Rosamund stopped. Poirot said:
“I know what it was you thought. Actually your manner frightened Linda still further. She believed that her action had really brought about Arlena’s death and that you knew it. Christine Redfern worked on her too, introducing the idea of the sleeping tablets to her mind, showing her the way to a speedy and painless expiation of her crime. You see, once Captain Marshall was proved to have an alibi, it was vital for a new suspect to be found. Neither she nor her husband knew about the dope smuggling. They fixed on Linda to be the scapegoat.”
Rosamund said:
“What a devil!”
Poirot nodded.
“Yes, you are right. A cold-blooded and cruel woman. For me, I was in great difficulty. Was Linda guilty only of the childish attempt at witchcraft, or had her hate carried her still further—to the actual act? I tried to get her to confess to me. But it was no good. At that moment I was in grave uncertainty. The Chief Constable was inclined to accept the dope smuggling explanation. I couldn’t let it go at that. I went over the facts again very carefully. I had, you see, a collection of jig-saw puzzle pieces, isolated happenings—plain facts. The whole must fit into a complete and harmonious pattern. There were the scissors found on the beach—a bottle thrown from a window—a bath that no one would admit to having taken—all perfectly harmless occurrences in themselves, but rendered significant by the fact that no one would admit to them. Therefore, they must be of significance. Nothing about them fitted in with the theories of either Captain Marshall’s or Linda’s, or of a dope gang’s being responsible. And yet they must have meaning. I went back again to my first solution—that Patrick Redfern had committed the murder. Was there anything in support of that? Yes, the fact that a very large sum of money was missing from Arlena’s account. Who had got that money? Patrick Redfern of course. She was the type of woman easily swindled by a handsome young man—but she was not at all the type of woman to be blackmailed. She was far too transparent, not good enough at keeping a secret. The blackmailer story had never rung true to my mind. And yet there had been that conversation overheard—ah, but overheard by whom? Patrick Redfern’s wife. It was her story—unsupported by any outside evidence. Why was it invented? The answer came to me like lightning. To account for the absence of Arlena’s money!
“Patrick and Christine Redfern. The two of them were in it together. Christine hadn’t got the physical strength to strangle her or the mental makeup. No, it was Patrick who had done it—but that was impossible! Every minute of his time was accounted for until the body was found.
“Body—the word stirred something in my mind—bodies lying on the beach—all alike. Patrick Redfern and Emily Brewster had got to the Cove and seen a body lying there. A body—suppose it was not Arlena’s body but somebody else’s? The face was hidden by the great Chinese hat.
“But there was only one dead body—Arlena’s. Then, could it be—a live body—someone pretending to be dead? Could it be Arlena herself, inspired by Patrick to play some kind of a joke. I shook my head—no, too risky. A live body—whose? Was there any woman who would help Redfern? Of course—his wife. But she was a white-skinned delicate creature. Ah yes, but suntan can be applied out of bottles—bottles—I had one of my jig-saw pieces. Yes, and afterwards, of course, a bath—to wash that telltale stain off before she went out to play tennis. And the scissors? Why, to cut up that duplicate cardboard hat—an unwieldy thing that must be got out of the way, and in the haste the scissors were left behind—the one thing that the pair of murderers forgot.
“But where was Arlena all the time? That again was perfectly clear. Either Rosamund Darnley or Arlena Marshall had been in the Pixy’s Cave, the scent they both used told me that. It was certainly not Rosamund Darnley. Then it was Arlena, hiding till the coast should clear.
“When Emily Brewster went off in the boat, Patrick had the beach to himself and full opportunity to commit the crime. Arlena Marshall was killed after a quarter to twelve, but the medical evidence was only concerned with the earliest possible time the crime could have been committed. That Arlena was dead at a quarter to twelve was what was told to the doctor, not what he told the police.
