During the time she was in Miss Darnley’s room and bathroom she had not heard any one pass the door or go out by the staircase to the rocks, but it was quite likely she wouldn’t have heard if any one went quietly.
Weston then directed his questions to the subject of Mrs. Marshall.
No, Mrs. Marshall wasn’t one for rising early as a rule. She, Gladys Narracott, had been surprised to find the door open and Mrs. Marshall gone down at just after ten. Something quite unusual, that was.
“Did Mrs. Marshall always have her breakfast in bed?”
“Oh yes, sir, always. Not very much of it either. Just tea and orange juice and one piece of toast. Slimming like so many ladies.”
No, she hadn’t noticed anything unusual in Mrs. Marshall’s manner that morning. She’d seemed quite as usual.
Hercule Poirot murmured:
“What did you think of Mrs. Marshall, Mademoiselle?”
Gladys Narracott stared at him. She said:
“Well, that’s hardly for me to say, is it, sir?”
“But yes, it is for you to say. We are anxious—very anxious—to hear your impression.”
Gladys gave a slightly uneasy glance towards the Chief Constable, who endeavoured to make his face sympathetic and approving
, though actually he felt slightly embarrassed by his foreign colleague’s methods of approach. He said:
“Er—yes, certainly. Go ahead.”
For the first time Gladys Narracott’s brisk efficiency deserted her. Her fingers fumbled with her print dress. She said:
“Well, Mrs. Marshall—she wasn’t exactly a lady, as you might say. What I mean is she was more like an actress.”
Colonel Weston said:
“She was an actress.”
“Yes, sir, that’s what I’m saying. She just went on exactly as she felt like it. She didn’t—well, she didn’t trouble to be polite if she wasn’t feeling polite. And she’d be all smiles one minute and then, if she couldn’t find something or the bell wasn’t answered at once or her laundry wasn’t back, well, be downright rude and nasty about it. None of us you might say liked her. But her clothes were beautiful, and, of course, she was a very handsome lady, so it was only natural she should be admired.”
Colonel Weston said:
“I am sorry to have to ask you what I am going to ask you, but it is a very vital matter. Can you tell me how things were between her and her husband?”
Gladys Narracott hesitated a minute.
She said:
“You don’t—it wasn’t—you don’t think as he did it?”
Hercule Poirot said quickly:
“Do you?”
“Oh! I wouldn’t like to think so. He’s such a nice gentleman, Captain Marshall. He couldn’t do a thing like that—I’m sure he couldn’t.”
“But you are not very sure—I hear it in your voice.”
Gladys Narracott said reluctantly:
“You do read such things in the papers! When there’s jealousy. If there’s been goings on—and, of course, everyone’s been talking about it—about her and Mr. Redfern, I mean. And Mrs. Redfern such a nice quiet lady! It does seem a shame! And Mr. Redfern’s a nice gentleman too, but it seems men can’t help themselves when it’s a lady like Mrs. Marshall—one who’s used to having her own way. Wives have to put up with a lot, I’m sure.” She sighed and paused. “But if Captain Marshall found out about it—”