“Nice little woman. Bit wishy-washy, perhaps. A lot too good for that philandering young ass of a husband of hers. Oh well, the boy’s young. Women usually make a fool of you once!”
He said:
“Sit down, Mrs. Redfern. We’ve got to go through a certain amount of routine, you see. Asking everybody for an account of their movements this morning. Just for our records.”
Christine Redfern nodded.
She said in her quiet precise voice.
“Oh yes, I quite understand. Where do you want me to begin?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“As early as possible, Madame. What did you do when you first got up this morning?”
Christine said:
“Let me see. On my way down to breakfast I went into Linda M
arshall’s room and fixed up with her to go to Gull Cove this morning. We agreed to meet in the lounge at half past ten.”
Poirot asked:
“You did not bathe before breakfast, Madame?”
“No. I very seldom do.” She smiled. “I like the sea well warmed before I get into it. I’m rather a chilly person.”
“But your husband bathes then?”
“Oh, yes. Nearly always.”
“And Mrs. Marshall, she also?”
A change came over Christine’s voice. It became cold and almost acrid.
She said:
“Oh no, Mrs. Marshall was the sort of person who never made an appearance before the middle of the morning.”
With an air of confusion, Hercule Poirot said:
“Pardon, Madame, I interrupted you. You were saying that you went to Miss Linda Marshall’s room. What time was that?”
“Let me see—half past eight—no, a little later.”
“And was Miss Marshall up then?”
“Oh yes, she had been out.”
“Out?”
“Yes, she said she’d been bathing.”
There was a faint—a very faint note of embarrassment in Christine’s voice. It puzzled Hercule Poirot.
Weston said:
“And then?”