They had come out on a little beach. Opposite them was a wooded headland and a white house could just be distinguished high up amongst the trees.
Two boats were drawn up on the beach. Meredith Blake, with Poirot’s somewhat awkward assistance, dragged one of them down to the water and presently they were rowing across to the other side.
“We always went this way in the old days,” Meredith explained. “Unless, of course, there was a storm or it was raining, and then we’d take the car. But it’s nearly three miles if you go round that way.”
He ran the boat neatly alongside a stone quay on the other side. He cast a disparaging eye on a collection of wooden huts and some concrete terraces.
“All new, this. Used to be a boathouse—tumbledown old place—and nothing else. And one walked along the shore and bathed off those rocks over there.”
He assisted his guest to alight, made fast the boat, and led the way up a steep path.
“Don’t suppose we’ll meet anyone,” he said over his shoulder. “Nobody here in April—except for Easter. Doesn’t matter if we do. I’m on good terms with my neighbours. Sun’s glorious today. Might be summer. It was a wonderful day then. More like July than September. Brilliant sun—but a chilly little wind.”
The path came out of the trees and skirted an outcrop of rock. Meredith pointed up with his hand.
“That’s what they called the Battery. We’re more or less underneath it now—skirting round it.”
They plunged into trees again and then the path took another sharp turn and they emerged by a door set in a high wall. The path itself continued to zigzag upwards, but Meredith opened the door and the two men passed through it.
For a moment Poirot was dazzled coming in from the shade outside. The Battery was an artificially cleared plateau with battlements set with cannon. It gave one the impression of overhanging the sea. There were trees above it and behind it, but on the sea side there was nothing but the dazzling blue water below.
“Attractive spot,” said Meredith. He nodded contemptuously towards a kind of pavilion set back against the back wall. “That wasn’t there, of course—only an old tumbledown shed where Amyas kept his painting muck and some bottled beer and a few deck chairs. It wasn’t concreted then, either. There used to be a bench and a table—painted iron ones. That was all. Still—it hasn’t changed much.”
His voice held an unsteady note.
Poirot said: “And it was here that it happened?”
Meredith nodded.
“The bench was there—up against the shed. He was sprawled on that. He used to sprawl there sometimes when he was painting—just fling himself down and stare and stare—and then suddenly up he’d jump and start laying the paint on the canvas like mad.”
He paused.
“That’s why, you know, he looked—almost natural. As though he might be asleep—just have dropped off. But his eyes were open—and he’d—just stiffened up. Stuff sort of paralyses you, you know. There isn’t any pain…I’ve—I’ve always been glad of that….”
Poirot asked a thing that he already knew.
“Who found him?”
“She did. Caroline. After lunch. I and Elsa, I suppose, were the last ones to see him alive. It must have been coming on then. He—looked queer. I’d rather not talk about it. I’ll write it to you. Easier that way.”
He turned abruptly and went out of the Battery. Poirot followed him without speaking.
The two men went on up the zigzag path. At a higher level than the Battery there was another small plateau. It was overshadowed with trees and there was a bench there and a table.
Meredith said:
“They haven’t changed this much. But the bench used not to be Ye Olde Rustic. It was just a painted iron business. A bit hard for sitting, but a lovely view.”
Poirot agreed. Through a framework of trees one looked down over the Battery to the creek mouth.
“I sat up here part of the morning,” Meredith explained. “Trees weren’t quite so overgrown then. One could see the battlements of the Battery quite plainly. That’s where Elsa was posing, you know. Sitting on one with her head twisted round.”
He gave a slight twitch of his shoulders.
“Trees grow faster than one thinks,” he muttered. “Oh well, suppose I’m getting old. Come on up to the house.”
They continued to follow the path till it emerged near the house. It had been a fine old house, Georgian in style. It had been added to and on a green lawn near it were set some fifty little wooden bathing hutches.