"Well, perhaps not."
Weston said:
"Did you and Mrs Marshall arrange to meet down here?"
Redfern was silent a minute or two.
Then he shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh, well," he said. "I suppose it's bound to come out now.
It's no good my fencing with you.
I was crazy about the woman - mad - infatuated - anything you like. She wanted me to come down here.
I demurred a bit and then I agreed. I - I - well, I would have agreed to do any mortal thing she liked.
She had that kind of effect on people."
Hercule Poirot murmured: "You paint a very clear picture of her. She was the eternal Circe. Just that!"
Patrick Redfern said bitterly: "She turned men into swine all right!"
He went on:
"I'm being frank with you, gentlemen.
I'm not going to hide anything. What's the use?
As I say, I was infatuated with her.
Whether she cared for me or not, I don't know.
She pretended to, but I think she was one of those women who lose interest in a man once they've got him body and soul.
She knew she'd got me all right.
This morning, when I found her there on the beach, dead, it was as though -" he paused - "as though something had hit me straight between the eyes.
I was dazed - knocked out!"
Poirot leaned forward. "And now?"
Patrick Redfern met his eyes squarely. He said:
"I've told you the truth. What I want to ask is this - how much of it has got to be made public?
It's not as though it could have any bearing on her death.
And if it all comes out, it's going to be pretty rough on my wife.
Oh, I know," he went on quickly. "You think I haven't thought much about her up to now?
Perhaps that's true.
But, though I may sound the worst kind of hypocrite, the real truth is that I care for my wife - I care for her very deeply.
The other -" he twitched his shoulders - "it was a madness - the kind of idiotic fool thing men do - but Christine is different. She's real.
Badly as I've treated her, I've known all along, deep down, that she was the person who really counted."
He paused - sighed - and said rather pathetically: "I wish I could make you believe that."
Hercule Poirot leant forward. He said: "But I do believe it. Yes, yes, I do believe it!"
Patrick Redfern looked at him gratefully.
He said: "Thank you."
Colonel Weston cleared his throat.
He said: "You may take it, Mr Redfern, that we shall not go into irrelevancies.
If your infatuation for Mrs Marshall played no part in the murder, then there will be no point in dragging it into the case.
But what you don't seem to realize is that that - er - intimacy - may have a very direct bearing on the murder.
It might establish, you understand, a motive for the crime."
Patrick Redfern said: "Motive?"
Weston said: "Yes, Mr Redfern, motive!
Captain Marshall, perhaps, was unaware of the affair.
Suppose that he suddenly found out."
Redfern said: "Oh, God! You mean he got wise and - and killed her?"
The Chief Constable said rather drily: "That solution had not occurred to you?"
Redfern shook his head.
He said: "No - funny.
I never thought of it.
You see, Marshall's such a quiet chap. I - oh, it doesn't seem likely."