Hercule Poirot 100 Years (1916 - 2016)

by Mark Place

  Chapter 19

  MADDY AND ZÉLIE

  "Mademoiselle Rouselle?" said Hercule Poirot. He bowed.

  Mademoiselle Rouselle extended her hand. About fifty, Poirot thought. A fairly imperious woman. Would have her way. Intelligent, intellectual, satisfied, he thought, with life as she had lived it, enjoying the pleasures and suffering the sorrows life brings.

  "I have heard your name," she said. "You have friends, you know, both in this country and in France. I do not know exactly what I can do for you. Oh, I know that you explained, in the letter that you sent me. It is an affair of the past, is it not? Things that happened. Not exactly things that happened, but the clue to things that happened many, many years ago. But sit down. Yes. Yes, that chair is quite comfortable, I hope. There are some petits fours and the decanter is on the table." She was quietly hospitable without any urgency. She was unworried but amiable.

  "You were at one time a governess in a certain family," said Poirot. "The Ravenscrofts. Perhaps now you hardly remember them."

  "Oh, yes, one does not forget, you know, things that happen when you were young. There was a girl, and a boy about four or five years younger in the family I went to. They were nice children. Their father was a general in the Army."

  "There was also another sister."

  "Ah, yes, I remember. She was not there when I first came. I think she was delicate. Her health was not good. She was having treatment somewhere."

  "You remember their mother's Christian name?"

  "Margaret, I think was one. The other one I am not sure of by now."

  "Dorothea."

  "Ah, yes. A name I have not often come across. But they called each other by shorter names. Molly and Dolly. They were identical twins, you know, remarkably alike. They were both very handsome young women."

  "And they were fond of each other?"

  "Yes, they were devoted. But we are, are we not, becoming slightly confused? Preston-Grey is not the name of the children I went to teach. Dorothea Preston-Grey married a major - ah, I cannot remember the name now. Arrow? No, Jarrow."

  "Ravenscroft," said Poirot.

  "Ah, that. Yes. Curious how one cannot remember names. The Preston-Greys are a generation older. Margaret Preston-Grey had been in a pensionnat in this part of the world, and when she wrote after her marriage asking Madame Benoit, who ran that pensionnat, if she knew of someone who would come to her as nursery-governess to her two children, I was recommended. That is how I came to go there. I spoke only of the other sister because she happened to be staying there during part of my time of service with the children. The children were a girl, I think then of six or seven. She had a name out of Shakespeare, I remember. Rosalind or Celia."

  "Celia," said Poirot.

  "And the boy was only about three or four. His name was Edward. A mischievous but lovable child. I was happy with them."

  "And they were happy, I hear, with you. They enjoyed playing with you and you were very kind in your playing with them."

  "Moi, j'aime les enfants," said Mademoiselle Rouselle.

  "They called you Maddy, I believe." She laughed.

  "Ah, I like hearing that word. It brings back past memories."

  "Did you know a boy called Desmond? Desmond Burton-Cox?"

  "Ah, yes. He lived, I think, in a house next door or nearly next door. We had several neighbours and the children very often came to play together. His name was Desmond. Yes, I remember."

  "You were there long, mademoiselle?"

  "No. I was only there for three or four years at most. Then I was recalled to this country. My mother was very ill. It was a question of coming back and nursing her, although I knew it would not be perhaps for very long. That was true. She died a year and a half or two years at the most after I returned here. After that I started a small pensionnat out here, taking in rather older girls who wanted to study languages and other things. I did not visit England again, although for a year or two I kept up communication with the country. The two children used to send me a card at Christmastime."

  "Did General Ravenscroft and his wife strike you as a happy couple?"

  "Very happy. They were fond of their children."

  "They were very well suited to each other?"

  "Yes, they seemed to me to have all the necessary qualities to make their marriage a success."

  "You said Mrs. Ravenscroft was devoted to her twin sister. Was the twin sister also devoted to her?"

