"I think some societies suggest that that's the way you should break the news. Does he or you know of any blood relations?"
"I don't know. I don't think he knows, but I don't think it worries him at all. He's not that kind of a worrier."
"Do you know if Mrs. Burton-Cox was a friend of your family, of your mother and father? Did you ever meet her, as far as you can remember, when you were living in your own home in the early days?"
"I don't think so. I think Desmond's mother-I mean, I think Mrs. Burton-Cox went to Malaya. I think perhaps her husband died out in Malaya, and that Desmond was sent to school in England while they were out there and that he was boarded with some cousins or people who take in children for holidays. And that's how we came to be friends in those days.
I always remembered him, you know. I was a great hero worshiper.
He was wonderful at climbing trees and he taught me things about birds' nests and birds' eggs. So it seemed quite natural, when I met him again I mean, met him at the university, and we both talked about where we'd lived and then he asked me my name. He said, 'Only your Christian name I know,' and then we remembered quite a lot of things together. It's what made us, you might say, get acquainted. I don't know everything about him. I don't know anything. I want to know. How can you arrange your life and know what you're going to do with your life if you don't know all about the things that affect you, that really happened?"
"So you tell me to carry on with my investigation?"
"Yes, if it's going to produce any results, though I don't think it will, because in a way, well, Desmond and I have tried our hand at finding out a few things. We haven't been very successful. It seems to come back to this plain fact which isn't really the story of a life. It's the story of a death, isn't it? Of two deaths, that's to say. When it's a double suicide, one thinks of it as one death. Is it in Shakespeare or where does the quotation come from-"And in death they were not divided'?" She turned to Poirot again. "Yes, go on.
Go on finding out. Go on telling Mrs. Oliver or telling me direct. I'd rather you told me direct." She turned towards Mrs. Olivet. "I don't mean to be horrid to you, Godmother.
You've been a very nice godmother to me always, but-but I'd like it straight from the horse's mouth. I'm afraid that's rather rude, Monsieur Poirot, but I didn't mean it that way."
"No," said Poirot, "I am content to be the horse's mouth."
"And you think you will be?"
"I always believe that I can."
"And it's always true, is it?"
"It is usually true," said Poirot. "I do not say more than that."
Chapter XIII. Mrs. Burton-Cox
"Well," said Mrs. Oliver as she returned to the room after seeing Celia to the door. "What do you think of her?"
"She is a personality," said Poirot, "an interesting girl. Definitely, if I may put it so, she is somebody, not anybody."
"Yes, that's true enough," said Mrs. Oliver.
"I would like you to tell me something."
"About her? I don't really know her very well. One doesn't really, with godchildren. I mean, you only see them, as it were, at stated intervals rather far apart."
"I didn't mean her. Tell me about her mother."
"Oh. I see."
"You knew her mother?"
"Yes. We were in a sort of pensionnat in Paris together. People used to send girls to Paris then to be finished," said Mrs. Oliver. "That sounds more like an introduction to a cemetery than an introduction into society. What do you want to know about her?"
"You remember her? You remember what she was like?"
"Yes. As I tell you, one doesn't entirely forget things or people because they're in the past."
"What impression did she make on you?"
"She was beautiful," said Mrs. Oliver. "I do remember that. Not when she was about thirteen or fourteen. She had a lot of puppy fat then. I think we all did," she added thoughtfully.
"Was she a personality?"
"It's difficult to remember because, you see, she wasn't my only friend or my greatest friend. I mean, there were several of us together-a little pack, as you might say. People with tastes more or less the same. We were keen on tennis and we were keen on being taken to the opera and we were bored to death being taken to the picture galleries. I really can only give you a general idea."
"Molly Preston-Grey. That was her name. Had few boy friends?"
