Hercule Poirot, that man of the world, knew better. Arlena Marshall was doubtless keeping a rendezvous, and Poirot had a very good idea with whom.
Or thought he had, but there he found himself proved wrong.
For just as she floated rounded the point of the bay and disappeared out of sight, Patrick Redfern closely followed by Kenneth Marshall, came striding down the beach from the hotel.
Marshall nodded to Poirot, “’Morning, Poirot. Seen my wife anywhere about?”
Poirot’s answer was diplomatic.
“Has Madame then risen so early?”
Marshall said:
“She’s not in her room.” He looked up at the sky. “Lovely day. I shall have a bathe right away. Got a lot of typing to do this morning.”
Patrick Redfern, less openly, was looking up and down the beach. He sat down near Poirot and prepared to wait for the arrival of his lady.
Poirot said:
“And Madame Redfern? Has she too risen early?”
Patrick Redfern said:
“Christine? Oh, she’s going off sketching. She’s rather keen on art just now.”
He spoke impatiently, his mind clearly elsewhere. As time passed he displayed his impatience for Arlena’s arrival only too crudely. At every footstep he turned an eager head to see who it was coming down from the hotel.
Disappointment followed disappointment.
First Mr. and Mrs. Gardener complete with knitting and book and then Miss Brewster arrived.
Mrs. Gardener, industrious as ever, settled herself in her chair, and began to knit vigorously and talk at the same time.
“Well. M. Poirot. The beach seems very deserted this morning. Where is everybody?”
Poirot replied that the Mastermans and the Cowans, two families with young people in them, had gone off on an all-day sailing excursion.
“Why that certainly does make all the difference, not having them about laughing and calling out. And only one person bathing, Captain Marshall.”
Marshall had just finished his swim. He came up the beach swinging his towel.
“Pretty good in the sea this morning,” he said. “Unfortunately I’ve got a lot of work to do. Must go and get on with it.”
“Why, if that isn’t too bad, Captain Marshall. On a beautiful day like this, too. My, wasn’t yesterday too terrible? I said to Mr. Gardener that if the weather was going to continue like that we’d just have to leave. It’s the melancholy, you know, with the mist right up around the island. Gives you a kind of ghostly feeling, but then I’ve always been very susceptible to atmosphere ever since I was a child. Sometimes, you know, I’d feel I just had to scream and scream. And that, of course, was very trying to my parents. But my mother was a lovely woman and she said to my father, ‘Sinclair, if the child feels like that, we must let her do it. Screaming is her way of expressing herself.’ And of course, my father agreed. He was devoted to my mother and just did everything she said. They were a perfectly lovely couple, as I’m sure Mr. Gardener will agree. They were a very remarkable couple, weren’t they, Odell?”
“Yes, darling,” said Mr. Gardener.
“And where’s your girl this morning, Captain Marshall?”
“Linda? I don’t know. I expect she’s mooning round the island somewhere.”
“You know, Captain Marshall, that girl looks kind of peaky to me. She needs feeding up and very very sympathetic treatment.”
Kenneth Marshall said curtly:
“Linda’s all right.”
He went up to the hotel.