Evil Under the Sun (Hercule Poirot 24)

It was a minute or two before it came to her.

Arlena Marshall’s attitude was the attitude of a sunbather. So had she lain many a time on the beach by the hotel, her bronzed body outstretched and the green cardboard hat protecting her head and neck.

But there was no sun on Pixy’s Beach and there would be none for some hours yet. The overhanging cliff protected the beach from the sun in the morning. A vague feeling of apprehension came over Emily Brewster.

The boat grounded on the shingle. Patrick Redfern called:

“Hullo, Arlena.”

And then Emily Brewster’s foreboding took definite shape. For the recumbent figure did not move or answer.

Emily saw Patrick Redfern’s face change. He jumped out of the boat and she followed him. They dragged the boat ashore then set off up the beach to where that white figure lay so still and unresponsive near the bottom of the cliff.

Patrick Redfern got there first but Emily Brewster was close behind him.

She saw, as one sees in a dream, the bronzed limbs, the white backless bathing dress—the red curl of hair escaping under the jade green hat—saw something else too—the curious unnatural angle of the outspread arms. Felt, in that minute, that this body had not lain down but had been thrown….

She heard Patrick’s voice—a mere frightened whisper. He knelt down beside that still form—touched the hand—the arm….

He said in a low shuddering whisper:

“My God, she’s dead….”

And then, as he lifted the hat a little, peered at the neck:

“Oh, God, she’s been strangled…murdered.”

VI

It was one of those moments when time stands still.

With an odd feeling of unreality Emily Brewster heard herself saying:

“We musn’t touch anything… Not until the police come.”

Redfern’s answer came mechanically.

“No—no—of course not.” And then in a deep agonized whisper. “Who? Who? Who could have done that to Arlena. She can’t have—have been murdered. It can’t be true!”

Emily Brewster shook her head, not knowing quite what to answer.

She heard him draw in his breath—heard the low controlled rage in his voice as he said:

“My God, if I get my hands on the foul fiend who did this.”

Emily Brewster shivered. Her imagination pictured a lurking murderer behind one of the boulders. Then she heard her voice saying:

“Whoever did it wouldn’t be hanging about. We must get the police. Perhaps—” she hesitated—“one of us ought to stay with—with the body.”

Patrick Redfern said:

“I’ll stay.”

Emily Brewster drew a little sigh of relief. She was not the kind of woman who would ever admit to feeling fear, but she was secretly thankful not to have to remain on that beach alone with the faint possibility of a homicidal maniac lingering close at hand.

She said:

“Good. I’ll be as quick as I can. I’ll go in the boat. Can’t face that ladder. There’s a constable at Leathercombe Bay.”