Chapter 19
Maddy and Zélie
‘Mademoiselle Rouselle?’ said Hercule Poirot. He bowed.
Mademoiselle Rouselle extended her hand. About fifty, Poirot thought. Afairly imperious woman. Would have her way. Intelligent, intellectual, sat-isfied, he thought, with life as she had lived it, enjoying the pleasures andsuffering the sorrows life brings.
‘I have heard your name,’ she said. ‘You have friends, you know, both inthis country and in France. I do not know exactly what I can do for you.
Oh, I know that you explained, in the letter that you sent me. It is an affairof the past, is it not? Things that happened. Not exactly things thathappened, but the clue to things that happened many, many years ago.
But sit down. Yes. Yes, that chair is quite comfortable, I hope. There aresome petit-fours and the decanter is on the table.’
She was quietly hospitable without any urgency. She was unworried butamiable.
‘You were at one time a governess in a certain family,’ said Poirot. ‘ThePreston-Greys. Perhaps now you hardly remember them.’
‘Oh yes, one does not forget, you know, things that happen when youwere young. There was a girl, and a boy about four or five years youngerin the family I went to. They were nice children. Their father became aGeneral in the Army.’
‘There was also another sister.’
‘Ah yes, I remember. She was not there when I first came. I think shewas delicate. Her health was not good. She was having treatment some-where.’
‘You remember their Christian names?’
‘Margaret, I think was one. The other one I am not sure of by now.’
‘Dorothea.’
‘Ah yes. A name I have not often come across. But they called each otherby shorter names. Molly and Dolly. They were identical twins, you know,remarkably alike. They were both very handsome young women.’
‘And they were fond of each other?’
‘Yes, they were devoted. But we are, are we not, becoming slightly con-fused? Preston- Grey is not the name of the children I went to teach.
Dorothea Preston- Grey married a Major – ah, I cannot remember thename now. Arrow? No, Jarrow. Margaret’s married name was –’
‘Ravenscroft,’ said Poirot.
‘Ah, that. Yes. Curious how one cannot remember names. The Preston-Greys are a generation older. Margaret Preston-Grey had been in a pen-sionnat in this part of the world, and when she wrote after her marriageasking Madame Beno??t, who ran that pensionnat, if she knew of someonewho would come to her as nursery-governess to her children, I was re-commended. That is how I came to go there. I spoke only of the other sis-ter because she happened to be staying there during part of my time ofservice with the children. The children were a girl, I think then of six orseven. She had a name out of Shakespeare. I remember, Rosalind or Celia.’
‘Celia,’ said Poirot. ‘And the boy was only about three or four. His namewas Edward. A mischievous but lovable child. I was happy with them.’
‘And they were happy, I hear, with you. They enjoyed playing with youand you were very kind in your playing with them.’
‘Moi, j’aime les enfants,’ said Mademoiselle Rouselle.
‘They called you “Maddy,” I believe.’
She laughed.
‘Ah, I like hearing that word. It brings back past memories.’
‘Did you know a boy called Desmond? Desmond Burton-Cox?’
‘Ah yes. He lived I think in a house next door or nearly next door. Wehad several neighbours and the children very often came to play together.
His name was Desmond. Yes, I remember.’
‘You were there long, mademoiselle?’
‘No. I was only there for three or four years at most. Then I was recalledto this country. My mother was very ill. It was a question of coming backand nursing her, although I knew it would not be perhaps for very long.
That was true. She died a year and a half or two years at the most after Ireturned here. After that I started a small pensionnat out here, taking inrather older girls who wanted to study languages and other things. I didnot visit England again, although for a year or two I kept up communica-tion with the country. The two children used to send me a card at Christ-mas time.’
‘Did General Ravenscroft and his wife strike you as a happy couple?’
‘Very happy. They were fond of their children.’
‘They were very well suited to each other?’
‘Yes, they seemed to me to have all the necessary qualities to make theirmarriage a success.’
‘You said Lady Ravenscroft was devoted to her twin sister. Was the twinsister also devoted to her?’
‘Well, I had not very much occasion of judging. Frankly, I thought thatthe sister – Dolly, as they called her – was very definitely a mental case.
Once or twice she acted in a very peculiar manner. She was a jealous wo-man, I think, and I understood that she had at one time thought she wasengaged, or was going to be engaged, to General Ravenscroft. As far as Icould see he’d fallen in love with her first, then later, however, his affec-tions turned towards her sister, which was fortunate, I thought, becauseMolly Ravenscroft was a well- balanced and very sweet woman. As forDolly – sometimes I thought she adored her sister, sometimes that shehated her. She was a very jealous woman and she decided too much affec-tion was being shown to the children. There is one who could tell youabout all this better than I. Mademoiselle Meauhourat. She lives inLausanne and she went to the Ravenscrofts about a year and a half or twoyears after I had to leave. She was with them for some years. Later I be-lieve she went back as companion to Lady Ravenscroft when Celia wasabroad at school.’
