It was not a continuation of the conversation. Celia had turned on Poirot with a separate question. Something which had replaced what had been in her mind just previously.
‘You saw Desmond, didn’t you?’ she said. ‘He went to see you. He told me he had.’
‘Yes. He came to see me. Did you not want him to do so?’
‘He didn’t ask me.’
‘If he had asked you?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know whether I should have forbidden him to do so, told him on no acount to do such a thing, or whether I should have encouraged it.’
‘I would like to ask you one question, mademoiselle. I want to know if there is one clear thing in your mind that matters to you, that could matter to you more than anythings else.’
‘Well, what is that?’
‘As you say, Desmond Burton-Cox came to see me. A very attractive and likeable young man, and very much in earnest over what he came to say. Now that – that is the really important thing. The important thing is if you and he really wish to marry – because that is serious. That is – though young people do not always think so nowadays – that is a link together for life. Do you want to enter into that state? It matters. What difference can it make to you or to Desmond whether the death of two people was a double suicide or something quite different?’
‘You think it is something quite different – or, it was?’
‘I do not as yet know,’ said Poirot. ‘I have reason to believe that it might be. There are certain things that do not accord with a double suicide, but as far as I can go on the opinion of the police – and the police are very reliable, Mademoiselle Celia, very reliable – they put together all the evidence and they thought very definitely that it could be nothing else but a double suicide.’
‘But they never knew the cause of it? That’s what you mean.’
‘Yes,’ said Poirot, ‘that’s what I mean.’
‘And don’t you know the cause of it, either? I mean, from looking into things or thinking about them, or whatever you do?’
‘No, I am not sure about it,’ said Poirot. ‘I think there might be something very painful to learn and I am asking you whether you will be wise enough to say: “The past is the past. Here is a young man whom I care for and who cares for me. This is the future we are spending together, not the past.”’
‘Did he tell you he was an adopted child?’ asked Celia.
‘Yes, he did.’
‘You see, what business is it really, of hers? Why should she come worrying Mrs Oliver here, trying to make Mrs Oliver ask me questions, find out things? She’s not his own mother.’
‘Does he care for her?’
‘No,’ said Celia. ‘I’d say on the whole he dislikes her. I think he always has.’
‘She’s spent money on him, schooling and on clothes and on all sorts of different things. And you think she cares for him?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. She wanted, I suppose, a child to replace her own child. She’d had a child who died in an accident, that was why she wanted to adopt someone, and her husband had died quite recently. All these dates are so difficult.’
‘I know, I know. I would like perhaps to know one thing.’
‘About her or about him?’
‘Is he provided for financially?’
‘I don’t know quite what you mean by that. He’ll be able to support me – to support a wife. I gather some money was settled on him when he was adopted. A sufficient sum, that is. I don’t mean a fortune or anything like that.’
‘There is nothing that she could – withhold?’
‘What, you mean that she’d cut off the money supplies if he married me? I don’t think she’s ever threatened to do that, or indeed that she could do it. I think it was all fixed up by lawyers or whoever arranges adoptions. I mean, they make a lot of fuss, these adoption societies, from all I hear.’
‘I would ask you something else which you might know but nobody else does. Presumably Mrs Burton-Cox knows it. Do you know who his actual mother was?’
‘You think that might have been one of the reasons for her being so nosey and all that? Something to do with, as you say, what he was really. I don’t know. I suppose he might have been an illegitimate child. They’re the usual ones that go for adoption, aren’t they? She might have known something about his real mother or his real father, or something like that. If so, she didn’t tell him. I gather she just told him the silly things they suggest you should say. That it is just as nice to be adopted because it shows you really were wanted. There’s a lot of silly slop like that.’
‘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’tthink 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-worshipper. 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 be 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 Oliver. ‘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 13
Mrs Burton-Cox
‘Well,’ said Mrs Oliver as she returned into 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?’
r /> ‘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.’
‘You both had boyfriends?’
‘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 n’est 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? No boyfriends?’
‘We didn’t have so many boyfriends 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. Molly was very keen on the music master, which was very satisfying to us both and I should think much less troublesome than boyfriends 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 you?’
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 – you 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 M. 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 M. 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 favourite fruit drinks. She got out glasses and a decanter.
‘I have already indicated to Monsieur Poirot the outlines of the enquiry 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 has 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. But 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. Over-anxious about my dear son. Mothers are like that.’