by Mark Place
"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. 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 10
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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. 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 egg-shaped 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."