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. BurtonCox 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-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.