"Yes. I, too, heard that," said Poirot.
"Who did you hear it from?"
"A friend of mine in the police. He went back over the accounts of the inquest and the various things in the house.
Four wigs! I would like to have your opinion on that, madame.
Do you think that four wigs seems somewhat excessive?"
"Well, I do really," said Mrs. Oliver. "I had an aunt who had a wig, and she had an extra wig, but she sent one back to be redressed and wore the second one. I never heard of anyone who had four wigs." Mrs. Oliver extracted a small notebook from her bag, ruffled the pages of it, searching for extracts.
"Mrs. Carstairs, she's seventy-seven and rather gaga. Quote from her: 'I do remember the Ravenscrofts quite well. Yes, yes, a very nice couple. It's very sad, I think. Yes. Cancer it was!' I asked then which of them had cancer," said Mrs. Oliver, "but Mrs. Carstairs had rather forgotten about that.
She said she thought the wife came to London and consulted a doctor and had an operation and then came home and was very miserable, and her husband was very upset about her. So of course he shot her and himself."
"Was that her theory or did she have any exact knowledge?"
"I think it was entirely theory. As far as I can see and hear in the course of my investigations," said Mrs. Oliver, making rather a point of this last word, "when anybody has heard that any of their friends whom they don't happen to know very well have sudden illnesses or consult doctors, they always think it's cancer. And so do the people themselves, I think. Somebody else-I can't read her name here, I've forgotten, I think it began with T-she said that it was the husband who had cancer. He was very unhappy, and so was his wife. And they talked it over together and they couldn't bear the thought of it all, so they decided to commit suicide."
"Sad and romantic," said Poirot.
"Yes, and I don't think really true," said Mrs. Oliver. "It is worrying, isn't it? I mean, the people remembering so much and that they really mostly seem to have made it up themselves."
"They have made up the solution of something they knew about," said Poirot. "That is to say, they know that somebody comes to London, say, to consult a doctor,*or that somebody has been in hospital for two or three months. That is a fact that they know."
"Yes," said Mrs. Oliver, "and then when they come to talk about it a long time afterwards, they've got the solution for it which they've made up themselves. That isn't awfully helpful, is it?"
"It is helpful," said Poirot. "You are quite right, you know, in what you said to me."
"About elephants?" said Mrs. Oliver rather doubtfully.
"About elephants," said Poirot. "It is important to know certain facts which have lingered in people's memories although they may not know exactly what the fact was, why it happened or what led to it. But they might easily know something that we do not know and that we have no means of learning. So there have been memories leading to theories- theories of infidelity, of illness, of suicide pacts, of jealousy.
All these things have been suggested to you. Further search could be made as to points if they seem in any way probable."
"People like talking about the past," said Mrs. Oliver. "They like talking about the past really much more than they like talking about what's happening now, or what happened last year. It brings things back to them. They tell you, of course, first about a lot of other people that you don't want to hear about and then you hear what the other people that they've remembered knew about somebody else that they didn't know but they heard about. You know, so that the General and Lady Ravenscroft you hear about is at once removed, as it were.
It's like family relationships," she said. "You know, first cousin once removed, second cousin twice removed, all the rest of it. I don't think I've been really very helpful, though."
"You must not think that," said Poirot. "I am pretty sure that you will find that some of these things in your agreeable little purple-colored notebook will have something to do with the past tragedy. I can tell you from my own inquiries into the official accounts of these two deaths that they have remained a mystery. That is, from the police point of view.
They were an affectionate couple, there was no gossip or hearsay much about them of any sex trouble, there was no illness discovered such as would have caused anyone to take their own lives. I talk now only of the time, you understand, immediately preceding the tragedy. But there was a time before that, further back."
"I know what you mean," said Mrs. Oliver, "and I've got something about that from an old Nanny. An old Nanny who is now-I don't know, she might be a hundred, but I think she's only about eighty. I remember her from my childhood days. She wasn't very young then. She used to tell me stories about people in the Services abroad-India, Egypt, Siam and Hong Kong and the rest."
"Anything that interested you?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Oliver, "there was some tragedy that she talked about. She seemed a bit uncertain about what it was.
I'm not sure that it had anything to do with the Ravenscrofts, it might have been to do with some other people out there because she doesn't remember surnames and things very well.
It was a mental case in one family. Someone's sister-in-law.
Either General Whoever-it-was's sister or Mrs. Whoever-itwas's sister. Somebody who'd been in a mental home for years. I gathered she'd killed her own children or tried to kill her own children long ago, and then she'd been supposed to be cured or paroled or something and came out to Egypt, or India or wherever it was. She came out to stay with the people. And then it seems there was some other tragedy, connected again, I think, with children or something of that kind. Anyway, it was something that was hushed up. But I wondered. I mean, if there was something mental in the family, either Lady Ravenscroft's family or General Ravenscroft's family. I don't think it need have been as near as a sister. It could have been a cousin or something like that.
