阳光下的罪恶50

III

“There is something I want to know, Madame?”

Christine Redfern glanced up at Poirot in a slightly abstracted manner. She said:

“Yes?”

Hercule Poirot took very little notice of her abstraction. He had noted the way her eyes followedher husband’s figure where he was pacing up and down on the terrace outside the bar, but for themoment he had no interest in purely conjugal problems. He wanted information.

He said:

“Yes, Madame. It was a phrase—a chance phrase of yours the other day which roused myattention.”

Christine, her eyes still on Patrick, said:

“Yes? What did I say?”

“It was in answer to a question from the Chief Constable. You described how you went intoMiss Linda Marshall’s room on the morning of the crime and how you found her absent from itand how she returned there, and it was then that the Chief Constable asked you where she hadbeen.”

Christine said rather impatiently:

“And I said she had been bathing? Is that it?”

“Ah, but you did not say quite that. You did not say ‘she had been bathing.’ Your words were,‘she said she had been bathing.’”

Christine said:

“It’s the same thing, surely.”

“No, it is not the same! The form of your answer suggests a certain attitude of mind on yourpart. Linda Marshall came into the room—she was wearing a bathing wrap and yet—for somereason—you did not at once assume she had been bathing. That is shown by your words, ‘she saidshe had been bathing.’ What was there about her appearance—was it her manner, or somethingthat she was wearing or something she said—that led you to feel surprised when she said she hadbeen bathing?”

Christine’s attention left Patrick and focused itself entirely on Poirot. She was interested. Shesaid:

“That’s clever of you. It’s quite true, now I remember… I was, just faintly, surprised whenLinda said she had been bathing.”

“But why, Madame, why?”

“Yes, why? That’s just what I’m trying to remember. Oh yes, I think it was the parcel in herhand.”

“She had a parcel?”

“Yes.”

“You do not know what was in it?”

“Oh yes, I do. The string broke. It was loosely done up in the way they do in the village. It wascandles—they were scattered on the floor. I helped her to pick them up.”

“Ah,” said Poirot. “Candles.”

Christine stared at him. She said:

“You seem excited, M. Poirot.”

Poirot asked:

“Did Linda say why she had bought candles?”

Christine reflected.

“No, I don’t think she did. I suppose it was to read by at night—perhaps the electric light wasn’tgood.”

“On the contrary, Madame, there was a bedside electric lamp in perfect order.”

Christine said:

“Then I don’t know what she wanted them for.”

Poirot said:

“What was her manner—when the string broke and the candles fell out of the parcel?”

Christine said slowly:

“She was—upset—embarrassed.”

Poirot nodded his head. Then he asked:

“Did you notice a calendar in her room?”

“A calendar? What kind of a calendar?”

Poirot said:

“Possibly a green calendar—with tear-off leaves.”

Christine screwed up her eyes in an effort of memory.

“A green calendar—rather a bright green. Yes, I have seen a calendar like that—but I can’tremember where. It may have been in Linda’s room, but I can’t be sure.”

“But you have definitely seen such a thing.”

“Yes.”

Again Poirot nodded.

Christine said rather sharply:

“What are you hinting at, M. Poirot? What is the meaning of all this?”

For answer Poirot produced a small volume bound in faded brown calf. He said:

“Have you ever seen this before?”

“Why—I think—I’m not sure—yes, Linda was looking into it in the village lending library theother day. But she shut it up and thrust it back quickly when I came up to her. It made me wonderwhat it was.”

Silently Poirot displayed the title.

A History of Witchcraft, Sorcery and of the Compounding of Untraceable Poisons.

Christine said:

“I don’t understand. What does all this mean?”

Poirot said gravely.

“It may mean, Madame, a good deal.”

She looked at him inquiringly, but he did not go on. Instead he asked:

“One more question, Madame, did you take a bath that morning before you went out to playtennis?”

Christine stared again.

“A bath? No. I would have had no time and, anyway, I didn’t want a bath—not before tennis. Imight have had one after.”

“Did you use your bathroom at all when you came in?”

“I sponged my face and hands, that’s all.”

“You did not turn on the bath at all?”

“No, I’m sure I didn’t.”

Poirot nodded. He said:

“It is of no importance.”

 

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