  "Well, I had not very much occasion of judging. Frankly, I thought that the sister - Dolly, as they called her - was very definitely a mental case. Once or twice she acted in a very peculiar manner. She was a jealous woman, I think, and I understood that she had at one time thought she was engaged, or was going to be engaged, to Major Ravenscroft. As far as I could see, he'd fallen in love with her first, then later, however, his affections turned towards her sister, which was fortunate, I thought, because Molly Ravenscroft was a well-balanced and very sweet woman. As for Dolly - sometimes I thought she adored her sister, sometimes that she hated her. She was a very jealous woman and she decided too much affection was being shown to the children. There is one who could tell you about all this better than I. Mademoiselle Meauhourat. She lives in Lausanne and she went to the Ravenscrofts about a year and a half to two years after I had to leave. She was with them for some years. Later I believe she went back as companion to Mrs. Ravenscroft when Celia was abroad at school."

  "I am going to see her. I have her address," said Poirot.

  "She knows a great deal that I do not, and she is a charming and reliable person. It was a terrible tragedy that happened later. She knows if anyone does what led to it. She is very discreet. She has never told me anything. Whether she will tell you, I do not know. She may do, she may not."

  Poirot stood for a moment or two looking at Mademoiselle Meauhourat. He had been impressed by Mademoiselle Rouselle. He was impressed also by the woman who stood waiting to receive him now. She was not so formidable, she was much younger, at least ten years younger, he thought, and she had a different kind of impressiveness. She was alive, still attractive, eyes that watched you and made their own judgment on you, willing to welcome you, looking with kindliness on those who came her way, but without undue softness. Here is someone, thought Hercule Poirot, very remarkable.

  "I am Hercule Poirot, mademoiselle."

  "I know. I was expecting you either today or tomorrow."

  "Ah. You received a letter from me?"

  "No. It is no doubt still in the post. Our posts are a little uncertain. No, I had a letter from someone else."

  "From Celia Ravenscroft?"

  "No. It was a letter written by someone in close touch with Celia. A boy or a young man, whichever we like to regard him as, called Desmond Burton-Cox. He prepared me for your arrival."

  "Ah. I see. He is intelligent and he wastes no time, I think. He was very urgent that I should come and see you."

  "So I gathered. There's trouble, I understand. Trouble that he wants to resolve, and so does Celia. They think you can help them?"

  "Yes, and they think that you can help me."

  "They are in love with each other and wish to marry."

  "Yes, but there are difficulties being put in their way."

  "Ah, by Desmond's mother, I presume. So he lets me understand."

  "There are circumstances, or have been circumstances, in Celia's life that have prejudiced his mother against his early marriage to this particular girl."

  "Ah. Because of the tragedy, for it was a tragedy."

  "Yes, because of the tragedy. Celia has a godmother who was asked by Desmond's mother to try and find out from Celia the exact circumstances under which that suicide occurred."

  "There's no sense in that," said Mademoiselle Meauhourat.

  She motioned with her hand. "Sit down. Please sit down. I expect we shall have to talk for some little time. Yes, Celia could not tell her godmother - Mrs. Ariadne Oliver, the novelist, is it not? Yes, I remember. Cel
ia could not give her the information because she has not got the information herself."

  "She was not there when the tragedy occurred, and no one told her anything about it. Is that right?"

  "Yes, that is right. It was thought inadvisable."

  "Ah. And do you approve of that decision or disapprove of it?"

  "It is difficult to be sure. Very difficult. I've not been sure of it in the years that have passed since then, and there are quite a lot. Celia, as far as I know, has never been worried. Worried, I mean, as to the why and wherefore. She's accepted it as she would have accepted an airplane accident or a car accident. Something that resulted in the death of her parents. She spent many years in a pensionnat abroad."

  "Actually I think the pensionnat was run by you. Mademoiselle Meauhourat."

  "That is quite true. I have retired recently. A colleague of mine is now taking it on. But Celia was sent out to me and I was asked to find for her a good place for her to continue her education, as many girls do come to Switzerland for that purpose. I could have recommended several places. At the moment I took her into my own."

