Quite naturally so, Poirot thought. A little ill at ease but managing to mask it very successfully. He said, extending a hand, "Mr. Hercule Poirot?"
"That is right," said Poirot. "And your name is Desmond Burton-Cox. Pray sit down and tell me what I can do for you, the reasons why you have come to see me."
"It's all going to be rather difficult to explain," said Desmond Burton-Cox.
"So many things are difficult to explain," said Hercule Poirot, "but we have plenty of time. Sit down." Desmond looked rather doubtfully at the figure confronting him. Really, a very comic personality, he thought. The eggshaped head, the big moustaches. Not somehow very imposing.
Not quite, in fact, what he had expected to encounter.
"You-you are a detective, aren't you?" he said. "I mean you-you find out things. People come to you to find out, or to ask you to find out things for them."
"Yes," said Poirot, "that is one of my tasks in life."
"I don't suppose that you know what I've come about or that you know anything much about me."
"I know something," said Poirot.
"You mean Mrs. Oliver, your friend Mrs. Oliver. She's told you something?"
"She told me that she had had an interview with a goddaughter of hers, a Miss Celia Ravenscroft. That is right, is it not?"
"Yes. Yes, Celia told me. This Mrs. Oliver, is she-does she also know my mother-know her well, I mean?"
"No. I do not think that they know each other well. According to Mrs. Oliver, she met her at a literary luncheon recently and had a few words with her. Your mother, I understand, made a certain request to Mrs. Oliver."
"She'd no business to do so," said the boy.
His eyebrows came down over his nose. He looked angry now, angry-almost revengeful.
"Really," he said, "Mother's-I mean-"
"I understand," said Poirot. "There is much feeling these days, indeed perhaps there always has been. Mothers are continually doing things which their children would much rather they did not do. Am I right?"
"Oh, you're right enough. But my mother-I mean, she interferes in things in which really she has no concern."
"You and Celia Ravenscroft, I understand, are close friends.
Mrs. Oliver understood from your mother that there was some question of marriage. Perhaps in the near future?"
"Yes, but my mother really doesn't need to ask questions and worry about things which are-well, no concern of hers."
"But mothers are like that," said Poirot. He smiled faintly.
He added, "You are, perhaps, very much attached to your mother?"
"I wouldn't say that," said Desmond. "No, I certainly wouldn't say that. You see-well, I'd better tell you straightaway, she's not really my mother."
"Oh, indeed. I had not understood that."
"I'm adopted," said Desmond. "She had a son. A little boy who died. And then she wanted to adopt a child, so I was adopted, and she brought me up as her son. She always speaks of me as her son, and thinks of me as her son, but I'm not really her son. We're not a bit alike. We don't look at things the same way."
"Very understandable," said Poirot.
"I don't seem to be getting on," said Desmond, "with what I want to ask you."
"You want me to do something, to find out something, to cover a certain line of interrogation?"
"I suppose that does cover it. I don't know how much you know about-about well, what the trouble is all about."
"I know a little," said Poirot. "Not details. I do not know very much about you or about Miss Ravenscroft, whom I have not yet met. I'd like to meet her."
"Yes, well, I was thinking of bringing her to talk to you, but I thought I'd better talk to you myself first."
"Well, that seems quite sensible," said Poirot. "You are unhappy about something? Worried? You have difficulties?"
"Not really. No. No, there shouldn't be any difficulties.
There aren't any. What happened is a thing that happened years ago when Celia was only a child, or a schoolgirl at least.
And there was a tragedy, the sort of thing that happens- well, it happens every day, any time. Two people you know whom something has upset very much and they commit suicide.
A sort of suicide pact, this was. Nobody knew very much about it or why, or anything like that. But, after all, it happens and it's no business really of people's children to worry about it. I mean, if they know the facts, that's quite enough, I should think. And it's no business of my mother's at all."
"As one journeys through life," said Poirot, "one finds more and more that people are often interested in things that are none of their own business. Even more so than they are in things that could be considered as their own business."
"But this is all over. Nobody knew much about it or anything.
But, you see, my mother keeps asking questions. Wants to know things, and she's got at Celia. She's got Celia into a state where she doesn't really know whether she wants to marry me or not."
"And you? You know if you want to marry her still?"
"Yes, of course I know. I mean to marry her. I'm quite determined to marry her. But she's got upset. She wants to know things. She wants to know why all this happened and she thinks-I'm sure she's wrong-she thinks that my mother knows something about it. That she's heard something about it.
"Well, I have much sympathy for you," said Poirot, "but it seems to me that if you are sensible young people and if you want to marry, there is no reason why you should not. I may say that I have been given some information at my request about this sad tragedy. As you say, it is a matter that happened many years ago. There was no full explanation of it.
There never has been. But in life one cannot have explanations of all the sad things that happen."
"It was a suicide pact," said the boy. "It couldn't have been anything else. But-well…"
"You want to know the cause of it. Is that it?"
