VIII

It was perhaps an hour later that Hercule Poirot came to the top of the path leading to Gull Cove.

There was someone sitting on the beach. A slight figure in a red shirt and dark blue shorts.

Poirot descended the path, stepping carefully in his tight smart shoes.

Linda Marshall turned her head sharply. He thought that she shrank a little.

Her eyes, as he came and lowered himself gingerly to the shingle beside her, rested on him withthe suspicion and alertness of a trapped animal. He realized, with a pang, how young andvulnerable she was.

She said:

“What is it? What do you want?”

Hercule Poirot did not answer for a minute or two. Then he said:

“The other day you told the Chief Constable that you were fond of your stepmother and that shewas kind to you.”

“Well?”

“That was not true, was it, Mademoiselle?”

“Yes, it was.”

Poirot said:

“She may not have been actively unkind—that I will grant. But you were not fond of her—Ohno—I think you disliked her very much. That was very plain to see.”

Linda said:

“Perhaps I didn’t like her very much. But one can’t say that when a person is dead. It wouldn’tbe decent.”

Poirot sighed. He said:

“They taught you that at your school?”

“More or less, I suppose.”

Hercule Poirot said:

“When a person has been murdered, it is more important to be truthful than to be decent.”

Linda said:

“I suppose you would say a thing like that.”

“I would say it and I do say it. It is my business, you see, to find out who killed ArlenaMarshall.”

Linda muttered:

“I want to forget it all. It’s so horrible.”

Poirot said gently:

“But you can’t forget, can you?”

Linda said:

“I suppose some beastly madman killed her.”

Hercule Poirot murmured:

“No, I do not think it was quite like that.”

Linda caught her breath. She said:

“You sound—as though you knew?”

Poirot said:

“Perhaps I do know.” He paused and went on: “Will you trust me, my child, to do the best I canfor you in your bitter trouble?”

Linda sprang up. She said:

“I haven’t any trouble. There is nothing you can do for me. I don’t know what you are talkingabout.”

Poirot said, watching her:

“I am talking about candles….”

He saw the terror leap into her eyes. She cried:

“I won’t listen to you. I won’t listen.”

She ran across the beach, swift as a young gazelle and went flying up the zigzag path.

Poirot shook his head. He looked grave and troubled.