"We had one or two passions, I think. Not for pop singers, of course. They hadn't happened yet. Actors usually. There was one rather famous variety actor. A girl-one of the girls- had him pinned up over her bed and Mademoiselle Girand, the French mistress, on no account allowed that actor to be pinned up there. 'Ce nest pas convenable,' she said. The girl didn't tell her that he was her father! We laughed," added Mrs. Oliver. "Yes, we laughed a good deal."
"Well, tell me more about Molly or Margaret Preston-Grey. Does this girl remind you of her?"
"No, I don't think she does. No. They are not alike. I think Molly was more-was more emotional than this girl."
"There was a twin sister, I understand. Was she at the same pensionnat'?"
"No, she wasn't. She might have been since they were the same age, but no, I think she was in some entirely different place in England. I'm not sure. I have a feeling that the twin sister Dolly, whom I had met once or twice very occasionally and who of course at that time looked exactly like Molly-I mean they hadn't started trying to look different, have different hair-dos and all that, as twins do usually when they grow up. I think Molly was devoted to her sister Dolly, but she didn't talk about her very much. I have a feeling-nowadays, I mean, I didn't have it then-that there might have been something a bit wrong perhaps with the sister even then.
Once or twice, I remember, there were mentions of her having been ill or gone away for a course of treatment somewhere.
Something like that. I remember once wondering whether she was a cripple. She was taken once by an aunt on a sea voyage to do her health good." She shook her head. "I can't really remember, though. I just had a feeling that Molly was devoted to her and would have liked to have protected her in some way. Does that seem nonsense to you?"
"Not at all," said Hercule Poirot.
"There were other times, I think, when she didn't want to talk about her. She talked about her mother and her father.
She was fond of them, I think, in the ordinary sort of way.
Her mother came once to Paris and took her out, I remember.
Nice woman. Not very exciting or good-looking or anything.
Nice, quiet, kindly."
"I see. So you have nothing to help us there? Boy friends?"
"We didn't have so many boy friends then," said Mrs. Oliver. "It's not like nowadays when it's a matter of course.
Later, when we were both back again at home we more or less drifted apart. I think Molly went abroad somewhere with her parents. I don't think it was India-I don't think so. Somewhere else, I think it was. Egypt, perhaps. I think now they were in the Diplomatic Service. They were in Sweden at one time, and after that somewhere like Bermuda or the West Indies. I think he was a governor or something there. But those sort of things one doesn't really remember. All one remembers is all the silly things that we said to each other. I had a crush on the violin master, I remember. Molly was very keen on the music master, which was very satisfying to us both and I should think much less troublesome than boy friends seem to be nowadays. I mean, you adored-longed for the day when they came again to teach you. They were, I have no doubt, quite indifferent to you. But one dreamt about them at night and I remember having a splendid kind of daydream in which I nursed my beloved Monsieur Adolphe when he had cholera and I gave him, I think, blood transfusions to save his life. How very silly one is. And think of all the other things you think of doing! There was one time when I was quite determined to be a nun and later on I thought I'd be a hospital nurse. Well, I suppose we shall have Mrs. Burton-Cox in a moment. I wonder how she will react to yo
u?" Poirot gazed at his watch.
"We shall be able to see that fairly soon."
"Have we anything else we ought to talk about first?"
"I think there are a few things we might compare notes on. As I say, there are one or two things that I think could do with investigation. An elephant investigation for you, shall we say? And an understudy for an elephant for me."
"What an extraordinary thing to say," said Mrs. Oliver. "I told you I was done with elephants."
"Ah," said Poirot, "but elephants perhaps have not done with you." The front doorbell sounded once again. Poirot and Mrs. Oliver looked at each other.
"Well," said Mrs. Oliver, "here we go." She left the room once more. Poirot heard sounds of greeting going on outside and in a moment or two Mrs. Oliver returned, ushering the somewhat massive figure of Mrs. Burton-Cox.
