Evil Under the Sun (Hercule Poirot 24)

Weston shook his head. He said:

“This isn’t one of the ‘lonely copse’ murders. This cove place was pretty inaccessible. Either the man would have to come up from the causeway past the hotel, over the top of the island and down by that ladder contraption, or else he came there by boat. Either way is unlikely for a casual killing.”

Patrick Redfern said:

“You said there were three possibilities.”

“Um—yes,” said the Chief Constable. “That’s to say, there were two people on this island who had a motive for killing her. Her husband, for one, and your wife for another.”

Redfern stared at him. He looked dumbfounded. He said:

“My wife? Christine? D’you mean that Christine had anything to do with this?”

He got up and stood there stammering slightly in his incoherent haste to get the words out.

“You’re mad—quite mad—Christine? Why, it’s impossible. It’s laughable!”

Weston said:

“All the same, Mr. Redfern, jealousy is a very powerful motive. Women who are jealous lose control of themselves completely.”

Redfern said earnestly.

“Not Christine. She’s—oh she’s not like that. She was unhappy, yes. But she’s not the kind of person to—Oh, there’s no violence in her.”

Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Violence. The same word that Linda Marshall had used. As before, he agreed with the sentiment.

“Besides,” went on Redfern confidently. “It would be absurd. Arlena was twice as strong physically as Christine. I doubt if Christine could strangle a kitten—certainly not a strong wiry creature like Arlena. And then Christine could never have got down that ladder to the beach. She has no head for that sort of thing. And—oh, the whole thing is fantastic!”

Colonel Weston scratched his ear tentatively.

“Well,” he said. “Put like that it doesn’t seem likely. I grant you that. But motive’s the first thing we’ve got to look for.” He added: “Motive and opportunity.”

IV

When Redfern had left the room, the Chief Constable observed with a slight smile:

“Didn’t think it necessary to tell the fellow his wife had got an alibi. Wanted to hear what he’d have to say to the idea. Shook him up a bit, didn’t it?”

Hercule Poirot murmured:

“The arguments he advanced were quite as strong as any alibi.”

“Yes. Oh! she didn’t do it! She couldn’t have done it—physically impossible as you said. Marshall could have done it—but apparently he didn’t.”

Inspector Colgate coughed. He said:

“Excuse me, sir, I’ve been thinking about that alibi. It’s possible, you know, if he’d thought this thing out, that those letters were got ready beforehand.”

Weston said:

“That’s a good idea. We must look into—”

He broke off as Christine Redfern entered the room.

She was, as always, calm and a little precise in manner. She was wearing a white tennis frock and a pale blue pullover. It accentuated her fair, rather anaemic prettiness. Yet, Hercule Poirot thought to himself, it was neither a silly face nor a weak one. It had plenty of resolution, courage and good sense. He nodded appreciatively.

Colonel Weston thought: