Poirot asked: “What kind of trouble?”
Horace Blatt replied:
“That depends. I’d say, looking at Marshall, that he’s a man with a funny kind of temper. As a matter of fact, I know he is. Heard something about him. I’ve met that quiet sort. Never know where you are with that kind. Redfern had better look out—”
He broke off, as the subject of his words came into the bar. He went on speaking loudly and self-consciously.
“And, as I say, sailing round this coast is good fun. Hullo, Redfern, have one with me? What’ll you have? Dry Martini? Right. What about you, M. Poirot?”
Poirot shook his head.
Patrick Redfern sat down and said:
“Sailing? It’s the best fun in the world. Wish I could do more of it. Used to spend most of my time as a boy in a sailing dinghy round this coast.”
Poirot said:
“Then you know this part of the world well?”
“Rather! I knew this place before there was a hotel on it. There were just a few fishermen’s cottages at Leathercombe Bay and a tumbledown old house, all shut up, on the island.”
“There was a house here?”
“Oh, yes, but it hadn’t been lived in for years. Was practically falling down. There used to be all sorts of stories of secret passages from the house to Pixy’s Cave. We were always looking for that secret passage, I remember.”
Horace Blatt spilt his drink. He cursed, mopped himself and asked:
“What is this Pixy’s Cave?”
Patrick said:
“Oh, don’t you know it? It’s on Pixy Cove. You can’t find the entrance to it easily. It’s among a lot of piled up boulders at one end. Just a long thin crack. You can just squeeze through it. Inside it widens out into quite a big cave. You can imagine what fun it was to a boy! An old fisherman showed it to me. Nowadays, even the fishermen don’t know about it. I asked one the other day why the place was called Pixy Cove and he couldn’t tell me.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“But I still do not understand. What is this pixy?”
Patrick Redfern said:
“Oh! that’s typically Devonshire. There’s the pixy’s cave at Sheepstor on the Moor. You’re supposed to leave a pin, you know, as a present for the pixy. A pixy is a kind of moor spirit.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Ah! but it is interesting, that.”
Patrick Redfern went on.
“There’s a lot of pixy lore on Dartmoor still. There are tors that are said to pixy-ridden, and I expect that farmers coming home after a thick night still complain of being pixy-led.”
Horace Blatt said:
“You mean when they’ve had a couple?”
Patrick Redfern said with a smile:
“That’s certainly the commonsense explanation!”
Blatt looked at his watch. He said: