Evil Under the Sun - Christie Agatha - Страница 36

‘A picnic, M. Poirot?’

Emily Brewster stared at him as though he were out of his senses.

Poirot said engagingly:

‘It sounds to you, does it not, very outrageous? But indeed it seems to me a most admirable idea. We need something of the every day, the usual, to restore life to the normal. I am most anxious to see something of Dartmoor, the weather is good. It will-how shall I say, it will cheer everybody up! So aid me in this matter. Persuade everyone.’

The idea met with unexpected success. Everyone was at first dubious and then grudgingly admitted it might not be such a bad idea after all.

It was not suggested that Captain Marshall should be asked. He had himself announced that he had to go to Plymouth that day. Mr Blatt was of the party, enthusiastically so. He was determined to be the life and soul of it. Besides him there was Emily Brewster, the Redferns, Stephen Lane, the Gardeners, who were persuaded to delay their departure by one day, Rosamund Darnley and Linda.

Poirot had been eloquent to Rosamund and had dwelt on the advantage it would be to Linda to have something to take her out of herself. To this Rosamund agreed. She said:

‘You’re quite right. The shock has been very bad for a child of that age. It has made her terribly jumpy.’

‘That is only natural, Mademoiselle. But at any age one soon forgets. Persuade her to come. You can, I know.’

Major Barry had refused firmly. He said he didn’t like picnics. ‘Lots of baskets to carry,’ he said. ‘And darned uncomfortable. Eating my food at a table’s good enough for me.’

The party assembled at ten o’clock. Three cars had been ordered. Mr Blatt was loud and cheerful, imitating a tourist guide.

‘This way, ladies and gentlemen-this way for Dartmoor. Heather and bilberries, Devonshire cream and convicts. Bring your wives, gentlemen, or bring the other thing! Everyone welcome! Scenery guaranteed. Walk up. Walk up.’

At the last minute Rosamund Darnley came down looking concerned. She said: 

‘Linda’s not coming. She says she’s got a frightful headache.’

Poirot cried:

‘But it will do her good to come. Persuade her, Mademoiselle.’

Rosamund said firmly:

‘It’s no good. She’s absolutely determined. I’ve given her some aspirin and she’s gone to bed.’

She hesitated and said:

‘I think, perhaps, I won’t go, either.

‘Can’t allow that, dear lady, can’t allow that,’ cried Mr Blatt, seizing her facetiously by the arm. ‘La haute Modemust grace the occasion. No refusals! I’ve taken you into custody, ha, ha. Sentenced to Dartmoor.’

He led her firmly to the first car. Rosamund threw a black look at Hercule Poirot.

‘I’ll stay with Linda,’ said Christine Redfern. ‘I don’t mind a bit.’

Patrick said: ‘Oh, come on, Christine.’

And Poirot said:

‘No, no, you must come, Madame. With a headache one is better alone. Come, let us start.’

The three cars drove off. They went first to the real Pixy’s Cave on Sheepstor, and had a good deal of fun looking for the entrance and at last finding it, aided by a picture postcard.

It was precarious going on the big boulders and Hercule Poirot did not attempt it. He watched indulgently while Christine Redfern sprang lightly from stone to stone and observed that her husband was never far from her. Rosamund Darnley and Emily Brewster had joined in the search though the latter slipped once and gave a slight twist to her ankle. Stephen Lane was indefatigable, his long lean figure turning and twisting among the boulders. Mr Blatt contented himself with going a little way and shouting encouragement, also taking photographs of the searchers.

The Gardeners and Poirot remained staidly sitting by the wayside whilst Mrs Gardener’s voice upraised itself in a pleasant even-toned monologue, punctuated now and then by the obedient ‘Yes, darlings’ of her spouse.

‘-and what I always have felt, M. Poirot, and Mr Gardener agrees with me, is that snapshots can be very annoying. Unless, that is to say, they are taken among friends. That Mr Blatt has just no sensitiveness of any kind. He just comes right up to everyone and talks away and takes pictures of you and, as I said to Mr Gardener, that really is very ill-bred. That’s what I said, Odell, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, darling.’

‘That group he took of us all sitting on the beach. Well, that’s all very well, but he should have asked first. As it was, Miss Brewster was just getting up from the beach, and it certainly makes her look a very peculiar shape.’

‘I’ll say it does,’ said Mr Gardener with a grin.

‘And there’s Mr Blatt giving round copies to everybody without so much as asking first. He gave one to you, M. Poirot, I noticed.’

Poirot nodded. He said:

‘I value that group very much.’

Mrs Gardener went on:

‘And look at his behaviour today-so loud and noisy and common. Why, it just makes me shudder. You ought to have arranged to leave that man at home, M. Poirot.’

Hercule Poirot murmured:

‘Alas, Madame, that would have been difficult.’

