriage of William Ashe at random and advanced to the counter fumbling for twopence.

Christine said:

‘Mr Blatt just drove me home—after nearly running over me first. I really felt I couldn’t walk all across the causeway with him, so I said I had to buy some things.’

Linda said:

‘He’s awful, isn’t he? Always saying how rich he is and making the most terrible jokes.’

Christine said:

‘Poor man. One really feels rather sorry for him.’

Linda didn’t agree. She didn’t see anything to be sorry for in Mr Blatt. She was young and ruthless.

She walked with Christine Redfern out of the shop and down towards the causeway.

She was busy with her own thoughts. She liked Christine Redfern. She and Rosamund Darnley were the only bearable people on the island in Linda’s opinion. Neither of them talked much to her for one thing. Now, as they walked, Christine didn’t say anything. That, Linda thought, was sensible. If you hadn’t anything worth saying why go chattering all the time?

She lost herself in her own perplexities.

She said suddenly:

‘Mrs Redfern, have you ever felt that everything’s so awful—so terrible—that you’ll—oh, burst…?’

The words were almost comic, but Linda’s face, drawn and anxious, was not. Christine Redfern, looking at her at first vaguely, with scarcely comprehending eyes, certainly saw nothing to laugh at…

She caught her breath sharply.

She said:

‘Yes—yes—I have felt—just that…’

IV

Mr Blatt said:

‘So you’re the famous sleuth, eh?’

They were in the cocktail bar, a favourite haunt of Mr Blatt’s.

Hercule Poirot acknowledged the remark with his usual lack of modesty.

Mr Blatt went on.

‘And what are you doing down here—on a job?’

‘No, no. I repose myself. I take the holiday.’

Mr Blatt winked.

‘You’d say that anyway, wouldn’t you?’

Poirot replied:

‘Not necessarily.’

Horace Blatt said:

‘Oh! Come now. As a matter of fact you’d be safe enough with me. I don’t repeat all I hear! Learnt to keep my mouth shut years ago. Shouldn’t have got on the way I have if I hadn’t known how to do that. But you know what most people are—yap, yap, yap about everything they hear! Now you can’t afford that in your trade! That’s why you’ve got to keep it up that you’re here holiday-making and nothing else.’

Poirot asked:

‘And why should you suppose the contrary?’

Mr Blatt closed one eye.

He said:

‘I’m a man of the world. I know the cut of a fellow’s jib. A man like you would be at Deauville or Le Touquet or down at Juan les Pins. That’s your—what’s the phrase?—spiritual home.’

Poirot sighed. He looked out of the window. Rain was falling and mist encircled the island. He said:

‘It is possible that you are right! There, at least, in wet weather there are the distractions.’

‘Good old Casino!’ said Mr Blatt. ‘You know, I’ve had to work pretty hard most of my life. No time for holidays or kickshaws. I meant to make good and I have made good. Now I can do what I please. My money’s as good as any man’s. I’ve seen a bit of life in the last few years, I can tell you.’

Poirot murmured:

‘Ah, yes?’

‘Don’t know why I came to this place,’ Mr Blatt continued.

Poirot observed:

‘I, too, wondered?’

‘Eh, what’s that?’

Poirot waved an eloquent hand.

‘I, too, am not without observation. I should have expected you most certainly to choose Deauville or Biarritz.’

‘Instead of which, we’re both here, eh?’

Mr Blatt gave a hoarse chuckle.

‘Don’t really know why I came here,’ he mused. ‘I think, you know, it sounded romantic. Jolly Roger Hotel, Smugglers’ Island. That kind of address tickles you up, you know. Makes you think of when you were a boy. Pirates, smuggling, all that.’

He laughed, rather self-consciously.

‘I used to sail quite a bit as a boy. Not this part of the world. Off the East coast. Funny how a taste for that sort of thing never quite leaves you. I could have a tip-top yacht if I liked, but somehow I don’t really fancy it. I like mucking about in that little yawl of mine. Redfern’s keen on sailing, too. He’s been out with me once or twice. Can’t get hold of him now—always hanging round that red-haired wife of Marshall’s.’

He paused, then lowering his voice, he went on:

‘Mostly a dried up lot of sticks in this hotel! Mrs Marshall’s about the only lively spot! I should think Marshall’s got his hands full looking after her. All sorts of stories about her in her stage days—and after! Men go crazy about her. You’ll see, there’ll be a spot of trouble one of these days.’

Poirot asked: ‘What kind of trouble?’

