Miss Brewster made a face.
“I funk that myself. It’s all right for the young. The Cowan boys and the young Mastermans, they run up and down and enjoy it.”
Lane said.
“Here comes Mrs. Redfern now, coming up from her bathe.”
Miss Brewster remarked:
“M. Poirot ought to approve of her. She’s no sunbather.”
Young Mrs. Redfern had taken off her rubber cap and was shaking out her hair. She was an ash blonde and her skin was of that dead fairness that goes with that colouring. Her legs and arms were very white.
With a hoarse chuckle, Major Barry said:
“Looks a bit uncooked among the others, doesn’t she?”
Wrapping herself in a long bathrobe Christine Redfern came up the beach and mounted the steps towards them.
She had a fair serious face, pretty in a negative way and small dainty hands and feet.
She smiled at them and dropped down beside them, tucking her bath wrap round her.
Miss Brewster said:
“You have earned M. Poirot’s good opinion. He doesn’t like the suntanning crowd. Says they’re like joints of butcher’s meat, or words to that effect.”
Christine Redfern smiled ruefully. She said:
“I wish I could sunbathe! But I don’t go brown. I only blister and get the most frightful freckles all over my arms.”
“Better than getting hair all over them like Mrs. Gardener’s Irene,” said Miss Brewster. In answer to Christine’s inquiring glance she went on: “Mrs. Gardener’s been in grand form this morning. Absolutely nonstop. ‘Isn’t that so, Odell?’ ‘Yes, darling.’” She paused and then said: “I wish, though, M. Poirot, that you’d played up to her a bit. Why didn’t you? Why didn’t you tell her that you were down here investigating a particularly gruesome murder, and that the murderer, a homicidal maniac, was certainly to be found among the guests of the hotel?”
Hercule Poirot sighed. He said:
“I very much fear she would have believed me.”
Major Barry gave a wheezy chuckle. He said:
“She certainly would.”
Emily Brewster said:
“No, I don’t believe even Mrs. Gardener would have believed in a crime staged here. This isn’t the sort of place you’d get a body!”
Hercule Poirot stirred a little in his chair. He protested. He said:
“But why not, Mademoiselle? Why should there not be what you call a ‘body’ here on Smugglers’ Island?”
Emily Brewster said:
“I don’t know. I suppose some places are more unlikely than others. This isn’t the kind of spot—” Sh
e broke off, finding it difficult to explain her meaning.
“It is romantic, yes,” agreed Hercule Poirot. “It is peaceful. The sun shines. The sea is blue. But you forget, Miss Brewster, there is evil everywhere under the sun.”
The clergyman stirred in his chair. He leaned forward. His intensely blue eyes lighted up.