LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘What, Madame?’

      ‘Pity.’

      She brought the word out like the flick of a whip.

      She went on:

      ‘Do you think I don’t know? That I can’t see? All the time people are saying: “Poor Mrs Redfern—that poor little woman.” And anyway I’m not little, I’m tall. They say little because they are sorry for me. And I can’t bear it!’

      Cautiously, Hercule Poirot spread his handkerchief on the seat and sat down. He said thoughtfully:

      ‘There is something in that.’

      ‘That woman—’ said Christine and stopped.

      Poirot said gravely:

      ‘Will you allow me to tell you something, Madame? Something that is as true as the stars above us? The Arlena Stuarts—or Arlena Marshalls—of this world—do not count.’

      Christine Redfern said:

      ‘Nonsense.’

      ‘I assure you, it is true. Their Empire is of the moment and for the moment. To count—really and truly to count—a woman must have goodness or brains.’

      Christine said scornfully:

      ‘Do you think men care for goodness or brains?’

      Poirot said gravely:

      ‘Fundamentally, yes.’

      Christine laughed shortly.

      ‘I don’t agree with you.’

      Poirot said:

      ‘Your husband loves you, Madame. I know it.’

      ‘You can’t know it.’

      ‘Yes, yes. I know it. I have seen him looking at you.’

      Suddenly she broke down. She wept stormily and bitterly against Poirot’s accommodating shoulder.

      She said:

      ‘I can’t bear it…I can’t bear it…’

      Poirot patted her arm. He said soothingly:

      ‘Patience—only patience.’

      She sat up and pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. She said in a stifled voice:

      ‘It’s all right. I’m better now. Leave me. I’d—I’d rather be alone.’

      He obeyed and left her sitting there while he himself followed the winding path down to the hotel.

      He was nearly there when he heard the murmur of voices.

      He turned a little aside from the path. There was a gap in the bushes.

      He saw Arlena Marshall and Patrick Redfern beside her. He heard the man’s voice, with the throb in it of emotion.

      ‘I’m crazy about you—crazy—you’ve driven me mad…You do care a little—you do care?’

      He saw Arlena Marshall’s face—it was, he thought, like a sleek happy cat—it was animal, not human. She said softly:

      ‘Of course, Patrick darling, I adore you. You know that…’

      For once Hercule Poirot cut his eavesdropping short. He went back to the path and on down to the hotel.

      A figure joined him suddenly. It was Captain Marshall.

      Marshall said:

      ‘Remarkable night, what? After that foul day.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘Looks as though we should have fine weather tomorrow.’

       Chapter 4

      The morning of the 25th of August dawned bright and cloudless. It was a morning to tempt even an inveterate sluggard to rise early.

      Several people rose early that morning at the Jolly Roger.

      It was eight o’clock when Linda, sitting at her dressing-table, turned a little thick calf bound volume face downwards, sprawling it open and looked at her own face in the mirror.

      Her lips were set tight together and the pupils of her eyes contracted.

      She said below her breath:

      ‘I’ll do it…’

      She slipped out of her pyjamas and into her bathing-dress. Over it she flung on a bath-robe and laced espadrilles on her feet.

      She went out of her room and along the passage. At the end of it a door on to the balcony led to an outside staircase leading directly down to the rocks below the hotel. There was a small iron ladder clamped on to the rocks leading down into the water which was used by many of the hotel guests for a before-breakfast dip as taking up less time than going down to the main bathing beach.

      As Linda started down from the balcony she met her father coming up. He said:

      ‘You’re up early. Going to have a dip?’

      Linda nodded.

      They passed each other.

      Instead of going on down the rocks, however, Linda skirted round the hotel to the left until she came to the path down to the causeway connecting the hotel with the mainland. The tide was high and the causeway under water, but the boat that took hotel guests across was tied to a little jetty. The man in charge of it was absent at the moment. Linda got in, untied it and rowed herself across.

      She tied up the boat on the other side, walked up the slope, past the hotel garage and along until she reached the general shop.

      The woman had just taken down the shutters and was engaged in sweeping out the floor. She looked amazed at the sight of Linda.

      ‘Well, Miss, you are up early.’

      Linda put her hand in the pocket of her bath-wrap and brought out some money. She proceeded to make her purchases.

      II

      Christine Redfern was standing in Linda’s room when the girl returned.

      ‘Oh, there you are,’ Christine exclaimed. ‘I thought you couldn’t be really up yet.’

      Linda said:

      ‘No, I’ve been bathing.’

      Noticing the parcel in her hand, Christine said with surprise:

      ‘The post has come early today.’

      Linda flushed. With her habitual nervous clumsiness the parcel slipped from her hand. The flimsy string broke and some of the contents rolled over the floor.

      Christine exclaimed:

      ‘What have you been buying candles for?’

      But to Linda’s relief she did not wait for an answer, but went on, as she helped to pick the things up from the floor.

      ‘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

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