“I should have preferred her to give it up—that, yes. But I made no fuss about it.”
“It caused no point of dissension between you?”
“Certainly not. My wife was free to please herself.”
“And—the marriage was a happy one?”
“Kenneth Marshall said coldly:
“Certainly.”
Colonel Weston paused a minute. Then he said:
“Captain Marshall, have you any idea who could possibly have killed your wife?”
The answer came without the least hesitation.
“None whatever.”
“Had she any enemies?”
“Possibly.”
“Ah?”
The other went on quickly. He said:
“Don’t misunderstand me, sir. My wife was an actress. She was also a very good-looking woman. In both capacities she aroused a certain amount of jealousy and envy. There were fusses over parts—there was rivalry from other women—there was a good deal, shall we say, of general envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness! But that is not to say that there was anyone who was capable of deliberately murdering her.”
Hercule Poirot spoke for the first time. He said:
“What you really mean, Monsieur, is that her enemies were mostly or entirely, women?”
Kenneth Marshall looked across at him.
“Yes,” he said. “That is so.”
The Chief Constable said:
“You know of no man who had a grudge against her?”
“No.”
“Was she previously acquainted with anyone in this hotel?”
“I believe she had met Mr. Redfern before—at some cocktail party. Nobody else to my knowledge.”
Weston paused. He seemed to deliberate as to whether to pursue the subject. Then he decided against that course. He said:
“We now come to this morning. When was the last time you saw your wife?”
Marshall paused a minute, then he said:
“I looked in on my way down to breakfast—”
“Excuse me, you occupied separate rooms?”
“Yes.”