"What a delightful flat you have," said Mrs. Burton-Cox. "So charming of you to have spared time-your very valuable time, I'm sure-and asked me to come and see you." Her eyes shot sideways to Hercule Poirot. A faint expression of surprise passed over her face. For a moment her eyes went from him to the baby grand piano that stood in one window. It occurred to Mrs. Oliver that Mrs. Burton-Cox was thinking that Hercule Poirot was a piano tuner. She hastened to dispel this illusion.
"I want to introduce you," she said, "to Mr. Hercule Poirot." Poirot came forward and bent over her hand.
"I think he is the only person who might be able to help you in some way. You know. What you were asking me about the other day concerning my godchild, Celia Ravenscroft."
"Oh, yes, how kind of you to remember. I do so hope you can give me a little more knowledge of what really happened."
"I'm afraid I haven't been very successful," said Mrs. Oliver, "and that is really why I asked Mr. Poirot to meet you. He is a wonderful person, you know, for information on things generally.
Really on top of his profession. I cannot tell you how many friends of mine he has assisted and how many, well, I can really call them mysteries, he has elucidated. And this was such a tragic thing to have happened."
"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Burton-Cox. Her eyes were still somewhat doubtful. Mrs. Oliver indicated chairs and remarked: "Now what will you have? A glass of sherry? It's too late for tea, of course. Or would you prefer a cocktail of some kind?"
"Oh, a glass of sherry. You are very kind."
"Monsieur Poirot?"
"I, too," said Poirot.
Mrs. Oliver could not help being thankful that he had not asked for Sirop de Cassis or one of his favorite fruit drinks.
She got out glasses and a decanter.
"I have already indicated to Monsieur Poirot the outlines of the inquiry you want to make."
"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Burton-Cox.
She seemed rather doubtful and not so sure of herself as it would seem she was in the natural habit of being.
"These young people," she said to Poirot, "so difficult nowadays. These young people. My son, such a dear boy, we have great hopes of his doing well in the future. And then there is this girl, a very charming girl, who, as probably Mrs. Oliver told you, is her goddaughter, and-well, of course one never knows. I mean these friendships spring up and very often they don't last. They are what we used to call calf love, you know, years ago, and it is very important to know a little at least about the-antecedents of people. You know, what their families are like. Oh, of course I know Celia's a very well-born girl and all that, but there was this tragedy. Mutual suicide, I believe, but nobody has been really able to enlighten me at all on what led to it or what led up to it, shall we say. I have no actual friends who were friends in common with the Ravenscrofts and so it is very difficult for me to have ideas. I know Celia is a charming girl and all that, but one would like to know, to know more."
"I understand from my friend, Mrs. Oliver, that you wanted to know something specifically. You wanted to know, in fact-"
"What you said you wanted to know," said Mrs. Oliver, chipping in with some firmness, "was whether Celia's father shot her mother and then himself or whether Celia's mother shot her father and then herself."
"I feel it makes a difference," said Mrs. Burton-Cox. "Yes, definitely I feel it makes a difference."
"A very interesting point of view," said Poirot.
His tone was not very encouraging.
"Oh, the emotional background, shall I say, the emotional events that led up to all this. In a marriage, you must admit, one had to think of the children. The children, I mean, that are to come. I mean heredity. I think now we realize that heredity does more than environment. It leads to certain formation of character and certain very grave risks that one might not want to take."
"True," said Poirot. "The people who undertake the risks are the ones that have to make the decision. Your son and this young lady, it will be their choice."
"Oh, I know, I know. Not mine. Parents are never allowed to choose, are they, or even to give any advice. Bdt I would like to know something about it. Yes, I would like to know very much. If you feel that you could undertake any-investigation I suppose is the word you would use. But perhaps- perhaps I am being a very foolish mother. You know. Overanxious about my dear son. Mothers are like that." She gave a little whinny of laughter, putting her head slightly on one side. "Perhaps," she said, as she tipped up the sherry glass, "perhaps you will think about it and I also will let you know. Perhaps the exact points and things that I am worried about." She looked at her watch. "Oh, dear. Oh, dear, I'm late for another appointment. I shall have to go. I am so sorry, dear Mrs. Oliver, to have to run away so soon, but you know what it is. I had great difficulties finding a taxi this afternoon. One after another just turned his head aside and drove straight past me. Ah, very, very difficult, isn't it? I think Mrs. Oliver has your address, has she not?"