  "And Celia asked you nothing, did not demand information?"

  "No. It was, you see, before the tragedy happened."

  "Oh. I did not quite understand that."

  "Celia came out here some weeks before the tragic occurrence. I was at that time not here myself. I was still with General and Lady Ravenscroft. I looked after Lady Ravenscroft, acting as a companion to her rather than as a governess to Celia, who was still at that moment in boarding-school. But it was suddenly arranged that Celia should come to Switzerland and finish her education there."

  "Lady Ravenscroft had been in poor health, had she not?"

  "Yes. Nothing very serious. Nothing as serious as she had herself feared at one time. But she had suffered a lot of nervous strain and shock and general worry."

  "You remained with her?"

  "A sister whom I had living in Lausanne received Celia on her arrival and settled her into the institution which was only for about fifteen or sixteen girls, but there she would start her studies and await my return. I returned some three or four weeks later."

  "But you were at Overcliffe at the time it happened."

  "I was at Overcliffe. General and Lady Ravenscroft went for a walk, as was their habit. They went out and did not return. They were found dead, shot. The weapon was found lying by them. It was one that belonged to General Ravenscroft and had been always kept in a drawer in his study. The fingermarks of both of them were found on that weapon. There was no definite indication of who had held it last. Impressions of both people, slightly smeared, were on it. The obvious solution was a double suicide."

  "You found no reason to doubt that?"

  "The police found no reason, so I believe."

  "Ah," said Poirot.

  "I beg your pardon?" said Mademoiselle Meauhourat.

  "Nothing. Nothing. Just something upon which I reflect."

  Poirot looked at her. Brown hair as yet hardly touched with grey, lips closed firmly together, grey eyes, a face which showed no emotion. She was in control of herself completely. "So you cannot tell me anything more?"

  "I fear not. It was a long time ago."

  "You remember that time well enough."

  "Yes. One cannot entirely forget such a sad thing."

  "And you agreed that Celia should not be told anything more of what had led up to this?"

  "Have I not just told you that I had no extra information?"

  "You were there, living at Overcliffe, for a period of time before the tragedy, were you not? Four or five weeks - six weeks, perhaps."

  "Longer than that, really. Although I had been governess to Celia early, I came back this time, after she went to school, in order to help Lady Ravenscroft."

  "Lady Ravenscroft's sister was living with her also about that time, was she not?"

  "Yes. She had been in hospital having special treatment for some time. She had shown much improvement and the authorities had felt - the medical authorities I speak of - that she would do better to lead a normal life with her own relations and the atmosphere of a home. As Celia had gone to school, it seemed a good time for Lady Ravenscroft to invite her sister to be with her."

  "Were they fond of each other, those two sisters?"

  "It was difficult to know," said Mademoiselle Meauhourat.

  Her brows drew together. It was as though what Poirot had just said aroused her interest. "I have wondered, you know. I have wondered so much since, and at the time, really. They were identical twins, you know. They had a bond between them, a bond of mutual dependence and love and in many ways they were very alike. But there were ways also in which they were not alike."

  "You mean? I should be glad to know just what you mean by that."

  "Oh, this has nothing to do with the tragedy. Nothing of that kind. But there was a definite, as I shall put it, a definite physical or mental flaw - whichever way you like to put it. Some people nowadays hold the theory that there is some physical cause for any kind of mental disorder. I believe that it is fairly well recognized by the medical profession that identical twins are born either with a great bond between them, a great likeness in their characters which means that although they may be divided in their environment, where they are brought up, the same things will happen to them at the same time of life. They will take the same trend. Some of the cases quoted as medical examples seem quite extraordinary. Two sisters, one living in Europe, one, say, in France, the other in England, they have a dog of the same kind which they choose at about the same date. They marry men singularly alike. They give birth perhaps to a child almost within a month of each other. It is as though they have to follow the pattern wherever they are and without knowing what the other one is doing.

  Then there is the opposite to that. A kind of revulsion, a hatred almost, that makes one sister draw apart, or one brother reject the other as though they seek to get away from the sameness, the likeness, the knowledge, the things they have in common. And that can lead to very strange results."