"Well, yes, that's it. That's what Celia's been worried about, and she's almost made me worried. Certainly my mother is worried, though, as I've said, it's absolutely no business of hers. I don't think any fault is attached to anyone. I mean, there wasn't a row or anything. The trouble is, of course, that we don't know. Well, I mean, I shouldn't know anyway because I wasn't there."
"You didn't know General and Lady Ravenscroft or Celia?"
"I've known Celia more or less all my life. You see, the people I went to for holidays and her people lived next door to each other when we were very young. You know-just children. And we always liked each other, and got on together and all that. And then, of course, for a long time all that passed over. I didn't meet Celia for a great many years after that. Her parents, you see, were in Malaya, and so were mine.
I think they met each other again there-I mean my father and mother. My father's dead, by the way. But I think when my mother was in India she heard things and she's remembered now what she heard and she's worked herself up about them and she sort of-sort of thinks things that can't possibly be true. I'm sure they aren't true. But she's determined to worry Celia about them. I want to know what really happened.
Celia wants to know what really happened. What it was all about. And why? And how? Not just people's silly stories."
"Yes," said Poirot, "it is not unnatural perhaps that you should both feel that. Celia, I should imagine, more than you.
She is more disturbed by it than you are. But, if I may say so, does it really matter? What matters is the now, the present. The girl you want to marry, the girl who wants to marry you-what has the past to do with you? Does it matter whether her parents had a suicide pact or whether they died in an airplane accident or one of them was killed in an accident and the other one later committed suicide? Whether there were love affairs which came into their lives and made for unhappiness."
"Yes," said Desmond Burton-Cox, "yes, I think what you say is sensible and quite right but-well, things have been built up in such a way that I've got to make sure that Celia is satisfied. She's-she
's a person who minds about things although she doesn't talk about them much."
"Has it not occurred to you," said Hercule Poirot, "that it may be very difficult, if not impossible, to find out what really happened?"
"You mean which of them killed the other or why, or that one shot the other and then himself. Not unless-not unless there had been something,"
"Yes, but that something would have been in the past, so why does it matter now?"
"It oughtn't to matter-it wouldn't matter but for my mother interfering, poking about in things. It wouldn't have mattered.
I don't suppose that, well, Celia's ever thought much about it.
I think probably that she was away at school in Switzerland at the time the tragedy happened and nobody told her much and, well, when you're a teen-ager or younger still you just accept things as something that happened, but that's not anything to do with you really."
"Then don't you think that perhaps you're wanting the impossible?"
"I want you to find out," said Desmond. "Perhaps it's not the kind of thing that you can find out, or that you like finding out-"
"I have no objection to finding out," said Poirot. "In fact one has even a certain-curiosity, shall I say. Tragedies, things that arise as a matter of grief, surprise, shock, illness-they are human tragedies, human things, and it is only natural that if one's attention is drawn to them one should want to know. What I say is, is it wise or necessary to rake up things?"
"Perhaps it isn't," said Desmond, "but you see…"
"And also," said Poirot, interrupting him, "don't you agree with me that it is rather an impossible thing to do after all this time?"
"No," said Desmond, "that's where I don't agree with you. I think it would be quite possible."
"Very interesting," said Poirot. "Why do you think it would be quite possible?"
"Because-"
"Of what? You have a reason."
"I think there are people who would know. I think there are people who could tell you if they were willing to tell you.
People, perhaps, who would not wish to tell me, who would not wish to tell Celia, but you might find out from them."
"That is interesting," said Poirot.
"Things happened," said Desmond. "Things happened in the past. I-I've sort of heard about them in a vague way.
There was some mental trouble. There was someone-I don't know who exactly, I think it might have been Lady Ravenscroft-I think she was in a mental home for years. Quite a long time. Some tragedy had happened when she was quite young. Some child who died or an accident. Something that- well, she was concerned in it in some way."
"It is not what you know of your own knowledge, I presume?"
"No. It's something my mother said. Something she heard.
She heard it in India, I think. Gossip there from other people.
You know how they get together in the Services, people like that, and the women all gossip together-all the mem-sahibs.
Saying things that mightn't be true at all."
"And you want to know whether they were true or were not true?"
"Yes, and I don't know how to find out myself. Not now, because it was a long time ago and I don't know who to ask. I don't know who to go to, but until we really find out what did happen and why-"
"What you mean is," said Poirot, "at least I think I am right, only this is pure surmise on my part, Celia Ravenscroft does not want to marry you unless she is quite sure that there is no mental flaw passed to her presumably by her mother. Is that it?"
"I think that is what she has got into her head somehow.
And I think my mother put it there. I think it's what my mother wants to believe. I don't think she's any reason really for believing it except ill-mannered spite and gossip and all the rest of it."
"It will not be a very easy thing to investigate," said Poirot.
"No, but I've heard things about you. They say that you're very clever at rinding out what did happen. Asking people questions and getting them to tell you things."
"Whom do you suggest I should question or ask? When you say India, I presume you are not referring to people of Indian nationality. You are speaking of what you might call the mem-sahib days, the days when there were Service communities in India. You are speaking of English people and the gossip in some English station there."
