阳光下的罪恶29

III

Patrick Redfern had recovered full composure by now. He looked pale and haggard and suddenlyvery young, but his manner was quite composed.

“You are Mr. Patrick Redfern of Crossgates, Seldon, Princes Risborough?”

“Yes.”

“How long had you known Mrs. Marshall?”

Patrick Redfern hesitated, then said:

“Three months.”

Weston went on:

“Captain Marshall has told us that you and she met casually at a cocktail party. Is that right?”

“Yes, that’s how it came about.”

Weston said:

“Captain Marshall has implied that until you both met down here you did not know each otherwell. Is that the truth, Mr. Redfern?”

Again Patrick Redfern hesitated a minute. Then he said:

“Well—not exactly. As a matter of fact I saw a fair amount of her one way and another.”

“Without Captain Marshall’s knowledge?”

Redfern flushed slightly. He said:

“I don’t know whether he knew about it or not.”

Hercule Poirot spoke. He murmured:

“And was it also without your wife’s knowledge, Mr. Redfern?”

“I believe I mentioned to my wife that I had met the famous Arlena Stuart.”

Poirot persisted.

“But she did not know how often you were seeing her?”

“Well, perhaps not.”

Weston said:

“Did you and Mrs. Marshall arrange to meet down here?”

Redfern was silent a minute or two. Then he shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh well,” he said, “I suppose it’s bound to come out now. It’s no good my fencing with you. Iwas crazy about the woman—mad—infatuated—anything you like. She wanted me to come downhere. I demurred a bit and then I agreed. I—I—well, I would have agreed to do any mortal thingshe liked. She had that kind of effect on people.”

Hercule Poirot murmured:

“You paint a very clear picture of her. She was the eternal Circe. Just that!”

Patrick Redfern said bitterly:

“She turned men into swine all right!” He went on: “I’m being frank with you, gentlemen. I’mnot going to hide anything. What’s the use? As I say, I was infatuated with her. Whether she caredfor me or not, I don’t know. She pretended to, but I think she was one of those women who loseinterest in a man once they’ve got him body and soul. She knew she’d got me all right. Thismorning, when I found her there on the beach, dead, it was as though”—he paused—“as thoughsomething had hit me straight between the eyes. I was dazed—knocked out!”

Poirot leaned forward. “And now?”

Patrick Redfern met his eyes squarely.

He said:

“I’ve told you the truth. What I want to ask is this—how much of it has got to be made public?

It’s not as though it could have any bearing on her death. And if it all comes out, it’s going to bepretty rough on my wife.”

“Oh, I know,” he went on quickly. “You think I haven’t thought much about her up to now?

Perhaps that’s true. But, though I may sound the worst kind of hypocrite, the real truth is that Icare for my wife—care for her very deeply. The other”—he twitched his shoulders—“it was amadness—the kind of idiotic fool thing men do—but Christine is different. She’s real. Badly asI’ve treated her, I’ve known all along, deep down, that she was the person who really counted.” Hepaused—sighed—and said rather pathetically: “I wish I could make you believe that.”

Hercule Poirot leant forward. He said:

“But I do believe it. Yes, yes, I do believe it!”

Patrick Redfern looked at him gratefully. He said:

“Thank you.”

Colonel Weston cleared his throat. He said:

“You may take it, Mr. Redfern, that we shall not go into irrelevancies. If your infatuation forMrs. Marshall played no part in the murder then there will be no point in dragging it into the case.

But what you don’t seem to realize is that that—er—intimacy—may have a very direct bearing onthe murder. It might establish, you understand, a motive for the crime.”

Patrick Redfern said:

“Motive?”

Weston said:

“Yes, Mr. Redfern, motive! Captain Marshall, perhaps, was unaware of the affair. Suppose thathe suddenly found out?”

Redfern said:

“Oh God! You mean he got wise and—and killed her?”

The Chief Constable said rather dryly:

“That solution had not occurred to you?”

Redfern shook his head. He said:

“No—funny. I never thought of it. You see, Marshall’s such a quiet chap. I—oh, it doesn’t seemlikely.”

Weston asked:

“What was Mrs. Marshall’s attitude to her husband in all this? Was she—well, uneasy—in caseit should come to his ears? Or was she indifferent?”

Redfern said slowly:

“She was—a bit nervous. She didn’t want him to suspect anything.”

“Did she seem afraid of him?”

“Afraid. No, I wouldn’t say that.”

Poirot murmured:

“Excuse me, M. Redfern, there was not, at any time, the question of a divorce?”

Patrick Redfern shook his head decisively.

“Oh no, there was no question of anything like that. There was Christine, you see. And Arlena, Iam sure, never thought of such a thing. She was perfectly satisfied married to Marshall. He’s—well, rather a big bug in his way—” He smiled suddenly. “County—all that sort of thing, and quitewell off. She never thought of me as a possible husband. No, I was just one of a succession of poormutts—just something to pass the time with. I knew that all along, and yet, queerly enough, itdidn’t alter my feeling towards her….”

His voice trailed off. He sat there thinking.

Weston recalled him to the needs of the moment.

“Now, Mr. Redfern, had you any particular appointment with Mrs. Marshall this morning?”

Patrick Redfern looked slightly puzzled.

He said:

“Not a particular appointment, no. We usually met every morning on the beach. We used topaddle about on floats.”

“Were you surprised not to find Mrs. Marshall there this morning?”

“Yes, I was. Very surprised. I couldn’t understand it at all.”

“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 appointmentmight be?”

Patrick Redfern merely stared and shook his head.

“When you had a rendezvous 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 GullCove 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 theafternoon. We never tried to meet in the morning. It would have been too noticeable. In theafternoon people go and have a sleep or mouch around and nobody knows much where any oneelse 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 differentparts 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 Covethis 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 whocould have had a grudge against her? Someone, for instance, whom you may have supplanted inher 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—somemonomaniac—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. Eitherthe man would have to come up from the causeway past the hotel, over the top of the island anddown by that ladder contraption, or else he came there by boat. Either way is unlikely for a casualkilling.”

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 whohad 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 that Christine 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’s impossible. It’s laughable!”

Weston said:

“All the same, Mr. Redfern, jealousy is a very powerful motive. Women who are jealous losecontrol 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 ofperson to—Oh, there’s no violence in her.”

Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Violence. The same word that Linda Marshall had used. Asbefore, he agreed with the sentiment.

“Besides,” went on Redfern confidently. “It would be absurd. Arlena was twice as strongphysically as Christine. I doubt if Christine could strangle a kitten—certainly not a strong wirycreature like Arlena. And then Christine could never have got down that ladder to the beach. Shehas 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 firstthing we’ve got to look for.” He added: “Motive and opportunity.”

 

分享到：