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. Stupid, very.”
Lunch was spread out and the picnic began.
All the people concerned were secretly surprised to find how much they enjoyed this interlude. It was, perhaps, because it afforded an escape from an atmosphere of suspicion and dread. Here, with the trickling of the water, the soft peaty smell in the air and the warm colouring of bracken and heather, a world of murder and police inquiries and suspicion seemed blotted out as though it had never existed. Even Mr. Blatt forgot to be the life and soul of the party. After lunch he went to sleep a little distance away and subdued snores testified to his blissful unconsciousness.
It was quite a grateful party of people who packed up the picnic baskets and congratulated Hercule Poirot on his good idea.
The sun was sinking as they returned along the narrow winding lanes. From the top of the hill above Leathercombe Bay they had a brief glimpse of the island with the white hotel on it.
It looked peaceful and innocent in the setting sun.
Mrs. Gardener, not loquacious for once, sighed and said:
“I really do thank you, M. Poirot. I feel so calm. It’s just wonderful.”