“Saw him give young Redfern a dirty look once or twice. Dark horse, Marshall. Looks very meek and mild and as though he were half asleep all the time—but that’s not his reputation in the City. I’ve heard a thing or two about him. Nearly had up for assault once. Mind you, the fellow in question had put up a pretty dirty deal. Marshall had trusted him and the fellow had let him down cold. Particularly dirty business, I believe. Marshall went for him and half-killed him. Fellow didn’t prosecute—too afraid of what might come out. I give you that for what it’s worth.”

“So you think it possible,” said Poirot, “that Captain Marshall strangled his wife?”

“Not at all. Never said anything of the sort. Just letting you know that he’s the sort of fellow who could go berserk on occasions.”

Poirot said:

“Mr. Blatt, there is reason to believe that Mrs. Marshall went this morning to Pixy Cove to meet someone. Have you any idea who that someone might be?”

Mr. Blatt winked.

“It’s not a guess. It’s a certainty. Redfern!”

“It was not Mr. Redfern.”

Mr. Blatt seemed taken aback. He said hesitatingly:

“Then I don’t know… No, I can’t imagine….”

He went on, regaining a little of his aplomb:

“As I said before, it wasn’t me! No such luck! Let me see, couldn’t have been Gardener—his wife keeps far too sharp an eye on him! That old ass Barry? Rot! And it would hardly be the parson. Although, mind you, I’ve seen his Reverence watching her a good bit. All holy disapproval, but perhaps an eye for the contours all the same! Eh? Lot of hypocrites, most parsons. Did you read that case last month? Parson and the churchwarden’s daughter! Bit of an eye-opener.”

Mr. Blatt chuckled.

Colonel Weston said coldly:

“There is nothing you can think of that might help us?”

The other shook his head.

“No. Can’t think of a thing.” He added: “This will make a bit of a stir, I imagine. The Press will be on to it like hot cakes. There won’t be quite so much of this high-toned exclusiveness about the Jolly Roger in future. Jolly Roger indeed. Precious little jollity about it.”

Hercule Poirot murmured:

“You have not enjoyed your stay here?”

Mr. Blatt’s red face got slightly redder. He said: