大象的证词3

Book 1

Elephants

Chapter 3

Great Aunt Alice’s Guide to Knowledge

‘Can you find my address book for me, Miss Livingstone?’

‘It’s on your desk, Mrs Oliver. In the left-hand corner.’

‘I don’t mean that one,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘That’s the one I’m using now. Imean my last one. The one I had last year, or perhaps the one before thatagain.’

‘Has it been thrown away, perhaps?’ suggested Miss Livingstone.

‘No, I don’t throw away address books and things like that because so of-ten you want one. I mean some address that you haven’t copied into thenew one. I expect it may be in one of the drawers of the tallboys.’

Miss Livingstone was a fairly new arrival, replacing Miss Sedgwick.

Ariadne Oliver missed Miss Sedgwick. Sedgwick knew so many things. Sheknew the places where Mrs Oliver sometimes put things, the kind ofplaces Mrs Oliver kept things in. She remembered the names of peopleMrs Oliver had written nice letters to, and the names of people that MrsOliver, goaded beyond endurance, had written rather rude things to. Shewas invaluable, or rather, had been invaluable. ‘She was like – what wasthe book called?’ Mrs Oliver said, casting her mind back. ‘Oh yes, I know –a big brown book. All Victorians had it. Enquire Within Upon Everything.

And you could too! How to take iron mark stains off linen, how to dealwith curdled mayonnaise, how to start a chatty letter to a bishop. Many,many things. It was all there in Enquire Within Upon Everything.’ GreatAunt Alice’s great standby.

Miss Sedgwick had been just as good as Aunt Alice’s book. Miss Living-stone was not at all the same thing. Miss Livingstone stood there always,very long-faced with a sallow skin, looking purposefully efficient. Everyline of her face said ‘I am very efficient.’ But she wasn’t really, Mrs Oliverthought. She only knew all the places where former literary employers ofhers had kept things and where she clearly considered Mrs Oliver ought tokeep them.

‘What I want,’ said Mrs Oliver, with firmness and the determination of aspoilt child, ‘is my 1970 address book. And I think 1969 as well. Please lookfor it as quick as you can, will you?’

‘Of course, of course,’ said Miss Livingstone.

She looked round her with the rather vacant expression of someonewho is looking for something she has never heard of before but which effi-ciency may be able to produce by some unexpected turn of luck.

If I don’t get Sedgwick back, I shall go mad, thought Mrs Oliver to her-self. I can’t deal with this thing if I don’t have Sedgwick.

Miss Livingstone started pulling open various drawers in the furniturein Mrs Oliver’s so-called study and writing-room.

‘Here is last year’s,’ said Miss Livingstone happily. ‘That will be muchmore up-to-date, won’t it? 1971.’

‘I don’t want 1971,’ said Mrs Oliver.

Vague thoughts and memories came to her.

‘Look in that tea-caddy table,’ she said.

Miss Livingstone looked round, looking worried.

‘That table,’ said Mrs Oliver, pointing.

‘A desk book wouldn’t be likely to be in a tea-caddy,’ said Miss Living-stone, pointing out to her employer the general facts of life.

‘Yes, it could,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I seem to remember.’

Edging Miss Livingstone aside, she went to the teacaddy table, raised thelid, looked at the attractive inlaid work inside. ‘And it is here,’ said MrsOliver, raising the lid of a papier-m?ché round canister, devised to containLapsang Souchong as opposed to Indian tea, and taking out a curled-upsmall brown notebook.

‘Here it is,’ she said.

‘That’s only 1968, Mrs Oliver. Four years ago.’ ‘That’s about right,’ saidMrs Oliver, seizing it and taking it back to the desk. ‘That’s all for thepresent, Miss Livingstone, but you might see if you can find my birthdaybook somewhere.’

‘I didn’t know …’

‘I don’t use it now,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘but I used to have one once. Quite abig one, you know. Started when I was a child. Goes on for years. I expectit’ll be in the attic upstairs. You know, the one we use as a spare roomsometimes when it’s only boys coming for holidays, or people who don’tmind. The sort of chest or bureau thing next to the bed.’

‘Oh. Shall I look and see?’

‘That’s the idea,’ said Mrs Oliver.

She cheered up a little as Miss Livingstone went out of the room. MrsOliver shut the door firmly behind her, went back to the desk and startedlooking down the addresses written in faded ink and smelling of tea.

‘Ravenscroft. Celia Ravenscroft. Yes. 14 Fishacre Mews, S. W.3. That’sthe Chelsea address. She was living there then. But there was another oneafter that. Somewhere like Strand-on-the-Green near Kew Bridge.’

She turned a few more pages. ‘Oh yes, this seems to be a later one. Mar-dyke Grove. That’s off Fulham Road, I think. Somewhere like that. Has shegot a telephone number? It’s very rubbed out, but I think – yes, I thinkthat’s right – Flaxman … Anyway, I’ll try it.’

