Hercule Poirot took very little notice of her abstraction. He had noted the way her eyes followed her husband’s figure where he was pacing up and down on the terrace outside the bar, but for the moment he had no interest in purely conjugal problems. He wanted information.
He said:
“Yes, Madame. It was a phrase—a chance phrase of yours the other day which roused my attention.”
Christine, her eyes still on Patrick, said:
“Yes? What did I say?”
“It was in answer to a question from the Chief Constable. You described how you went into Miss Linda Marshall’s room on the morning of the crime and how you found her absent from it and how she returned there, and it was then that the Chief Constable asked you where she had been.”
Christine said rather impatiently:
“And I said she had been bathing? Is that it?”
“Ah, but you did not say quite that. You did not say ‘she had been bathing.’ Your words were, ‘she said she had been bathing.’”
Christine said:
“It’s the same thing, surely.”
“No, it is not the same! The form of your answer suggests a certain attitude of mind on your part. Linda Marshall came into the room—she was wearing a bathing wrap and yet—for some reason—you did not at once assume she had been bathing. That is shown by your words, ‘she said she had been bathing.’ What was there about her appearance—was it her manner, or something that she was wearing or something she said—that led you to feel surprised when she said she had been bathing?”
Christine’s attention left Patrick and focused itself entirely on Poirot. She was interested. She said:
“That’s clever of you. It’s quite true, now I remember… I was, just faintly, surprised when Linda said she had been bathing.”
“But why, Madame, why?”
“Yes, why? That’s just what I’m trying to remember. Oh yes, I think it was the parcel in her hand.”
“She had a parcel?”
“Yes.”
“You do not know what was in it?”
“Oh yes, I do. The string broke. It was loosely done up in the way they do in the village. It was candles—they were scattered on the floor. I helped her to pick them up.”
“Ah,” said Poirot. “Candles.”
Christine stared at him. She said:
“You seem excited, M. Poirot.”
Poirot asked:
“Did Linda say why she had bought candles?”
Christine reflected.
“No, I don’t think she did. I suppose it was to read by at night—perhaps the electric light wasn’t good.”
“On the contrary, Madame, there was a bedside electric lamp in perfect order.”
Christine said:
“Then I don’t know what she wanted them for.”