But-well, it seemed to me a possible line of inquiry."
"Yes," said Poirot, "there's always possibility and something that waits for many years and then comes home to roost from somewhere in the past. That is what someone said to me. Old sins have long shadows."
"It seemed to me," said Mrs. Oliver, "not that it was likely or even that old Nanny Matcham remembered it right or even really about it being the people she thought it was. But it might have fitted in with what that awful woman at the literary luncheon said to me."
"You mean when she wanted to know…"
"Yes. When she wanted me to find out from the daughter, my godchild, whether her mother had killed her father or whether her father had killed her mother."
"And she thought the girl might know?"
"Well, it's likely enough that the girl would know. I mean, not at the time-it might have been shielded from her-but she might know things about it which would make her be aware what the circumstances were in their lives and who was likely to have killed whom, though she would probably never mention it or say anything about it or talk to anyone about it."
"And you say that woman-this Mrs.-"
"Yes. I've forgotten her name now. Mrs. Burton something.
A name like that. She said something about her son had this girl friend and that they were thinking of getting married.
And I can quite see you might want to know, if so, whether her mother or her father had criminal relations in their family-or a loony strain. She probably thought that if it was the mother who killed the father it would be very unwise for the boy to marry her, whereas if the father had killed the mother, she probably wouldn't mind as much," said Mrs.Oliver.
"You mean that she would think that the inheritance would go in the female line?"
"Well, she wasn't a very clever type of woman. Bossy," said Mrs. Oliver. "Thinks she knows a lot, but no. I think you might think that way if you were a woman."
"An interesting point of view, but possible," said Poirot.
"Yes, I realize that." He sighed. "We have a lot to do still."
"I've got another sidelight on things, too. Same thing, but second hand, if you know what I mean. You know. Someone says, 'The Ravenscrofts? Weren't they that couple who adopted a child? Then it seems, after it was all arranged, and they were absolutely stuck on it-very, very keen on it, one of their children had died in India, I think-but at any rate they had adopted this child and then its own mother wanted it back and they had a court case or something. But the court gave them the custody of the child and the mother came and tried to kidnap it back.' "
"There are simpler points," said Poirot, "arising out of your report, points that I prefer."
"Such as?"
"Wigs. Four wigs."
"Well," said Mrs. Oliver, "I thought that was interesting you, but I don't know why. It doesn't seem to mean anything.
The Indian story was just somebody mental. There are mental people who are in homes or loony-bins because they have killed their children or some other child, for some absolutely batty reason, no sense to it at all. I don't see why that would make General and Lady Ravenscroft want to kill themselves."
"Unless one of them was implicated," said Poirot.
"You mean that General Ravenscroft may have killed someone, a boy-an illegitimate child, perhaps, of his wife's or of his own? No, I think we're getting a bit too melodramatic there. Or she might have killed her husband's child or her own."
"And yet," said Poirot, "what people seem to be, they usually are."
"You mean-?"
"They seemed an affectionate couple-a couple who lived together happily without disputes. They seem to have had no case history of illness beyond a suggestion of an operation, of someone coming to London to consult some medical authority, a possibility of cancer, of leukemia, something of that kind, some future that they could not face. And yet, somehow we do not seem to get at something beyond what is possible, but not yet what is probable. If there was anyone else in the house, anyone else at the time, the police, my friends that is to say, who have known the investigation at the time, say that nothing told was really compatible with anything else but with the facts. For some reason, those two didn't want to go on living. Why?"
"I knew a couple," said Mrs. Oliver, "in the war-the second war, I mean-they thought that the Germans would land in England and they had decided if that happened they would kill themselves. I said it was very stupid. They said it would be impossible to go on living. It still seems to me stupid. You've got to have enough courage to live through something. I mean, it's not as though your death was going to do any good to anybody else. I wonder-?"
"Yes, what do you wonder?"
"Well, when I said that I wondered suddenly if General and Lady Ravenscroft's deaths did any good to anyone else."
"You mean somebody inherited money from them?"
"Yes. Not quite as blatant as that. Perhaps somebody would have a better chance of doing well in life. Something there was in their life that they didn't want either of their two children ever to hear about or to know about." Poirot sighed.
"The trouble with you is," he said, "you think so often of something that well might have occurred, that might have been. You give me ideas. Possible ideas. If only they were probable ideas also. Why? Why were the deaths of those two necessary? Why is it-they were not in pain, they were not in illness, they were not deeply unhappy from what one can see.
Then why, in the evening of a beautiful day, did they go for a walk to a cliff and taking the dog with them…"
"What's the dog got to do with it?" said Mrs. Oliver.
"Well, I wondered for a moment. Did they take the dog, or did the dog follow them? Where does the dog come in?"
"I suppose it comes in like the wigs," said Mrs. Oliver. "Just one more thing that you can't explain and doesn't seem to make sense. One of my elephants said the dog was devoted to Lady Ravenscroft, but another one said the dog bit her."