She went across to the telephone. The door opened and Miss Livingstonelooked in.

‘Do you think that perhaps –’

‘I found the address I want,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Go on looking for thatbirthday book. It’s important.’

‘Do you think you could have left it when you were in Sealy House?’

‘No, I don’t,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Go on looking.’ She murmured, as the doorclosed, ‘Be as long as you like about it.’

She dialled the telephone and waited, opening the door to call up thestairs: ‘You might try that Spanish chest. You know, the one that’s boundwith brass. I’ve forgotten where it is now. Under the table in the hall, Ithink.’

Mrs Oliver’s first dialling was not successful. She appeared to have con-nected herself to a Mrs Smith Potter, who seemed both annoyed and un-helpful and had no idea what the present telephone number might be ofanyone who had lived in that particular flat before.

Mrs Oliver applied herself to an examination of the address book oncemore. She discovered two more addresses which were hastily scrawledover other numbers and did not seem wildly helpful. However, at thethird attempt a somewhat illegible Ravenscroft seemed to emerge fromthe crossings out and initials and addresses.

A voice admitted to knowing Celia. ‘Oh dear, yes. But she hasn’t livedhere for years. I think she was in Newcastle when I last heard from her.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘I’m afraid I haven’t got that address.’

‘No, I haven’t got it either,’ said the kindly girl. ‘I think she went to besecretary to a veterinary surgeon.’

It did not sound very hopeful. Mrs Oliver tried once or twice more. Theaddresses in the latest of her two address books were no use, so she wentback a bit further. She struck oil, as you might put it, when she came to thelast one, which was for the year 1967.

‘Oh, you mean Celia,’ said a voice. ‘Celia Ravenscroft, wasn’t it? Or was itFinchwell?’

Mrs Oliver just prevented herself in time from saying, ‘No, and it wasn’tredbreast either.’

‘A very competent girl,’ said the voice. ‘She worked for me for over ayear and a half. Oh yes, very competent. I would have been quite happy ifshe had stayed longer. I think she went from here to somewhere in HarleyStreet, but I think I’ve got her address somewhere. Now let me see.’ Therewas a long pause while Mrs X – name unknown – was seeing. ‘I’ve got oneaddress here. It seems to be in Islington somewhere. Do you think that’spossible?’

Mrs Oliver said that anything was possible and thanked Mrs X verymuch and wrote it down.

‘So difficult, isn’t it, trying to find people’s addresses. They do send themto you usually. You know, a sort of postcard or something of that kind.

Personally I always seem to lose it.’

Mrs Oliver said that she herself also suffered in this respect. She triedthe Islington number. A heavy, foreign voice replied to her.

‘You want, yes – you tell me what? Yes, who live here?’

‘Miss Celia Ravenscroft?’ ‘Oh yes, that is very true. Yes, yes she liveshere. She has a room on the second floor. She is out now and she not comehome.’

‘Will she be in later this evening?’

‘Oh, she be home very soon now, I think, because she come home todress for party and go out.’

Mrs Oliver thanked her for the information and rang off.

‘Really,’ said Mrs Oliver to herself, with some annoyance, ‘girls!’

She tried to think how long it was since she had last seen her goddaugh-ter, Celia. One lost touch. That was the whole point. Celia, she thought, wasin London now. If her boyfriend was in London, or if the mother of herboyfriend was in London – all of it went together. Oh dear, thought MrsOliver, this really makes my head ache. ‘Yes, Miss Livingstone?’ she turnedher head.

Miss Livingstone, looking rather unlike herself and decorated with agood many cobwebs and a general coating of dust, stood looking annoyedin the doorway holding a pile of dusty volumes.

‘I don’t know whether any of these things will be any use to you, MrsOliver. They seem to go back for a great many years.’ She was disapprov-ing.

‘Bound to,’ said Mrs Oliver.

‘I don’t know if there’s anything particular you want me to search for.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘if you’ll just put them on the corner ofthe sofa there I can look at them this evening.’

Miss Livingstone, looking more disapproving every moment, said, ‘Verygood, Mrs Oliver. I think I will just dust them first.’

‘That will be very kind of you,’ said Mrs Oliver, just stopping herself intime from saying – ‘and for goodness’ sake dust yourself as well. You’vegot six cobwebs in your left ear.’

She glanced at her watch and rang the Islington number again. Thevoice that answered this time was purely Anglo-Saxon and had a crispsharpness about it that Mrs Oliver felt was rather satisfactory.

‘Miss Ravenscroft? – Celia Ravenscroft?’

‘Yes, this is Celia Ravenscroft.’

‘Well, I don’t expect you’ll remember me very well. I’m Mrs Oliver.

Ariadne Oliver. We haven’t seen each other for a long time, but actuallyI’m your godmother.’

‘Oh yes, of course. I know that. No, we haven’t seen each other for a longtime.’

