Evil Under the Sun (Hercule Poirot 24)

“I wonder now—”

Mr. Gardener said:

“Yes, darling?”

He struggled out of the hammock chair and took Mrs. Gardener’s knitting and her book. He asked:

“What about joining us for a drink, Miss Brewster?”

“Not just now, thanks.”

The Gardeners went up to the hotel.

Miss Brewster said:

“American husbands are wonderful!”

III

Mrs. Gardener’s place was taken by the Reverend Stephen Lane.

Mr. Lane was a tall vigorous clergyman of fifty odd. His face was tanned and his dark grey flannel trousers were holidayfied and disreputable.

He said with enthusiasm:

“Marvellous country! I’ve been from Leathercombe Bay to Harford and back over the cliffs.”

“Warm work walking today,” said Major Barry who never walked.

“Good exercise,” said Miss Brewster. “I haven’t been for my row yet. Nothing like rowing for your stomach muscles.”

The eyes of Hercule Poirot dropped somewhat ruefully to a certain protuberance in his middle.

Miss Brewster, noting the glance, said kindly:

“You’d soon get that off, M. Poirot, if you took a rowing boat out every day.”

“Merci, Mademoiselle. I detest boats!”

“You mean small boats?”

“Boats of all sizes!” He closed his eyes and shuddered. “The movement of the sea, it is not pleasant.”

“Bless the man, the sea is as calm as a mill pond today.”

Poirot replied with conviction:

“There is no such thing as a really calm sea. Always, always, there is motion.”

“If you ask me,” said Major Barry, “seasickness is nine-tenths nerves.”

“There,” said the clergyman, smiling a little, “speaks the good sailor—eh, Major?”

“Only been ill once—and that was crossing the Channel! Don’t think about it, that’s my motto.”

“Seasickness is really a very odd thing,” mused Miss Brewster. “Why should some people be subject to it and not others? It seems so unfair. And nothing to do with one’s ordinary health. Quite sickly people are good sailors. Someone told me once it was something to do with one’s spine. Then there’s the way some people can’t stand heights. I’m not very good myself, but Mrs. Redfern is far worse. The other day, on the cliff path to Harford, she turned quite giddy and simply clung to me. She told me she once got stuck halfway down that outside staircase on Milan Cathedral. She’d gone up without thinking but coming down did for her.”

“She’d better not go down the ladder to Pixy Cove, then,” observed Lane.