Horace Blatt replied:

‘That depends. I’d say, looking at Marshall, that he’s a man with a funny kind of temper. As a matter of fact, I know he is. Heard something about him. I’ve met that quiet sort. Never know where you are with that kind. Redfern had better look out—’

He broke off, as the subject of his words came into the bar. He went on speaking loudly and self-consciously.

‘And, as I say, sailing round this coast is good fun. Hullo, Redfern, have one with me? What’ll you have? Dry Martini? Right. What about you, M. Poirot?’

Poirot shook his head.

Patrick Redfern sat down and said:

‘Sailing? It’s the best fun in the world. Wish I could do more of it. Used to spend most of my time as a boy in a sailing dinghy round this coast.’

Poirot said:

‘Then you know this part of the world well?’

‘Rather! I knew this place before there was a hotel on it. There were just a few fishermen’s cottages at Leathercombe Bay and a tumbledown old house, all shut up, on the island.’

‘There was a house here?’

‘Oh, yes, but it hadn’t been lived in for years. Was practically falling down. There used to be all sorts of stories of secret passages from the house to Pixy’s Cave. We were always looking for that secret passage, I remember.’

Horace Blatt spilt his drink. He cursed, mopped himself and asked:

‘What is this Pixy’s Cave?’

Patrick said:

‘Oh, don’t you know it? It’s on Pixy Cove. You can’t find the entrance to it easily. It’s among a lot of piled up boulders at one end. Just a long thin crack. You can just squeeze through it. Inside it widens out into quite a big cave. You can imagine what fun it was to a boy! An old fisherman showed it to me. Nowadays, even the fishermen don’t know about it. I asked one the other day why the place was called Pixy Cove and he couldn’t tell me.’

Hercule Poirot said:

‘But I still do not understand. What is this pixy?’

Patrick Redfern said:

‘Oh! that’s typically Devonshire. There’s the pixy’s cave at Sheepstor on the Moor. You’re supposed to leave a pin, you know, as a present for the pixy. A pixy is a kind of moor spirit.’

Hercule Poirot said:

‘Ah! but it is interesting, that.’

Patrick Redfern went on.

‘There’s a lot of pixy lore on Dartmoor still. There are tors that are said to pixy ridden, and I expect that farmers coming home after a thick night still complain of being pixy led.’

Horace Blatt said:

‘You mean when they’ve had a couple?’

Patrick Redfern said with a smile:

‘That’s certainly the commonsense explanation!’

Blatt looked at his watch. He said:

‘I’m going in to dinner. On the whole, Redfern, pirates are my favourites, not pixies.’

Patrick Redfern said with a laugh as the other went out:

‘Faith, I’d like to see the old boy pixy led himself!’

Poirot observed meditatively:

‘For a hard-bitten business man, M. Blatt seems to have a very romantic imagination.’

Patrick Redfern said:

‘That’s because he’s only half educated. Or so my wife says. Look at what he reads! Nothing but thrillers or Wild West stories.’

Poirot said:

‘You mean that he has still the mentality of a boy?’

‘Well, don’t you think so, sir?’

‘Me, I have not seen very much of him.’

‘I haven’t either. I’ve been out sailing with him once or twice—but he doesn’t really like having anyone with him. He prefers to be on his own.’

Hercule Poirot said:

‘That is indeed curious. It is singularly unlike his practice on land.’

Redfern laughed. He said:

‘I know. We all have a bit of trouble keeping out of his way. He’d like to turn this place into a cross between Margate and Le Touquet.’

Poirot said nothing for a minute or two. He was studying the laughing face of his companion very attentively. He said suddenly and unexpectedly:

‘I think, M. Redfern, that you enjoy living.’

Patrick stared at him, surprised.

‘Indeed I do. Why not?’

‘Why not indeed,’ agreed Poirot. ‘I make you my felicitation on the fact.’

Smiling a little, Patrick Redfern said:

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘That is why, as an older man, a very much older man, I venture to offer you a piece of advice.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘A very wise friend of mine in the Police Force said to me years ago: “Hercule, my friend, if you would know tranquillity, avoid women.” ’

Patrick Redfern said:

‘I’m afraid it’s a bit late for that, sir. I’m married, you know.’

‘I do know. Your wife is a very charming, a very accomplished woman. She is, I think, very fond of you.’

Patrick Redfern said sharply:

‘I’m very fond of her.’

‘Ah,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘I am delighted to hear it.’

Patrick’s brow was suddenly like thunder.

‘Look here, M. Poirot, what are you getting at?’

‘Les Femmes.’ Poirot leaned back and closed his eyes. ‘I know something of them. They are capable of complicating life unbearably. And the English, they conduct their affairs indescribably. If it was necessary for you to come here, M. Redfern, why, in the name of heaven, did you bring your wife?’