‘I wonder very much if I could see you, if you could come and see me, orwhatever you like. Would you like to come to a meal or …’

‘Well, it’s rather difficult at present, where I’m working. I could comeround this evening, if you like. About half past seven or eight. I’ve got adate later but …’

‘If you do that I shall be very, very pleased,’ said Mrs Oliver.

‘Well, of course I will.’

‘I’ll give you the address.’ Mrs Oliver gave it.

‘Good. I’ll be there. Yes, I know where that is, quite well.’

Mrs Oliver made a brief note on the telephone pad, and looked withsome annoyance at Miss Livingstone, who had just come into the roomstruggling under the weight of a large album.

‘I wondered if this could possibly be it, Mrs Oliver?’

‘No, it couldn’t,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘That’s got cookery recipes in it.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Miss Livingstone, ‘so it has.’

‘Well, I might as well look at some of them anyway,’ said Mrs Oliver, re-moving the volume firmly. ‘Go and have another look. You know, I’vethought about the linen cupboard. Next door to the bathroom. You’d haveto look on the top shelf above the bath towels. I do sometimes stick papersand books in there. Wait a minute. I’ll come up and look myself.’

Ten minutes later Mrs Oliver was looking through the pages of a fadedalbum. Miss Livingstone, having entered her final stage of martyrdom,was standing by the door. Unable to bear the sight of so much suffering,Mrs Oliver said,

‘Well, that’s all right. You might just take a look in the desk in the dining-room. The old desk. You know, the one that’s broken a bit. See if you canfind some more address books. Early ones. Anything up to about ten yearsold will be worth while having a look at. And after that,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘Idon’t think I shall want anything more today.’

Miss Livingstone departed. ‘I wonder,’ said Mrs Oliver to herself, releas-ing a deep sigh as she sat down. She looked through the pages of the birth-day book. ‘Who’s better pleased? She to go or I to see her go? After Celiahas come and gone, I shall have to have a busy evening.’

Taking a new exercise book from the pile she kept on a small table byher desk, she entered various dates, possible addresses and names, lookedup one or two more things in the telephone book and then proceeded toring up Monsieur Hercule Poirot.

‘Ah, is that you, Monsieur Poirot?’

‘Yes, madame, it is I myself.’

‘Have you done anything?’ said Mrs Oliver.

‘I beg your pardon – have I done what?’

‘Anything,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘What I asked you about yesterday.’

‘Yes, certainly. I have put things in motion. I have arranged to make cer-tain enquiries.’

‘But you haven’t made them yet,’ said Mrs Oliver, who had a poor viewof what the male view was of doing something.

‘And you, chère madame?’

‘I have been very busy,’ said Mrs Oliver.

‘Ah! And what have you been doing, madame?’

‘Assembling elephants,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘if that means anything to you.’

‘I think I can understand what you mean, yes.’

‘It’s not very easy, looking into the past,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘It is astonish-ing, really, how many people one does remember when one comes to lookup names. My word, the silly things they write in birthday books some-times, too. I can’t think why when I was about sixteen or seventeen oreven thirty, I wanted people to write in my birthday book. There’s a sort ofquotation from a poet for every particular day in the year. Some of themare terribly silly.’

‘You are encouraged in your search?’

‘Not quite encouraged,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘But I still think I’m on the rightlines. I’ve rung up my goddaughter –’

‘Ah. And you are going to see her?’

‘Yes, she is coming to see me. Tonight between seven and eight, if shedoesn’t run out on me. One never knows. Young people are very unreli-able.’

‘She appeared pleased that you had rung her up?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘not particularly pleased. She’s got a veryincisive voice and – I remember now, the last time I saw her, that must beabout six years ago, I thought then that she was rather frightening.’

‘Frightening? In what way?’

‘What I mean is that she was more likely to bully me than I would be tobully her.’

‘That may be a good thing and not a bad thing.’

‘Oh, do you think so?’

‘If people have made up their minds that they do not wish to like you,that they are quite sure they do not like you, they will get more pleasureout of making you aware of the fact and in that way will release more in-formation to you than they would have done if they were trying to be ami-able and agreeable.’

‘Sucking up to me, you mean? Yes, you have something there. You meanthen they tell you things that they thought would please you. And theother way they’d be annoyed with you and they’d say things that they’dhope would annoy you. I wonder if Celia’s like that? I really remember hermuch better when she was five years old than at any other age. She had anursery governess and she used to throw her boots at her.’

‘The governess at the child, or the child at the governess?’

‘The child at the governess, of course!’ said Mrs Oliver.

She replaced the receiver and went over to the sofa to examine the vari-ous piled- up memories of the past. She murmured names under herbreath.

‘Mariana Josephine Pontarlier – of course, yes, I haven’t thought of herfor years – I thought she was dead. Anna Braceby – yes, yes, she lived inthat part of the world – I wonder now –’

Continuing all this, time passed – she was quite surprised when the bellrang. She went out herself to open the door.

 

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