“Two more points had to be settled. Linda Marshall’s evidence gave Christine Redfern an alibi. Yes, but that evidence depended on Linda Marshall’s wristwatch. All that was needed was to prove that Christine had had two opportunities of tampering with the watch. I found those easily enough. She had been alone in Linda’s room that morning—and there was an indirect proof. Linda was heard to say that she was ‘afraid she was going to be late,’ but when she got down it was only twenty-five past ten by the lounge clock. The second opportunity was easy—she could alter the watch back again as soon as Linda turned her back and went down to bathe.
“Then there was the question of the ladder. Christine had always declared she had no head for heights. Another carefully prepared lie.
“I had my mosaic now—each piece beautifully fitted into its place. But, unfortunately, I had no definite proof. It was all in my mind.
“It was then that an idea came to me. There was an assurance—a slickness about the crime. I had no doubt that in the future Patrick Redfern would repeat his crime. What about the past? It was
remotely possible that this was not his first killing. The method employed, strangulation, was in harmony with his nature—a killer for pleasure as well as for profit. If he was already a murderer I was sure that he would have used the same means. I asked Inspector Colgate for a list of women victims of strangulation. The result filled me with joy. The death of Nellie Parson found strangled in a lonely copse might or might not be Patrick Redfern’s work—it might merely have suggested choice of locality to him, but in Alice Corrigan’s death I found exactly what I was looking for. In essence the same method. Juggling with time—a murder committed not, as is the usual way, before it is supposed to have happened, but afterwards. A body supposedly discovered at a quarter past four. A husband with an alibi up to twenty-five past four.
“What really happened? It was said that Edward Corrigan arrived at the Pine Ridge, found his wife not there, and went out and walked up and down. Actually, of course, he ran full speed to the rendezvous, Caesar’s Grove (which you will remember was quite nearby), killed her and returned to the café. The girl hiker who reported the crime was a most respectable young lady, games mistress in a well-known girls’ school. Apparently she had no connection with Edward Corrigan. She had to walk some way to report the death. The police surgeon only examined the body at a quarter to six. As in this case the time of death was accepted without question.
“I made one final test. I must know definitely if Mrs. Redfern was a liar. I arranged our little excursion to Dartmoor. If anyone has a bad head for heights, they are never comfortable crossing a narrow bridge over running water. Miss Brewster, a genuine sufferer, showed giddiness. But Christine Redfern, unconcerned, ran across without a qualm. It was a small point, but it was a definite test. If she had told one unnecessary lie—then all the other lies were possible. In the meantime Colgate had got the photograph identified by the Surrey Police. I played my hand in the only way I thought likely to succeed. Having lulled Patrick Redfern into security, I turned on him and did my utmost to make him lose his self-control. The knowledge that he had been identified with Corrigan caused him to lose his head completely.”
Hercule Poirot stroked his throat reminiscently.
“What I did,” he said with importance, “was exceedingly dangerous—but I do not regret it. I succeeded! I did not suffer in vain.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Mrs. Gardener gave a deep sigh.
“Why, M. Poirot,” she said. “It’s just been too wonderful—hearing just exactly how you got your results. It’s every bit as fascinating as a lecture on criminology—in fact it is a lecture on criminology. And to think my magenta wool and that sunbathing conversation actually had something to do with it? That really makes me too excited for words, and I’m sure Mr. Gardener feels the same, don’t you, Odell?”
“Yes, darling,” said Mr. Gardener.
Hercule Poirot said:
“Mr. Gardener too was of assistance to me. I wanted the opinion of a sensible man about Mrs. Marshall. I asked Mr. Gardener what he thought of her.”
“Is that so,” said Mrs. Gardener. “And what did you say about her, Odell?”
Mr. Gardener coughed. He said:
“Well, darling, I never did think very much of her, you know.”
“That’s the kind of thing men always say to their wives,” said Mrs. Gardener. “And if you ask me, even M. Poirot here is what I should call a shade on the indulgent side about her, calling her a natural victim and all that. Of course it’s true that she wasn’t a cultured woman at all, and as Captain Marshall isn’t here I don’t mind saying that she always did seem to me kind of dumb. I said so to Mr. Gardener, didn’t I, Odell?”
“Yes, darling,” said Mr. Gardener.