‘What did you think?’

‘Well, I didn’t know what to think. I mean, all the time I thought she would be coming.’

‘If she were keeping an appointment elsewhere you had no idea with whom that appointment might be?’

Patrick Redfern merely stared and shook his head.

‘When you had arendezvous with Mrs Marshall, where did you meet?’

‘Well, sometimes I’d meet her in the afternoon down at Gull Cove. You see the sun is off Gull Cove in the afternoon and so there aren’t usually many people there. We met there once or twice.’

‘Never on the other cove?’ Pixy Cove?’

‘No. You see Pixy Cove faces west and people go round there in boats or on floats in the afternoon. We never tried to meet in the morning. It would have been too noticeable. In the afternoon people go and have a sleep or mouch around and nobody knows much where any one else is.’

Weston nodded: 

Patrick Redfern went on:

‘After dinner, of course, on the fine nights, we used to go off for a stroll together to different parts of the island.’

Hercule Poirot murmured:

‘Ah, yes!’ and Patrick Redfern shot him an inquiring glance.

Weston said:

‘Then you can give us no help whatsoever as to the cause that took Mrs Marshall to Pixy Cove this morning?’

Redfern shook his head. He said, and his voice sounded honestly bewildered:

‘I haven’t the faintest idea! It wasn’t like Arlena.’

Weston said:

‘Had she any friends down here staying in the neighbourhood?’

‘Not that I know of. Oh, I’m sure she hadn’t.’

‘Now, Mr Redfern, I want you to think very carefully. You knew Mrs Marshall in London. You must be acquainted with various members of her circle. Is there anyone you know of who could have had a grudge against her? Someone, for instance, whom you may have supplanted in her fancy?’

Patrick Redfern thought for some minutes. Then he shook his head.

‘Honestly,’ he said. ‘I can’t think of anyone.’ 

Colonel Weston drummed with his fingers on the table.

He said at last:

‘Well, that’s that. We seem to be left with three possibilities. That of an unknown killer-some mono-maniac-who happened to be in the neighbourhood-and that’s a pretty tall order-’

Redfern said, interrupting:

‘And yet surely, it’s by far the most likely explanation.’

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 thatChristine 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’simpossible. 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.’

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. Marshallcould 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 readybeforehand.’

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:

‘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 Marshall’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?’

‘Then I went down to breakfast.’

‘And after breakfast?’

‘I went upstairs, collected my sketching box and sketching book and we started out.’ 

‘You and Miss Linda Marshall?’

‘Yes.’

‘What time was that?’

‘I think it was just on half-past ten.’

‘And what did you do?’

‘We went to Gull Cove. You know, the cove on the east side of the island. We settled ourselves there. I did a sketch and Linda sunbathed.’

‘What time did you leave the cove?’

‘At a quarter to twelve. I was playing tennis at twelve and had to change.’

‘You had your watch with you?’

‘No, as a matter of fact I hadn’t. I asked Linda the time.’

‘I see. And then?’

‘I packed up my sketching things and went back to the hotel.’

Poirot said:

‘And Mademoiselle Linda?’

‘Linda?’ Oh, Linda went into the sea.’

Poirot said:

‘Were you far from the sea where you were sitting?’

‘Well, we were well above high-water mark. Just under the cliff-so that I could be a little in the shade and Linda in the sun.’

Poirot said: 

‘Did Linda Marshall actually enter the sea before you left the beach?’

Christine frowned a little in the effort to remember. She said:

‘Let me see. She ran down the beach-I fastened my box-Yes, I heard her splashing in the waves as I was on the path up the cliff.’

‘You are sure of that, Madame? That she really entered the sea?’

‘Oh yes.’

She stared at him in surprise.

Colonel Weston also stared at him.

Then he said:

‘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 toyou -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?’