Evil Under the Sun - Agatha Christie [67]
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 Mode must 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.