Зло под солнцем / Evil Under the Sun Кристи Агата

Chapter 5

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 Neasdon 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 horrible purple convulsed countenance. Inspector Colgate asked:

“What about time of death?”

Neasdon 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.”

Neasdon 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 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 any one onto this cove. I’ll be sending Phillips along later.”

“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 mme, mon Colonel,” said Poirot. “It produced the goods, did it not?”

“Er – well, possibly. I daresay 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 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, Neasdon 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 drily:

“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.”

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 nice 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 shuddered 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.

“Any one 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 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 was always on the lookout 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.”

“And the newspapers. My hotel in the newspapers!

Colgate said, with a faint grin: “Oh, well, it’s advertisement, in a way.”

Mrs Castle drew herself up. Her bust heaved and whale-bone creaked. She said icily:

“That is not the kind of advertisement Ay care about, Mr Colgate.”

Colonel Weston broke in. He said:

“Now then, Mrs Castle, you’ve got a list of the guests staying here, as I asked you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Colonel Weston pored over the hotel register. He looked over to Poirot who made the forth member of the group assembled in the Manageress’s office.

“This is where you’ll probably be able to help us presently.” He read down the names. “What about servants?”

Mrs Castle produced a second list.

“There are four chambermaids, the head waiter and three under him and Henry in the bar. William does the boots and shoes. Then there’s the cook and two under her.”

“What about the waiters?”

“Well, sir, Albert, the Mater Dotel, came to me from the Vincent at Plymouth. He was there for some years. The three under him have been here for three years – one of them four. They are very nice lads and most respectable. Henry has been here since the hotel opened. He is quite an institution.”

Weston nodded.

He said to Colgate: “Seems all right. You’ll check up on them, of course. Thank you, Mrs Castle.”

“That will be all you require?”

“For the moment, yes.”

Mrs Castle creaked out of the room.

Weston said: “First thing to do is to talk with Captain Marshall.”

Kenneth Marshall sat quietly answering the questions put to him. Apart from a slight hardening of his features he was quite calm. Seen here, with the sunlight falling on him from the window, you realized that he was a handsome man. Those straight features, the steady blue eyes, the firm mouth. His voice was low and pleasant. Colonel Weston was saying:

“I quite understand, Captain Marshall, what a terrible shock this must be to you. But you realize that I am anxious to get the fullest information as soon as possible.”

Marshall nodded.

He said: “I quite understand. Carry on.”

“Mrs Marshall was your second wife?”

“Yes.”

“And you have been married, how long?”

“Just over four years.”

“And her name before she was married?”

“Helen Stuart. Her acting name was Arlena Stuart.”

“She was an actress?”

“She appeared in Revue and musical shows.”

“Did she give up the stage on her marriage?”

“No. She continued to appear. She actually retired only about a year and a half ago.”

“Was there any special reason for her retirement?”

Kenneth Marshall appeared to consider.

“No,” he said. “She simply said that she was tired of it all.”

“It was not – er – in obedience to your special wish?”

Marshall raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, no.”

“You were quite content for her to continue acting after your marriage?”

Marshall smiled very faintly.

“I should have preferred her to give it up – that, yes. But I made no fuss about it.”

“It caused no point of dissension between you?”

“Certainly not. My wife was free to please herself.”

“And – the marriage was a happy one?”

Kenneth Marshall said coldly: “Certainly.”

Colonel Weston paused a minute.

Then he said: “Captain Marshall, have you any idea who could possibly have killed your wife?”

The answer came without the least hesitation.

“None whatsoever.”

“Had she any enemies?”

“Possibly.”

“Ah?”

The other went on quickly. He said: “Don’t misunderstand me, sir. My wife was an actress. She was also a very good-looking woman. In both capacities she aroused a certain amount of envy and jealousy. There were fusses over parts – there was rivalry from other women – there was a good deal, shall we say, of general envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness! But that is not to say that there was any one who was capable of deliberately murdering her.”

Hercule Poirot spoke for the first time. He said:

“What you really mean. Monsieur, is that her enemies were mostly, or entirely, women?”

Kenneth Marshall looked across at him.

“Yes,” he said. “That is so.”

The Chief Constable said: “You know of no man who had a grudge against her?”

“No.”

“Was she previously acquainted with anyone in this hotel?”

“I believe she had met Mr Redfern before – at some cocktail party. Nobody else to my knowledge.”

Weston paused. He seemed to deliberate as to whether to pursue the subject. Then he decided against that course. He said:

“We now come to this morning. When was the last time you saw your wife?”

Marshall paused a minute, then he said:

“I looked in on my way down to breakfast – ”

“Excuse me, you occupied separate rooms?”

“Yes.”

“And what time was that?”

“It must have been about nine o’clock.”

“What was she doing?”

“She was opening her letters.”

“Did she say anything?”

“Nothing of any particular interest. Just good-morning – and that it was a nice day – that sort of thing.”

“What was her manner? Unusual at all?”

“No, perfectly normal.”

“She did not seem excited, or depressed, or upset in any way?”

“I certainly didn’t notice it.”

Hercule Poirot said: “Did she mention at all what were the contents of her letters?”

Again a faint smile appeared on Marshall’s lips. He said:

“As far as I can remember, she said they were all bills.”

“Your wife breakfasted in bed?”

“Yes.”

“Did she always do that?”

“Invariably.”

Hercule Poirot said: “What time did she usually come downstairs?”

“Oh! between ten and eleven – usually nearer eleven.”

Poirot went on: “If she were to descend at ten o’clock exactly, that would be rather surprising?”

“Yes. She wasn’t often down as early as that.”

“But she was this morning. Why do you think that was, Captain Marshall?”

Marshall said unemotionally: “Haven’t the least idea. Might have been the weather – extra fine day and all that.”