  "I know," said Poirot, "I have heard of it. I have seen it once or twice. Love can turn to hate very easily. It is easier to hate where you have loved than it is to be indifferent where you have loved."

  "Ah, you know that," said Mademoiselle Meauhourat.

  "Yes, I have seen it not once but several times. Lady Ravenscroft's sister was very like her?"

  "I think she was still very like her in appearance, though, if I may say so, the expression on her face was very different. She was in a condition of strain as Lady Ravenscroft was not. She had a great aversion to children. I don't know why. Perhaps she had had a miscarriage in early life. Perhaps she had longed for a child and never had one, but she had a kind of resentment against children. A dislike of them."

  "That had led to one or two rather serious happenings, had it not?" said Poirot.

  "Someone has told you that?"

  "I have heard things from people who knew both sisters when they were in India. Lady Ravenscroft was there with her husband and her sister. Dolly, came out to stay with them there. There was an accident to a child there, and it was thought that Dolly might have been partially responsible for it. Nothing was proved definitely, but I gather that Molly's husband took his sister-in-law home to England and she had once more to go into a mental home."

  "Yes, I believe that is a very good account of what happened. I do not of course know it of my own knowledge."

  "No, but there are things you do know, I think, from your own knowledge."

  "If so, I see no reason for bringing them back to mind now. Is it not better to leave things when at least they have been accepted?"

  "There are other things that could have happened that day at Overcliffe. It may have been a double suicide, it could have been a murder, it could have been several other things. You were told what had happened, but I think, from one little sentence you just said, that you know what happened of your own knowledge.
You know what happened that day and I think you know what happened perhaps - or began to happen, shall we say? - sometime before that. The time when Celia had gone to Switzerland and you were still at Overcliffe. I will ask you one question. I would like to know what your answer would be to it. It is not a thing of direct information. It is a question of what you believe. What were the feelings of General Ravenscroft towards those two sisters, the twin sisters?"

  "I know what you mean." For the first time her manner changed slightly. She was no longer on her guard. She leaned forward now and spoke to Poirot almost as though she definitely found a relief in doing so. "They were both beautiful," she said, "as girls. I heard that from many people. General Ravenscroft fell in love with Dolly, the mentally afflicted sister. Although she had a disturbed personality, she was exceedingly attractive - sexually attractive. He loved her very dearly, and then I don't know whether he discovered in her some characteristic, something perhaps that alarmed him or in which he found a repulsion of some kind. He saw perhaps the beginning of insanity in her, the dangers connected with her. His affections went to her sister. He fell in love with the sister and married her."

  "He loved them both, you mean. Not at the same time, but in each case there was genuine fact of love."

  "Oh, yes, he was devoted to Molly, relied on her and she on him. He was a very lovable man."

  "Forgive me," said Poirot. "You, too, were in love with him, I think."

  "You - you dare say that to me?"

  "Yes. I dare say it to you. I am not suggesting that you and he had a love affair. Nothing of that kind. I'm only saying that you loved him."

  "Yes," said Zélie Meauhourat. "I loved him. In a sense, I still love him. There's nothing to be ashamed of. He trusted me and relied on me, but he was never in love with me. You can love and serve and still be happy. I wanted no more than I had. Trust, sympathy, belief in me -"

  "And you did," said Poirot, "what you could to help him in a terrible crisis in his life. There are things you do not wish to tell me. There are things that I will say to you, things that I have gathered from various information that has come to me, that I know something about. Before I have come to see you, I have heard from others, from people who have known not only Lady Ravenscroft, not only Molly, but who have known Dolly, And I know something of Dolly, the tragedy of her life, the sorrow, the unhappiness and also the hatred, the streak perhaps of evil, the love of destruction that can be handed down in families. If she loved the man she was engaged to, she must have, when he married her sister, felt hatred perhaps towards that sister. Perhaps she never quite forgave her. But what of Molly Ravenscroft? Did she dislike her sister? Did she hate her?"