"One always comes back to the same thing," said Poirot. "One wants to know more." He sighed. "One wants to know more about the people, and how can you know people separated from you by a gulf of years?"
"Well, you've done it once or twice, haven't you?" said Mrs. Oliver. "You know-something about where a painter was shot or poisoned. That was near the sea on a sort of fortification or something. You found out who did that, although you didn't know any of the people."
"No. I didn't know any of the people, but I learned about them from the other people who were there."
"Well, that's what I'm trying to do," said Mrs. Oliver. "Only I can't get near enough. I can't get to anyone who really knew anything, who was really involved. Do you think really we ought to give it up?"
"I think it would be very wise to give it up," said Poirot, "but there is a moment when one no longer wants to be wise.
One wants to find out more. I have an interest now in that couple of kindly people, with two nice children. I presume they are nice children?"
"I don't know the boy," said Mrs. Oliver. "I don't think I've ever met him. Do you want to see my goddaughter? I could send her to see you, if you like."
"Yes, I think I would like to see her, meet her some way.
Perhaps she would not wish to come and see me, but a meeting could be brought about. It might, I think, be interesting.
And there is someone else I would like to see."
"Oh! Who is that?"
"The woman at the party. The bossy woman. Your bossy friend."
"She's no friend of mine," said Mrs. Oliver. "She just came up and spoke to me, that's all."
"You could resume acquaintance with her?"
"Oh, yes, quite easily. I would think she'd probably jump at it."
"I would like to see her. I would like to know why she wants to know these things."
"Yes. I suppose that might be useful. Anyway-" Mrs. Oliver sighed-"I shall be glad to have a rest from elephants.
Nanny-you know, the old Nanny I talked about-she mentioned elephants and that elephants didn't forget. That sort of silly sentence is beginning to haunt me. Ah, well, you must look for more elephants. It's your turn."
"And what about you?"
"Perhaps I could look for swans."
"Mow dieu, where do swans come in?"
"It is only what I remember, which Nanny reminded me of.
That there were little boys I used to play with and one used to call me Lady Elephant and the other one used to call me Lady Swan. When I was Lady Swan, I pretended to be swimming about on the floor. When I was Lady Elephant, they rode on my back. There are no swans in this."
"That is a good thing," said Poirot. "Elephants are quite enough."
Chapter X. Desmond
Twelve days later, as Hercule Poirot drank his morning chocolate, he read at the same time a letter that had been among his correspondence that morning. He was reading it now for the second time. The handwriting was a moderately good one, though it hardly bore the stamp of maturity.
Dear Monsieur Poirot, I am afraid you will find this letter of mine somewhat peculiar, but I believe it would help if I mentioned a friend of yours. I tried to get in touch with her to ask her if she would arrange for me to come and see you, but apparently she had left home. Her secretary-I am referring to Mrs. Ariadne Oliver, the novelist-her secretary seemed to say something about her having gone on a safari in East Africa. If so, I can see she may not return for some time. But I'm sure she would help me. I would indeed like to see you so much. I am badly in need of advice of some kind.
Mrs. Oliver, I understand, is acquainted with my mother, who met her at a literary luncheon party. If you could give me an appointment to visit you one day, I should be very grateful. I can suit my time to anything you suggested. I don't know if it is helpful at all, but Mrs. Oliver's secretary did mention the word "elephants." I presume this has something to do with Mrs. Oliver's travels in East Africa. The secretary spoke as though it was some kind of password. I don't really understand this but perhaps you will. I am in a great state of worry and anxiety and I would be very grateful if you could
see me.
Yours truly, Desmond Burton-Cox.
"Nom d'un petit bonhomme!" said Hercule Poirot.
"I beg your pardon, sir?" said George.
"A mere ejaculation," said Hercule Poirot. "There are some things, once they have invaded your life, which you find very difficult to get rid of again. With me it seems to be a question of elephants." He left the breakfast table, summoned his faithful secretary, Miss Lemon, handed her the letter from Desmond Cox and gave her directions to arrange an appointment with the writer of the letter.
"I am not too occupied at the present time," he said.
"Tomorrow will be quite suitable." Miss Lemon reminded him of two appointments which he already had, but agreed that that left plenty of hours vacant and she would arrange something as he wished.
"Something to do with the Zoological Gardens?" she inquired.
"Hardly," said Poirot. "No, do not mention elephants in your letter. There can be too much of anything. Elephants are large animals. They occupy a great deal of the horizon. Yes.
We can leave elephants. They will no doubt arise in the course of the conversation I propose to hold with Desmond Burton-Cox."
"Mr. Desmond Burton-Cox," announced George, ushering in the expected guest.
Poirot had risen to his feet and was standing beside the mantelpiece. He remained for a moment or two without speaking, then he advanced, having summed up his own impression. A somewhat nervous and energetic personality.
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