Elephants Can Remember hp-39 Page 12

  "Here you are. Hairdressers. Bond Street, Expensive firm.

  Eugene and Rosentelle was the name of it. They moved later.

  Same firm but went into business in Sloane Street. Here's the address, but it's a pet shop now. Two of their assistants retired some years ago now, but they were the top assistants serving people then, and Lady Ravenscroft was on their list.

  Rosentelle lives in Cheltenham now. Still in the same line of business. Calls herself a hair stylist-that's the up-to-date term-and you add beautician. Same man, different hat, as one used to say in my young days."

  "Ah-ha!" said Poirot.

  "Why ah-ha?" asked Garroway.

  "I am immensely obliged to you," said Hercule Poirot. "You have presented me with an idea. How strange it is the way ideas arrive into one's head."

  "You've too many ideas in your head already," said the Superintendent. "That's one of your troubles-you don't need any more. Now then, I've checked up as well as I could on the family history-nothing much there. Alistair Ravenscroft was of Scottish extraction. Father was a clergyman-two uncles in the Army-both quite distinguished. Married Margaret Preston-Grey-well-born girl-presented at Court and all the rest of it. No family scandals. You were quite right about her being one of twin sisters. Don't know where you picked that up-Dorothea and Margaret Preston-Grey-known colloquially as Dolly and Molly. Preston-Greys lived at Hatters Green in Sussex. Identical twins-usual kind of history of that kind of twin. Cut their first tooth the same day-both got scarlet fever the same month-wore the same kind of clothes-fell in love with the same kind of man-got married about the same time-both husbands in the Army. Family doctor who attended the family when they were young died some years ago, so there's nothing of interest to be got out of him. There was an early tragedy, though, connected with one of them."

  "Lady Ravenscroft?"

  "No, the other one-she married a Captain Jarrow-had two children; the younger one, a boy of four, was knocked down by a wheelbarrow or some kind of a child's garden toy-or a spade or a child's hoe. Hit him on his head and he fell into an artificial pond or something and drowned. Apparently it was the older child, a girl of nine, who did it. They were playing together and quarreled, as children do. Doesn't seem much doubt, but there was another story. Someone said the mother did it-got angry and hit him-and someone else said it was a woman who lived next door who hit him. Don't suppose it's of any interest to you-no bearing on a suicide pact entered into by the mother's sister and her husband years after."

  "No," said Poirot, "it does not seem to. But one likes to know background."

  "Yes," said Garroway, "as I told you, one has to look into the past. I can't say we'd thought of looking into the past as long ago as this. I mean, as I've said, all this was twenty years before the suicide."

  "Were there any proceedings at the time?"

  "Yes. I managed to look up the case. Accounts of it.

  Newspaper accounts. Various things. There were some doubts about it, you know. The mother was badly affected. She broke down completely and had to go into hospital. They do say she was never the same woman again afterwards."

  "But they thought she had done it?"

  "Well, that's what the doctor thought. There was no direct evidence, you understand. She said that she had seen this happen from a window, that she'd seen the older child, the girl, hit the boy and push him in. But her account-well, I don't think they believed it at the time. She talked so wildly."

  "There was, I suppose, some psychiatric evidence?"

  "Yes. She went to a nursing home or hospital of some kind, she was definitely a mental case. She was a good long time in one or two different establishments having treatment, I believe under the care of one of the specialists from St. Andrew's Hospital in London. In the end she was pronounced cured, and released after about three years, and sent home to lead a normal life with her family."

  "And she was then quite normal?"

  "She was always neurotic, I believe-"

  "Where was she at the time of the suicide? Was she staying with the Ravenscrofts?"

  "No-she had died nearly three weeks before that. She was staying with them at Overcliffe when it happened. It seemed again to be an illustration of the identical twin destiny. She walked in her sleep-had suffered from that over a period of years, it seems. She had had one or two minor accidents that way. She sometimes took too many tranquilizers and that resulted in her walking round the house and sometimes out of it during the night. She was following a path along the cliff edge, lost her footing and fell over the cliff. Killed immediately.

