Evil Under the Sun - Agatha Christie [46]
Colonel Weston said:
“I am sorry to have to ask you what I am going to ask you, but it is a very vital matter. Can you tell me how things were between her and her husband?”
Gladys Narracott hesitated a minute.
She said:
“You don’t—it wasn’t—you don’t think as he did it?”
Hercule Poirot said quickly:
“Do you?”
“Oh! I wouldn’t like to think so. He’s such a nice gentleman, Captain Marshall. He couldn’t do a thing like that—I’m sure he couldn’t.”
“But you are not very sure—I hear it in your voice.”
Gladys Narracott said reluctantly:
“You do read such things in the papers! When there’s jealousy. If there’s been goings on—and, of course, everyone’s been talking about it—about her and Mr. Redfern, I mean. And Mrs. Redfern such a nice quiet lady! It does seem a shame! And Mr. Redfern’s a nice gentleman too, but it seems men can’t help themselves when it’s a lady like Mrs. Marshall—one who’s used to having her own way. Wives have to put up with a lot, I’m sure.” She sighed and paused. “But if Captain Marshall found out about it—”
Colonel Weston said sharply:
“Well?”
Gladys Narracott said slowly:
“I did think sometimes that Mrs. Marshall was frightened of her husband knowing.”
“What makes you say that?”
“It wasn’t anything definite, sir. It was only I felt—that sometimes she was—afraid of him. He was a very quiet gentleman but he wasn’t—he wasn’t easy.”
Weston said:
“But you’ve nothing definite to go on? Nothing either of them ever said to each other.”
Slowly Gladys Narracott shook her head.
Weston sighed. He went on.
“Now, as to letters received by Mrs. Marshall this morning. Can you tell us anything about those?”
“There were about six or seven, sir. I couldn’t say exactly.”
“Did you take them up to her?”
“Yes, sir. I got them from the office as usual and put them on her breakfast tray.”
“Do you remember anything about the look of them?”
The girl shook her head.
“They were just ordinary-looking letters. Some of them were bills and circulars, I think, because they were torn up on the tray.”
“What happened to them?”
“They went into the dustbin, sir. One of the police gentlemen is going through that now.”
Weston nodded.
“And the contents of the wastepaper baskets, where are they?”
“They’ll be in the dustbin too.”
Weston said: “H’m—well, I think that is all at present.” He looked inquiringly at Poirot.
Poirot leaned forward.
“When you did Miss Linda Marshall’s room this morning, did you do the fireplace?”
“There wasn’t anything to do, sir. There had been no fire lit.”
“And there was nothing in the fireplace itself?”
“No sir, it was perfectly all right.”
“What time did you do her room?”
“About a quarter past nine, sir, when she’d gone down to breakfast.”
“Did she come up to her room after breakfast, do you know?”
“Yes, sir. She came up about a quarter to ten.”
“Did she stay in her room?”
“I think so, sir. She came out, hurrying rather, just before half past ten.”
“You didn’t go into her room again?”
“No, sir. I had finished with it.”
Poirot nodded. He said:
“There is another thing I want to know. What people bathed before breakfast this morning?”
“I couldn’t say about the other wing and the floor above. Only about this one.”
“That is all I want to know.”
“Well, sir, Captain Marshall and Mr. Redfern were the only ones this morning, I think. They always go down for an early dip.”
“Did you see them?”
“No, sir, but their wet bathing things were hanging over the balcony rail as usual.”
“Miss Linda Marshall did not bathe this morning?”
“No, sir. All her bathing dresses were quite dry.”
“Ah,” said Poirot. “That is what I wanted to know.”
Gladys Narracott volunteered:
“She does most mornings, sir.”
“And the other three, Miss