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." "You mean-?" "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?" *Murder in Retrospect.
"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 X. 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.