Evil Under the Sun

‘I came in to ask whether you would like to come with me to Gull Cove this morning. I want to sketch there.’ 

Linda accepted with alacrity.

In the last few days she had accompanied Christine Redfern more than once on sketching expeditions. Christine was a most indifferent artist, but it is possible that she found the excuse of painting a help to her pride since her husband now spent most of his time with Arlena Marshall.

Linda Marshall had been increasingly morose and bad tempered. She liked being with Christine who, intent on her work, spoke very little. It was, Linda felt, nearly as good as being by oneself, and in a curious way she craved for company of some kind. There was a subtle kind of sympathy between her and the elder woman, probably based on the fact of their mutual dislike of the same person.

Christine said:

‘I’m playing tennis at twelve, so we’d better start fairly early. Half-past ten?’

‘Right. I’ll be ready. Meet you in the hall.’

III

Rosamund Darnley, strolling out of the dining-room after a very late breakfast, was cannoned into by Linda as the latter came tearing down the stairs.

‘Oh! sorry, Miss Darnley.’ 

Rosamund said: ‘Lovely morning, isn’t it? One can hardly believe it after yesterday.’

‘I know. I’m going with Mrs Redfern to Gull Cove. I said I’d meet her at half-past ten. I thought I was late.’

‘No, it’s only twenty-five past.’

‘Oh! good.’

She was panting a little and Rosamund looked at her curiously.

‘You’re not feverish, are you, Linda?’

The girls’ eyes were very bright and she had a vivid patch of colour in each cheek.

‘Oh!no. I’m never feverish.’

Rosamund smiled and said:

‘It’s such a lovely day I got up for breakfast. Usually I have it in bed. But today I came down and faced eggs and bacon like a man.’

‘I know-it’s heavenly after yesterday. Gull Cove is nice in the morning. I shall put a lot of oil on and get really brown.’

Rosamund said:

‘Yes, Gull Cove is nice in the morning. And it’s more peaceful than the beach here.’

Linda said, rather shyly:

‘Come too.’

Rosamund shook her head.

She said:

‘Not this morning. I’ve other fish to fry.’ 

Christine Redfern came down the stairs.

She was wearing beach pyjamas of a loose floppy pattern with long sleeves and wide legs. They were made of some green material with a yellow design. Rosamund’s tongue itched to tell her that yellow and green were the most unbecoming colours possible for her fair, slightly anaemic complexion. It always annoyed Rosamund when people had no clothes sense.

She thought: ‘If I dressed that girl,I’d soon make her husband sit up and take notice. However much of a fool Arlena is, she does know how to dress. This wretched girl looks just like a wilting lettuce.’

Aloud she said:

‘Have a nice time. I’m going to Sunny Ledge with a book.’

IV

Hercule Poirot breakfasted in his room as usual off coffee and rolls.

The beauty of the morning, however, tempted him to leave the hotel earlier than usual. It was ten o’clock, at least half an hour before his usual appearance, when he descended to the bathing beach. The beach itself was empty save for one person.

That person was Arlena Marshall. 

Clad in her white bathing-dress, the green Chinese hat on her head, she was trying to launch a white wooden float. Poirot came gallantly to the rescue, completely immersing a pair of white suede shoes in doing so.

She thanked him with one of those sideways glances of hers.

Just as she was pushing off, she called him.

‘M. Poirot?’

Poirot leaped to the water’s edge.

‘Madame.’

Arlena Marshall said:

‘Do something for me, will you?’

‘Anything.’

She smiled at him. She murmured:

‘Don’t tell any one where I am.’ She made her glance appealing. ‘Every onewill follow me about so. I just want for once to bealone.’

She paddled off vigorously.

Poirot walked up the beach. He murmured to himself:

‘Ah ca, jamais!That,par exemple, I do not believe.’

He doubted if Arlena Stuart, to give her her stage name, had ever wanted to be alone in her life.

Hercule Poirot, that man of the world, knew better. Arlena Marshall was doubtless keeping a rendezvous, and Poirot had a very good idea with whom. 

Or thought he had, but there he found himself proved wrong.

For just as she floated rounded the point of the bay and disappeared out of sight, Patrick Redfern closely followed by Kenneth Marshall, came striding down the beach from the hotel.

Marshall nodded to Poirot, ‘ ’Morning, Poirot. Seen my wife anywhere about?’

Poirot’s answer was diplomatic.

‘Has Madame then risen so early?’

Marshall said:

‘She’s not in her room.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘Lovely day. I shall have a bathe right away. Got a lot of typing to do this morning.’

Patrick Redfern, less openly, was looking up and down the beach. He sat down near Poirot and prepared to wait for the arrival of his lady.

Poirot said:

‘And Madame Redfern? Has she too risen early?’

Patrick Redfern said:

‘Christine? Oh, she’s going off sketching. She’s rather keen on art just now.’