“Go on, Mrs. Redfern.”
“I went back to the hotel, changed, and went to the tennis courts where I met the others.”
“Who were?”
“Captain Marshall, Mr. Gardener and Miss Darnley. We played two sets. We were just going in again when the news came about—about Mrs. Marshall.”
Hercule Poirot leant forward. He said:
“And what did you think, Madame, when you heard that news?”
“What did I think?”
Her face showed a faint distaste for the question.
“Yes.”
Christine Redfern said slowly:
“It was—a horrible thing to happen.”
“Ah, yes, your fastidiousness was revolted. I understand that. But what did it mean to you—personally?”
She gave him a quick look—a look of appeal. He responded to it. He said in a matter-of-fact voice.
“I am appealing to you, Madame, as a woman of intelligence with plenty of good sense and judgment. You had doubtless during your stay here formed an opinion of Mrs. Marshall, of the kind of woman she was?”
Christine said cautiously:
“I suppose one always does that more or less when one is staying in hotels.”
“Certainly, it is the natural thing to do. So I ask you, Madame, were you really very surprised at the manner of her death?”
Christine said slowly:
“I think I see what you mean. No, I was not, perhaps, surprised. Shocked, yes. But she was the kind of woman—”
Poirot finished the sentence for her.
“She was the kind of woman to whom such a thing might happen… Yes, Madame, that is the truest and most significant thing that has been said in this room this morning. Laying all—er (he stressed it carefully) personal feeling aside, what did you really think of the late Mrs. Marshall?”
Christine Redfern said calmly:
“Is it really worthwhile going into all that now?”
“I think it might be, yes.”
“Well, what shall I say?” Her fair skin was suddenly suffused with colour. The careful poise of her manner was relaxed. For a short space the natural raw woman looked out. “She’s the kind of woman that to my mind is absolutely worthless! She did nothing to justify her existence. She had no mind—no brains. She thought of nothing but men and clothes and admiration. Useless, a parasite! She was attractive to men, I suppose—Oh, of course, she was. And she lived for that kind of life. And so, I suppose, I wasn’t really surprised at her coming to a sticky end. She was the sort of woman who would be mixed up with everything sordid—blackmail—jealousy—violence—every kind of crude emotion. She—she appealed to the worst in people.”
She stopped, panting a little. Her rather short top lip lifted itself in a kind of fastidious disgust. It occurred to Colonel Weston that you could not have found a more complete contrast to Arlena Stuart than Christine Redfern. It also occurred to him that if you were married to Christine Redfern, the atmosphere might be so rarefied that the Arlena Stuarts of this world would hold a particular attraction for you.
And then, immediately following on these thoughts, a single word out of the words she had spoken fastened on his attention with particular intensity.
He leaned forward and said:
“Mrs. Redfern, why, in speaking of her, did you mention the word blackmail?”
Seven