Evil Under the Sun. Agatha Christie
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don’t tell me you haven’t got an eye for a pretty girl! What do you think of her, eh?’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘She is not young.’
‘What does that matter? A woman’s as old as she looks! Her looks are all right.’
Hercule Poirot nodded. He said:
‘Yes, she is beautiful. But it is not beauty that counts in the end. It is not beauty that makes every head (except one) turn on the beach to look at her.’
‘It’s IT, my boy,’ said the Major. ‘That’s what it is—IT.’
Then he said with sudden curiosity.
‘What are you looking at so steadily?’
Hercule Poirot replied: ‘I am looking at the exception. At the one man who did not look up when she passed.’
Major Barry followed his gaze to where it rested on a man of about forty, fair-haired and suntanned. He had a quiet pleasant face and was sitting on the beach smoking a pipe and reading The Times.
‘Oh, that!’ said Major Barry. ‘That’s the husband, my boy. That’s Marshall.’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘Yes, I know.’
Major Barry chuckled. He himself was a bachelor. He was accustomed to think of The Husband in three lights only—as ‘the Obstacle’, ‘the Inconvenience’ or ‘the Safeguard’.
He said:
‘Seems a nice fellow. Quiet. Wonder if my Times has come?’
He got up and went up towards the hotel.
Poirot’s glance shifted slowly to the face of Stephen Lane.
Stephen Lane was watching Arlena Marshall and Patrick Redfern. He turned suddenly to Poirot. There was a stern fanatical light in his eyes.
He said:
‘That woman is evil through and through. Do you doubt it?’
Poirot said slowly:
‘It is difficult to be sure.’
Stephen Lane said:
‘But, man alive, don’t you feel it in the air? All round you? The presence of Evil.’
Slowly, Hercule Poirot nodded his head.
When Rosamund Darnley came and sat down by him, Hercule Poirot made no attempt to disguise his pleasure.
As he has since admitted, he admired Rosamund Darnley as much as any woman he had ever met. He liked her distinction, the graceful lines of her figure, the alert proud carriage of her head. He liked the neat sleek waves of her dark hair and the ironic quality of her smile.
She was wearing a dress of some navy blue material with touches of white. It looked very simple owing to the expensive severity of its line. Rosamund Darnley as Rose Mond Ltd was one of London’s best-known dressmakers.
She said:
‘I don’t think I like this place. I’m wondering why I came here!’
‘You have been here before, have you not?’
‘Yes, two years ago, at Easter. There weren’t so many people then.’
Hercule Poirot looked at her. He said gently:
‘Something has occurred to worry you. That is right, is it not?’
She nodded. Her foot swung to and fro. She stared down at it. She said:
‘I’ve met a ghost. That’s what it is.’
‘A ghost, Mademoiselle?’
‘Yes.’
‘The ghost of what? Or of whom?’
‘Oh, the ghost of myself.’
Poirot asked gently:
‘Was it a painful ghost?’
‘Unexpectedly painful. It took me back, you know …’
She paused, musing. Then she said.
‘Imagine my childhood. No, you can’t! You’re not English!’
Poirot asked:
‘Was it a very English childhood?’
‘Oh, incredibly so! The country—a big shabby house—horses, dogs—walks in the rain—wood fires—apples in the orchard—lack of money—old tweeds—evening dresses that went on from year to year—a neglected garden—with Michaelmas daisies coming out like great banners in the autumn …’
Poirot asked gently:
‘And you want to go back?’
Rosamund Darnley shook her head. She said:
‘One can’t go back, can one? That—never. But I’d like to have gone on—a different way.’
Poirot said:
‘I wonder.’
Rosamund Darnley laughed.
‘So do I, really!’
Poirot said:
‘When I was young (and that, Mademoiselle, is indeed a long time ago) there was a game entitled, “If not yourself, who would you be?” One wrote the answer in young ladies’ albums. They had gold edges and were bound in blue leather. The answer, Mademoiselle, is not really very easy to find.’
Rosamund said:
‘No—I suppose not. It would be a big risk. One wouldn’t like to take on being Mussolini or Princess Elizabeth. As for one’s friends, one knows too much about them. I remember once meeting a charming husband and wife. They were so courteous and delightful to one another and seemed on such good terms after years of marriage that I envied the woman. I’d have changed places with her willingly. Somebody told me afterwards that in private they’d never spoken to each other for eleven years!’
She laughed.
‘That shows, doesn’t it, that you never know?’
After a moment or two Poirot said:
‘Many people, Mademoiselle, must envy you.’
Rosamund Darnley said coolly:
‘Oh, yes. Naturally.’
She thought about it, her lips curved upward in their ironic smile.
‘Yes, I’m really the perfect type of the successful woman! I enjoy the artistic satisfaction of the successful creative artist (I really do like designing clothes) and the financial satisfaction of the successful business woman. I’m very well off, I’ve a good figure, a passable face, and a not too malicious tongue.’
She paused. Her smiled widened.
‘Of course—I haven’t got a husband! I’ve failed there, haven’t I, M. Poirot?’
Poirot said gallantly:
‘Mademoiselle, if you are not married, it is because none of my sex have been sufficiently eloquent. It is from choice, not necessity, that you remain single.’
Rosamund Darnley said:
‘And yet, like all men, I’m sure you believe in your heart that no woman is content unless she is married and has children.’
Poirot