  They didn't find her until the next day. Her sister, Lady Ravenscroft, was terribly upset. They were very devoted to each other and she had to be taken to hospital suffering from shock."

  "Could this tragic accident have led to the Ravenscrofts' suicide some months later?"

  "There was never a suggestion of such a thing."

  "Odd things happen with twins, as you say. Lady Ravenscroft might have killed herself because of the link between her and her twin sister. Then the husband may have shot himself because possibly he felt guilty in some way-" Superintendent Garroway said: "You have too many ideas, Poirot. Alistair Ravenscroft couldn't have had an affair with his sister-in-law without everyone knowing about it. There was nothing of that kind-if that's what you've been imagining." The telephone rang. Poirot rose and answered it. It was Mrs. Oliver.

  "Monsieur Poirot, can you come to tea or sherry tomorrow?

  I have got Celia coming-and later on the bossy woman.

  That's what you wanted, isn't it?" Poirot said it was just what he wanted.

  "I've got to dash now," said Mrs. Oliver, "going to meet an old war horse-provided by my elephant Number One, Julia Carstairs. I think she's got his name wrong-she always does- but I hope she's got his address right."

  Chapter XII. Celia Meets Hercule Poirot

  "Well, madame," said Poirot, "and how did you fare with Sir Hugo Foster?"

  "To begin with, his name wasn't Foster-it was Fothergill.

  Trust Julia to get a name wrong. She's always doing it."

  "So elephants are not always reliable in the names they remember?"

  "Don't talk of elephants-I've finished with elephants."

  "And your war horse?"

  "Quite an old pet-but useless as a source of information.

  Obsessed by some people called Marchant who did have a child killed in an accident in India. But nothing to do with the Ravenscrofts. I tell you, I've finished with elephants-"

  "Madame, you have been most persevering, most noble."

  "Celia is coming along in about half an hour's time. You wanted to meet her, didn't you? I've told her that you are- well, helping me in this matter. Or would you rather she came to see you?"

  "No," said Poirot, "I think I should like her to come in the way you have arranged."

  "I don't suppose she'll stay very long. If we get rid other in about an hour, that would be all right, just to think over things a bit, and then Mrs. Burton-Cox is coming."

  "Ah, yes. That will be interesting. Yes, that will be very interesting." Mrs. Oliver sighed. "Oh, dear, it's a pity, though, isn't it?" She said again, "We do have too much material, don't we?"

  "Yes," said Poirot. "We do not know what we are looking for. All we know of still is, in all probability, the double suicide of a married couple who lived quiet and happy lives together. And what have we got to show for cause, for reason?

  We've gone forward and back to the right, to the left, to the west, to the east."

  "Quite right," said Mrs. Oliver. "Everywhere. We haven't been to the North Pole yet," she added.

  "Nor to the South Pole," said Poirot.

  "So what is there, when it all comes to it?"

  "Various things," said Poirot. "I have made here a list. Do you want to read it?" Mrs. Oliver came over and sat beside him and looked over his shoulder.

  "Wigs," she said, pointing to the first item. "Why wigs first?"

&n
bsp; "Four wigs," said Poirot, "seem to be interesting. Interesting and rather difficult to solve."

  "I believe the shop she got her wigs from has gone out of the trade now. People go to quite different places for wigs and they're not wearing so many as they did just then. People used to wear wigs to go abroad. You know, because it saves bother in traveling."

  "Yes, yes," said Poirot, "we will do what we can with wigs.

  Anyway, that is one thing that interests me. And then there are other stories. Stories of mental disturbance in the family.

  Stories of a twin sister who was mentally disturbed and spent a good many years of her life in a mental home."

  "It doesn't seem to lead anywhere," said Mrs. Oliver. "I mean to say, I suppose she could have come and shot the two of them, but I don't really see why."

  "No," said Poirot, "the fingerprints on the revolver were definitely only the fingerprints of General Ravenscroft and his wife, I understand. Then there are stories of a child. A child in India was murdered or attacked, possibly by this twin sister of Lady Ravenscroft. Possibly by some quite different woman-possibly by an ayah or a servant. Point two. You know a little more about money."