"I will give you my address," said Poirot. He removed a card from his pocket and handed it to her.
"Oh, yes, yes. I see. Monsieur Hercule Poirot. You are French, is that right?"
"I am Belgian," said Poirot.
"Oh, yes, yes. Belgique. Yes, yes. I quite understand. I am so pleased to have met you and I feel so hopeful. Oh, dear, I must go very, very fast." Shaking Mrs. Oliver warmly by the hand, then extending the same hand to Poirot, she left the room and the door sounded in the hall.
"Well, what do you think of that?" said Mrs. Oliver.
"What do you?" said Poirot.
"She ran away," said Mrs. Oliver. "She ran away. You frightened her in some way."
"Yes," said Poirot, "I think you've judged quite right."
"She wanted me to get things out of Celia, she wanted me to get some knowledge out of Celia, some expression, some sort of secret she suspected was there, but she doesn't want a real proper investigation, does she?"
"I think not," said Poirot. "That is interesting. Very interesting. She is well-to-do, you think?"
"I should say so. Her clothes are expensive, she lives at an expensive address, she is-it's difficult to make out. She's a pushing woman and a bossy woman. She sits on a lot of committees. There's nothing, I mean, suspicious about her.
I've asked a few people. Nobody likes her very much. But she's a sort of public-spirited woman who takes part in politics, all those sorts of things."
"Then what is wrong with her?" said Poirot.
"You think there is something wrong with her. Or do you just not like her, like I do?"
"I think there is something there that she does not want to come to light," said Poirot.
"Oh. And are you going to find out what it is?"
"Naturally, if I can," said Poirot. "It may not be easy. She is in retreat. She was in retreat when she left us here. She was afraid of what questions I was going to ask her. Yes. It is interesting." He sighed. "One will have to go back, you know, even further than one thought."
"What, back into the past again?"
"Yes. Somewhere in the past, in more cases than one, there is something that one will have to know before we can com
e back again to what happened-what is it now?-fifteen years ago, twenty years ago, at a house called Overcliffe. Yes. One will have to go back again."
"Well, that's that," said Mrs. Oliver. "And now, what is there to do? What is this list of yours?"
"I have heard a certain amount of information through police records on what was found in the house. You will remember that among the things there were four wigs."
"Yes," said Mrs. Oliver, "you said that four wigs were too many."
"It seemed to be a little excessive," said Poirot. "I have also got certain useful addresses. The address of a doctor that might be helpful."
"The doctor? You mean, the family doctor?"
"No, not the family doctor. The doctor who gave evidence at an inquest on a child who met with an accident. Either pushed by an older child or possibly by someone else."
"You mean by the mother?"
"Possibly the mother, possibly by someone else who was in the house at the time. I know the part of England where that happened, and Superintendent Garroway has been able, through sources known to him and also through journalistic friends of mine, who were interested in this particular case, to get some information about the doctor."
"And you're going to see him. He must be a very old man by now."
"It is not him I shall go to see. It is his son. His son is also qualified as a specialist in various forms of mental disorders.
I have an introduction to him and he might be able to tell me something interesting. There have also been inquiries into a case of money."
"What do you mean by money?"
"Well, there are certain things we have to find out. That is one of the things in anything which might be a crime. Money.
Who has money to lose by some happening, who has money to gain by something happening. That, one has to find out."
"Well, they must have found out in the case of the Ravenscrofts."
"Yes, that was all quite natural, it seems. They had both made normal wills leaving, in each case, the money to the other partner. The wife left her money to the husband and the husband left his money to his wife. Neither of them benefited by what happened because they both died. So that the people who did profit were the daughter, Celia, and a younger child, Edward, who I gather is now at a university abroad."
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