Dr. Neasden rose from his knees with a quick deft movement.

He said:

“Strangled—and by a pretty powerful pair of hands. She doesn’t seem to have put up much of a struggle. Taken by surprise. H’m—well—nasty business.”

Emily Brewster had taken one look and then quickly averted her eyes from the dead woman’s face. That horrible purple convulsed countenance.

Inspector Colgate asked:

“What about time of death?”

Neasden said irritably:

“Can’t say definitely without knowing more about her. Lots of factors to take into account. Let’s see, it’s quarter to one now. What time was it when you found her?”

Patrick Redfern, to whom the question was addressed, said vaguely:

“Some time before twelve. I don’t know exactly.”

Emily Brewster said:

“It was exactly a quarter to twelve when we found she was dead.”

“Ah, and you came here in the boat. What time was it when you caught sight of her lying here?”

Emily Brewster considered.

“I should say we rounded the point about five or six minutes earlier.” She turned to Redfern. “Do you agree?”

He said vaguely:

“Yes—yes—about that, I should think.”

Neasden asked the Inspector in a low voice:

“This the husband? Oh! I see, my mistake. Thought it might be. He seems rather done in over it.”

He raised his voice officially.

“Let’s put it at twenty minutes to twelve. She cannot have been killed very long before that. Say between then and eleven—quarter to eleven at the earliest outside limit.”

The Inspector shut his notebook with a snap.

“Thanks,” he said. “That ought to help us considerably. Puts it within very narrow limits—less than an hour all told.”

He turned to Miss Brewster.

“Now then, I think it’s all clear so far. You’re Miss Emily Brewster and this is Mr. Patrick Redfern, both staying at the Jolly Roger Hotel. You identify this lady as a fellow guest of yours at the hotel—the wife of a Captain Marshall?”

Emily Brewster nodded.

“Then, I think,” said Inspector Colgate, “that we’ll adjourn to the hotel.”

He beckoned to a constable.

“Hawkes, you stay here and don’t allow anyone on to this cove. I’ll be sending Phillips along later.”

II

“Upon my soul!” said Colonel Weston. “This is a surprise finding you here!”

Hercule Poirot replied to the Chief Constable’s greeting in a suitable manner. He murmured:

“Ah, yes, many years have passed since that affair at St. Loo.”

“I haven’t forgotten it, though,” said Weston. “Biggest surprise of my life. The thing I’ve never got over, though, is the way you got round me about that funeral business. Absolutely unorthodox, the whole thing. Fantastic!”

“Tout de même, mon Colonel,” said Poirot. “It produced the goods, did it not?”

“Er—well, possibly. I dare say we should have got there by more orthodox methods.”

“It is possible,” agreed Poirot diplomatically.

“And here you are in the thick of another murder,” said the Chief Constable. “Any ideas about this one?”

Poirot said slowly:

“Nothing definite—but it is interesting.”

“Going to give us a hand?”