  "Where does money come into it?" said Mrs. Oliver in some surprise.

  "It does not come into it," said Poirot. "That is what is so interesting. Money usually comes in. Money someone got as a result of that suicide. Money lost as a result of it. Money somewhere causing difficulties, causing trouble, causing covetousness and desire. It is difficult, that. Difficult to see.

  There does not seem to have been any large amount of money anywhere. There are various stories of love affairs, women who were attractive to the husband, men who were attractive to the wife. An affair there one side or the other could have led to suicide or to murder. It very often does. Then we come to what at the moment inclines me to the most interest. That is why I am so anxious to meet Mrs. Burton-Cox."

  "Oh. That awful woman. I don't see why you think she's important. All she did was to go being a nosey-parker and wanting me to find out things."

  "Yes, but why did she want you to find out things? It seems to me very odd, that. It seems to me that that is something that one has to find out about. She is the link, you see."

  "The link?"

  "Yes. We do not know what the link was, where it was, how it was. All we know is that she wants desperately to learn more about this suicide. Being a link, she connects both with your godchild, Celia Ravenscroft, and with the son who is not her son."

  "What do you mean-not her son?"

  "He is an adopted son," said Poirot. "A son she adopted because her own son died,"

  "How did her own child die? Why? When?"

  "All these things I asked myself. She could be a link, a link of emotion, a wish for revenge through hatred, through some love affair. At any rate I must see her. I must make up my mind about her. Yes. I cannot help but think that is very important." There was a ring at the bell and Mrs. Oliver went out of the room to answer it.

  "This, I think, could be Celia," she said. "You're sure it's all right?"

  "By me, yes," said Poirot. "By her also, I hope." Mrs. Oliver came back a few minutes later. Celia Ravenscroft was with her. She had a doubtful, suspicious look.

  "I don't know," she said, "if I-" She stopped, staring at Hercule Poirot.

  "I want to introduce you," said Mrs. Oliver, "to someone who is helping me, and I hope is helping you also. That is, helping you in what you want to know and to find out. This is Monsieur Hercule Poirot. He has special genius in finding out things."

  "Oh," said Celia.

  She looked very doubtfully at the egg-shaped head, the monstrous moustaches and the small stature.

  "I think," she said rather doubtfully, "that I have heard of him." Hercule Poirot stopped himself with a slight effort from saying firmly, "Most people have heard of me." It was not quite as true as it used to be, because many people who had heard of Hercule Poirot and known him were now reposing with suitable memorial stones over them in churchyards. He said: "Sit down, mademoiselle. I will tell you this much about myself. That when I start an investigation I pursue it to the end. I will bring to light the truth and if it is, shall we say, truly the truth that you want, then I will deliver that knowledge to you. But it may be that you want reassuring.

  That is not the same thing as the truth. I can find various aspects that might reassure you. Will that be enough? If so, do not ask for more." Celia sat down in the chair he had pushed towards her, and looked at him rather earnestly. Then she said: "You don't think I'd care for the truth, is that it?"

  "I think," said Poirot, "that the truth might be-a shock, a sorrow, and it might be that you would have said 'why did I not leave all this behind? Why did I ask for knowledge? It is painful knowledge about which I can do nothing helpful or hopeful.' It is a double suicide by a father and a mother that I-well, we'll admit it-that I loved. It is not a disadvantage to love a mother and father."

  "It seems to be considered so nowadays occasionally," said Mrs. Oliver. "New article of belief, shall we say."

  "That's the way I've been living," said Celia. "Beginning to wonder, you know. Catching on to odd things that people said sometimes. People who looked at me rather pityingly. But more than that. With curiosity as well. One begins to find out, you know, things about people, I mean. People you meet, people you know, people who used to know your family. I don't want this life. I want… you think I don't really want it, but I do-I want truth. I'm able to deal with truth. Just tell me something." 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 forbiden to do so, should have told him on no account 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 anything 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."

  "Afld don't you know the cause of it, either? I mean, from looking lnto 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."