Evil Under the Sun (Hercule Poirot 24)

Mr. Gardener said cautiously:

“Captain Marshall is a very reserved man.”

Mrs. Gardener confirmed this by saying:

“Why, yes, he is a real Britisher!”

IV

On the slightly apoplectic countenance of Major Barry various emotions seemed contending for mastery. He was endeavouring to look properly horrified but could not subdue a kind of shamefaced gusto.

He was saying in his hoarse, slightly wheezy voice:

“Glad to help you any way I can. ’Course I don’t know anythin’ about it—nothin’ at all. Not acquainted with the parties. But I’ve knocked about a bit in my time. Lived a lot in the East, you know. And I can tell you that after being in an Indian hill station what you don’t know about human nature isn’t worth knowin’.”

He paused, took a breath and was off again.

“Matter of fact this business reminds me of a case in Simla. Fellow called Robinson, or was it Falconer? Anyway he was in the East Wilts, or was it the North Surreys? Can’t remember now, and anyway it doesn’t matter. Quiet chap, you know, great reader—mild as milk you’d have said. Went for his wife one evening in their bungalow. Got her by the throat. She’d been carryin

’ on with some feller or other and he’d got wise to it. By Jove, he nearly did for her! It was touch and go. Surprised us all! Didn’t think he had it in him.”

Hercule Poirot murmured:

“And you see there an analogy to the death of Mrs. Marshall?”

“Well, what I mean to say—strangled, you know. Same idea. Feller suddenly sees red!”

Poirot said:

“You think that Captain Marshall felt like that?”

“Oh, look here, I never said that.” Major Barry’s face went even redder. “Never said anything about Marshall. Thoroughly nice chap. Wouldn’t say a word against him for the world.”

Poirot murmured:

“Ah, pardon, but you did refer to the natural reactions of a husband.”

Major Barry said:

“Well, I mean to say, I should think she’d been pretty hot stuff. Eh? Got young Redfern on a string all right. And there were probably others before him. But the funny thing is, you know, that husbands are a dense lot. Amazin’. I’ve been surprised by it again and again. They see a feller sweet on their wife but they don’t see that she’s sweet on him! Remember a case like that in Poona. Very pretty woman, Jove, she led her husband a dance—”

Colonel Weston stirred a little restively. He said:

“Yes, yes, Major Barry. For the moment we’ve just got to establish the facts. You don’t know of anything personally—that you’ve seen or noticed that might help us in this case?”

“Well, really, Weston, I can’t say I do. Saw her and young Redfern one afternoon on Gull Cove”—here he winked knowingly and gave a deep hoarse chuckle—“very pretty it was, too. But it’s not evidence of that kind you’re wanting. Ha, ha!”

“You did not see Mrs. Marshall at all this morning?”

“Didn’t see anybody this morning. Went over to St. Loo. Just my luck. Sort of place here where nothin’ happens for months and when it does you miss it!”

The Major’s voice held a ghoulish regret.

Colonel Weston prompted him.

“You went to St. Loo, you say?”

“Yes, wanted to do some telephonin’. No telephone here and that post office place at Leathercombe Bay isn’t very private.”