"I don't really mean that that would be any good now. I think whoever it was who gossiped, who talked-I mean, it's so long ago now that they'd have forgotten all about it, that they are probably dead themselves. I think that my mother's got a lot of things wrong, that she's heard things and made up more things about them in her mind."
"And you still think that I would be capable-"
"Well, I don't mean that I want you to go out to India and ask people things. I mean, none of the people would be there now.
"So you think you could not give me names?"
"Not those sort of names," said Desmond.
"But some names?"
"Well, I'll come out with what I mean. I think there are two people who might know what happened and why. Because, you see, they'd have been there. They'd have known, really known, of their own knowledge."
"You do not want to go to them yourself?"
"Well, I could. I have in a way, but I don't think, you see, that they-I don't know. I wouldn't like to ask some of the things I want to ask. I don't think Celia would. They're very nice, and that's why they'd know. Not because they're nasty, not because they gossip, but because they might have helped.
They might have done something to make things better, or have tried to do so, only they couldn't. Oh, I'm putting it all so badly."
"No," said Poirot, "you are doing it very well, and I am interested and I think you have something definite in your mind. Tell me, does Celia Ravenscroft agree with you?"
"I haven't said too much to her. You see, she was very fond of Maddy and of Zelle."
"Maddy and Zelle?"
"Oh, well, that's their names. Oh, I must explain. I haven't done it very well. You see, when Celia was quite a child-at the time when I first knew her, as I say, when we were living next door in the country-she had a French sort of-well, I suppose nowadays we call it an au pair girl, but it was called a governess then. You know, a French governess. A mademoiselle.
And you see, she was very nice. She played with all of us children and Celia always called her Maddy for short-and all the family called her Maddy."
"Ah, yes. The mademoiselle."
"Yes, you see being French, I thought-I thought perhaps she would tell you things that she knew and wouldn't wish to speak about to other people."
"Ah. And the other name you mentioned?"
"Zelle. The same sort of thing, you see. A mademoiselle. Maddy was there, I think, for about two or three years and then, later, she went back to France, or Switzerland I think it was, and this other one came. Younger than Maddy was and, we didn't call her Maddy. Celia called her Zelle. All the family called her Zelle. She was very young, pretty and great ' fun. We were all frightfully fond of her. She played games with us and we all loved her. The family did. And General Ravenscroft was very taken with her. They used to play games together, picquet, you know, and lots of things."
"And Lady Ravenscroft?"
"Oh, she was devoted to Zelle too, and Zelle was devoted to her. That's why she came back again after she'd left."
"Came back?"
"Yes, when Lady Ravenscroft was ill, and had been in hospital, Zelle came back and was sort of companion to her and looked after her. I don't know, but I believe, I think, I'm almost sure that she was there when it - the tragedy - happened. And so, you see she'd know-what really happened."
"And you know her address? You know where she is now?"
"Yes. I know where she is. I've got her address. I've got both their addresses. I thought perhaps you could go and see her, or both of them. I know it's a lot to ask-" He broke off.
Poirot looked at him for some minutes. Then he said:
"Yes, it is a possibility-certainly-a possibility."
Chapter XI. Superintendent Garroway And Poirot Compare Notes
Superintendent Garroway looked across the table at Poirot. His eyes twinkled. At his side George delivered a whisky and soda. Passing on to Poirot, he put down a glass filled with a dark purple liquid.
"What's your tipple?" said Superintendent Garroway with some interest.
"A syrup of black currant," said Poirot.
"Well, well," said Superintendent Garroway, "everyone to their own taste. What was it Spence told me? He told me you used to drink something called a tisane, wasn't it? What's that, a variant of French piano or something?"
"No," said Poirot, "it's useful for reducing fevers."
"Ah. Invalid dope of some kind." He drank from his glass. "Well," he said, "here's to suicide!"
"It was suicide?" Poirot asked.
"What else can it be?" said Superintendent Garroway. "The things you wanted to know!" He shook his head. His smile grew more pronounced.
"I am sorry," said Poirot, "to have troubled you so much. I am like the animal or the child in one of your stories by Mr. Kipling. I suffer from insatiable curiosity."
"Insatiable curiosity," said Superintendent Garroway. "Nice stories he wrote, Kipling. Knew his stuff, too. They told me once that that man could go for one short tour round a destroyer and know more about it than one of the top engineers in the Royal Navy."
"Alas," said Hercule Poirot, "I do not know everything. Therefore, you see, I have to ask questions. I am afraid that I sent you rather a long list of questions."
"What intrigued me," said Superintendent Garroway, "is the way you jumped from one thing to another. Psychiatrists, doctors' reports, how money was left, who had money, who got money. Who expected money and didn't get money, particulars of ladies' hairdressing, wigs, name of the supplier of wigs, charming rose-colored cardboard boxes they came in, by the way."
"You knew all these things," said Poirot. "That has amazed me, I can assure you."
"Ah, well, it was a puzzling case and of course we made full notes on the subject. None of this was any good to us, but we kept the files and it was all there if one wanted to look for it." He pushed a piece of paper across the table.
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