Marshall said:
‘I suppose the truth of it is that you told young Redfern that you were coming here?’
Arlena said:
‘Kenneth darling, you’re not going to be horrid, are you?’
Kenneth Marshall said:
‘Look here, Arlena. I know what you’re like. They’re rather a nice young couple. That boy’s fond of his wife, really. Must you upset the whole blinking show?’
Arlena said:
‘It’s so unfair blaming me. I haven’t done anything—anything at all. I can’t help it if—’
He prompted her.
‘If what?’
Her eyelids fluttered.
‘Well, of course. I know people do go crazy about me. But it’s not my doing. They just get like that.’
‘So you do admit that young Redfern is crazy about you?’
Arlena murmured:
‘It’s really rather stupid of him.’
She moved a step towards her husband.
‘But you know, don’t you, Ken, that I don’t really care for anyone but you?’
She looked up at him through her darkened lashes.
It was a marvellous look—a look that few men could have resisted.
Kenneth Marshall looked down at her gravely. His face was composed. His voice quiet. He said:
‘I think I know you pretty well, Arlena…’
IV
When you came out of the hotel on the south side the terraces and the bathing beach were immediately below you. There was also a path that led off round the cliff on the south-west side of the island. A little way along it, a few steps led down to a series of recesses cut into the cliff and labelled on the hotel map of the island as Sunny Ledge. Here cut out of the cliff were niches with seats in them.
To one of these, immediately after dinner, came Patrick Redfern and his wife. It was a lovely clear night with a bright moon.
The Redferns sat down. For a while they were silent.
At last Patrick Redfern said:
‘It’s a glorious evening, isn’t it, Christine?’
‘Yes.’
Something in her voice may have made him uneasy. He sat without looking at her.
Christine Redfern asked in her quiet voice:
‘Did you know that woman was going to be here?’
He turned sharply. He said:
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I think you do.’
‘Look here, Christine. I don’t know what has come over you—’
She interrupted. Her voice held feeling now. It trembled.
‘Over me? It’s what has come over you!’
‘Nothing’s come over me.’
‘Oh! Patrick! it has! You insisted so on coming here. You were quite vehement. I wanted to go to Tintagel again where—where we had our honeymoon. You were bent on coming here.’
‘Well, why not? It’s a fascinating spot.’
‘Perhaps. But you wanted to come here because she was going to be here.’
‘She? Who is she?’
‘Mrs Marshall. You—you’re infatuated with her.’
‘For God’s sake, Christine, don’t make a fool of yourself. It’s not like you to be jealous.’
His bluster was a little uncertain. He exaggerated it.
She said:
‘We’ve been so happy.’
‘Happy? Of course we’ve been happy! We are happy. But we shan’t go on being happy if I can’t even speak to another woman without you kicking up a row.’
‘It’s not like that.’
‘Yes, it is. In marriage one has got to have—well—friendships with other people. This suspicious attitude is all wrong. I—I can’t speak to a pretty woman without your jumping to the conclusion that I’m in love with her—’
He stopped. He shrugged his shoulders.
Christine Redfern said:
‘You are in love with her…’
‘Oh, don’t be a fool, Christine! I’ve—I’ve barely spoken to her.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Don’t for goodness’ sake get into the habit of being jealous of every pretty woman we come across.’
Christine Redfern said:
‘She’s not just any pretty woman! She’s—she’s different! She’s a bad lot! Yes, she is. She’ll do you harm, Patrick, please, give it up. Let’s go away from here.’
Patrick Redfern stuck out his chin mutinously. He looked, somehow, very young as he said defiantly:
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Christine. And—and don’t let’s quarrel about it.’
‘I don’t want to quarrel.’
‘Then behave like a reasonable human being. Come on, let’s go back to the hotel.’
He got up. There was a pause, then Christine Redfern got up too.
She said:
‘Very well…’
In the recess adjoining, on the seat there, Hercule Poirot sat and shook his head sorrowfully.
Some people might have scrupulously removed themselves from earshot of a private conversation. But not Hercule Poirot. He had no scruples of that kind.
‘Besides,’ as he explained to his friend Hastings at a later date, ‘it was a question of murder.’
Hastings said, staring:
‘But the murder
