Patrick Redfern said angrily:
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Hercule Poirot said calmly:
‘You know perfectly. I am not so foolish as to argue with an infatuated man. I utter only the word of caution.’
‘You’ve been listening to these damned scandalmongers. Mrs Gardener, the Brewster woman—nothing to do but to clack their tongues all day. Just because a woman’s good-looking—they’re down on her like a sack of coals.’
Hercule Poirot got up. He murmured:
‘Are you really as young as all that?’
Shaking his head, he left the bar. Patrick Redfern stared angrily after him.
V
Hercule Poirot paused in the hall on his way from the dining room. The doors were open—a breath of soft night air came in.
The rain had stopped and the mist had dispersed. It was a fine night again.
Hercule Poirot found Mrs Redfern in her favourite seat on the cliff ledge. He stopped by her and said:
‘This seat is damp. You should not sit here. You will catch the chill.’
‘No, I shan’t. And what does it matter anyway.’
‘Tscha, tscha, you are not a child! You are an educated woman. You must look at things sensibly.’
She said coldly:
‘I can assure you I never take cold.’
Poirot said:
‘It has been a wet day. The wind blew, the rain came down, and the mist was everywhere so that one could not see through it. Eh bien, what is it like now? The mists have rolled away, the sky is clear and up above the stars shine. That is like life, Madame.’
Christine said in a low fierce voice:
‘Do you know what I am most sick of in this place?’
‘What, Madame?’
‘Pity.’
She brought the word out like the flick of a whip.
She went on:
‘Do you think I don’t know? That I can’t see? All the time people are saying: “Poor Mrs Redfern—that poor little woman.” And anyway I’m not little, I’m tall. They say little because they are sorry for me. And I can’t bear it!’
Cautiously, Hercule Poirot spread his handkerchief on the seat and sat down. He said thoughtfully:
‘There is something in that.’
‘That woman—’ said Christine and stopped.
Poirot said gravely:
‘Will you allow me to tell you something, Madame? Something that is as true as the stars above us? The Arlena Stuarts—or Arlena Marshalls—of this world—do not count.’
Christine Redfern said:
‘Nonsense.’
‘I assure you, it is true. Their Empire is of the moment and for the moment. To count—really and truly to count—a woman must have goodness or brains.’
Christine said scornfully:
‘Do you think men care for goodness or brains?’
Poirot said gravely:
‘Fundamentally, yes.’
Christine laughed shortly.
She said:
‘I don’t agree with you.’
Poirot said:
‘Your husband loves you, Madame. I know it.’
‘You can’t know it.’
‘Yes, yes. I know it. I have seen him looking at you.’
Suddenly she broke down. She wept stormily and bitterly against Poirot’s accommodating shoulder.
She said:
‘I can’t bear it … I can’t bear it …’
Poirot patted her arm. He said soothingly:
‘Patience—only patience.’
She sat up and pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. She said in a stifled voice:
‘It’s all right. I’m better now. Leave me. I’d—I’d rather be alone.’
He obeyed and left her sitting there while he himself followed the winding path down to the hotel.
He was nearly there when he heard the murmur of voices.
He turned a little aside from the path. There was a gap in the bushes.
He saw Arlena Marshall and Patrick Redfern beside her. He heard the man’s voice, with the throb in it of emotion.
‘I’m crazy about you—crazy—you’ve driven me mad … You do care a little—you do care?’
He saw Arlena Marshall’s face—it was, he thought, like a sleek happy cat—it was animal, not human. She said softly:
‘Of course, Patrick darling, I adore you. You know that …’
For once Hercule Poirot cut his eavesdropping short. He went back to the path and on down to the hotel.
A figure joined him suddenly. It was Captain Marshall.
Marshall said:
‘Remarkable night, what? After that foul day.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘Looks as though we should have fine weather tomorrow.’
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