‘I should say it would. That man just pushes his way in anywhere. He’s just not sensitive at all.’

At this moment the discovery of the Pixy’s Cave was hailed from below with loud cries.

The party now drove on, under Hercule Poirot’s directions, to a spot where a short walk from the car down a hillside of heather led to a delightful spot by a small river.

A narrow plank bridge crossed the river and Poirot and her husband induced Mrs Gardener to cross it to where a delightful heathery spot free from prickly furze looked an ideal spot for a picnic lunch. 

Talking volubly about her sensations when crossing on a plank bridge Mrs Gardener sank down. Suddenly there was a slight outcry.

The others had run across the bridge lightly enough, but Emily Brewster was standing in the middle of the plank, her eyes shut, swaying to and fro.

Poirot and Patrick Redfern rushed to the rescue.

Emily Brewster was gruff and ashamed.

‘Thanks, thanks. Sorry. Never was good at crossing running water. Get giddy. Stupid, very.’

Lunch was spread out and the picnic began.

All the people concerned were secretly surprised to find how much they enjoyed this interlude. It was, perhaps, because it afforded an escape from an atmosphere of suspicion and dread. Here, with the trickling of the water, the soft peaty smell in the air and the warm colouring of bracken and heather, a world of murder and police inquiries and suspicion seemed blotted out as though it had never existed. Even Mr Blatt forgot to be the life and soul of the party. After lunch he went to sleep a little distance away and subdued snores testified to his blissful unconsciousness.

It was quite a grateful party of people who packed up the picnic baskets and congratulated Hercule Poirot on his good idea.

The sun was sinking as they returned along the narrow winding lanes. From the top of the hill above Leathercombe Bay they had a brief glimpse of the island with the white hotel on it.

It looked peaceful and innocent in the setting sun.

Mrs Gardener, not loquacious for once, sighed and said:

‘I really do thank you, M. Poirot. I feel so calm. It’s just wonderful.’

Major Barry came out to greet them on arrival.

‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘Had a good day?’

Mrs Gardener said:

‘Indeed we did. The moors were just too lovely for anything. So English and old world. And the air delicious and invigorating. You ought to be ashamed of yourself for being so lazy as to stay behind.’

The Major chuckled.

‘I’m too old for that kind of thing-sitting on a patch of bog and eating sandwiches.’

A chambermaid had come out of the hotel. She was a little out of breath. She hesitated for a moment then came swiftly up to Christine Redfern.

Hercule Poirot recognized her as Gladys Narracott. Her voice came quick and uneven.

‘Excuse me, Madam, but I’m worried about the young lady. About Miss Marshall. I took her up some tea just now and I couldn’t get her to wake, and she looks so-so queer somehow.’

Christine looked round helplessly. Poirot was at her side in a moment. His hand under her elbow he said quietly:

‘We will go up and see.’

They hurried up the stairs and along the passage to Linda’s room.

One glance at her was enough to tell them both that something was very wrong. She was an odd colour and her breathing was hardly perceptible.

Poirot’s hand went to her pulse. At the same time he noticed an envelope stuck up against the lamp on the bedside table. It was addressed to himself.

Captain Marshall came quickly into the room. He said:

‘What’s this about Linda? What’s the matter with her?’

A small frightened sob came from Christine Redfern.

Hercule Poirot turned from the bed. He said to Marshall:

‘Get a doctor-as quick as you possibly can. But I’m afraid-very much afraid-it may be too late.’

He took the letter with his name on it and ripped open the envelope. Inside were a few lines of writing in Linda’s prim schoolgirl hand. 

I think this is the best way out. Ask Father to try and forgive me. I killed Arlena. I thought I should be glad-but I’m not. I am very sorry for everything.

They were assembled in the lounge-Marshall, the Redferns, Rosamund Darnley and Hercule Poirot.

They sat there silent-waiting…

The door opened and Dr Neasden came in. He said curtly:

‘I’ve done all I can. She may pull through-but I’m bound to tell you that there’s not much hope.’

He paused. Marshall, his face stiff, his eyes a cold frosty blue, asked:

‘How did she get hold of the stuff?’

Neasden opened the door again and beckoned.

The chambermaid came into the room. She had been crying:

Neasden said:

‘Just tell us again what you saw.’

Sniffing, the girl said:

‘I never thought-I never thought for a minute there was anything wrong-though the young lady did seem rather strange about it.’ A slight gesture of impatience from the doctor started her off again. ‘She was in the other lady’s room. Mrs Redfern’s. Your room, Madam. Over at the washstand, and she took up a little bottle. She did give a bit of a jump when I came in, and I thought it was queer her taking things from your room, but then, of course, it might be something she’d lent you. She just said: “Oh, this is what I’m looking for-” and went out.’