‘I am going to see her. I have her address,’ said Poirot.
‘She knows a great deal that I do not, and she is a charming and reliableperson. It was a terrible tragedy that happened later. She knows if anyonedoes what led to it. She is very discreet. She has never told me anything.
Whether she will tell you I do not know. She may do, she may not.’
* * *
Poirot stood for a moment or two looking at Mademoiselle Meauhourat.
He had been impressed by Mademoiselle Rouselle, he was impressed alsoby the woman who stood waiting to receive him. She was not so formid-able, she was much younger, at least ten years younger, he thought, andshe had a different kind of impressiveness. She was alive, still attractive,eyes that watched you and made their own judgment on you, willing towelcome you, looking with kindliness on those who came her way butwithout undue softness. Here is someone, thought Hercule Poirot, very re-markable.
‘I am Hercule Poirot, mademoiselle.’
‘I know. I was expecting you either today or tomorrow.’
‘Ah. You received a letter from me?’
‘No. It is no doubt still in the post. Our posts are a little uncertain. No. Ihad a letter from someone else.’
‘From Celia Ravenscroft?’
‘No. It was a letter written by someone in close touch with Celia. A boyor a young man, whichever we like to regard him as, called Desmond Bur-ton-Cox. He prepared me for your arrival.’
‘Ah. I see. He is intelligent and he wastes no time, I think. He was veryurgent that I should come and see you.’
‘So I gathered. There’s trouble, I understand. Trouble that he wants toresolve, and so does Celia. They think you can help them?’
‘Yes, and they think that you can help me.’
‘They are in love with each other and wish to marry.’
‘Yes, but there are difficulties being put in their way.’
‘Ah, by Desmond’s mother, I presume. So he lets me understand.’
‘There are circumstances, or have been circumstances, in Celia’s life thathave prejudiced his mother against his early marriage to this particulargirl.’
‘Ah. Because of the tragedy, for it was a tragedy.’
‘Yes, because of the tragedy. Celia has a godmother who was asked byDesmond’s mother to try and find out from Celia the exact circumstancesunder which that suicide occurred.’
‘There’s no sense in that,’ said Mademoiselle Meauhourat. She motionedwith her hand. ‘Sit down. Please sit down. I expect we shall have to talkfor some little time. Yes, Celia could not tell her godmother – Mrs AriadneOliver, the novelist is it not? Yes, I remember. Celia could not give her theinformation because she has not got the information herself.’
‘She was not there when the tragedy occurred, and no one told her any-thing about it. Is that right?’
‘Yes, that is right. It was thought inadvisable.’
‘Ah. And do you approve of that decision or disapprove of it?’
‘It is difficult to be sure. Very difficult. I’ve not been sure of it in theyears that have passed since then, and there are quite a lot. Celia, as far asI know, has never been worried. Worried, I mean, as to the why andwherefore. She’s accepted it as she would have accepted an aeroplane ac-cident or a car accident. Something that resulted in the death of her par-ents. She spent many years in a pensionnat abroad.’
‘Actually I think the pensionnat was run by you, Mademoiselle Meau-hourat.’
‘That is quite true. I have retired recently. A colleague of mine is nowtaking it on. But Celia was sent out to me and I was asked to find for her agood place for her to continue her education, as many girls do come toSwitzerland for that purpose. I could have recommended several places.
At the moment I took her into my own.’
‘And Celia asked you nothing, did not demand information?’
‘No. It was, you see, before the tragedy happened.’
‘Oh. I did not quite understand that.’
‘Celia came out here some weeks before the tragic occurrence. I was atthat time not here myself. I was still with General and Lady Ravenscroft. Ilooked after Lady Ravenscroft, acting as a companion to her rather thanas a governess to Celia, who was still at that moment in boarding-school.
But it was suddenly arranged that Celia should come to Switzerland andfinish her education there.’
‘Lady Ravenscroft had been in poor health, had she not?’
‘Yes. Nothing very serious. Nothing as serious as she had herself fearedat one time. But she had suffered a lot of nervous strain and shock andgeneral worry.’
‘You remained with her?’
‘A sister whom I had living in Lausanne received Celia on her arrivaland settled her into the institution which was only for about fifteen or six-teen girls, but there she would start her studies and await my return. I re-turned some three or four weeks later.’
‘But you were at Overcliffe at the time it happened.’
‘I was at Overcliffe. General and Lady Ravenscroft went for a walk, aswas their habit. They went out and did not return. They were found dead,shot. The weapon was found lying by them. It was one that belonged toGeneral Ravenscroft and had been always kept in a drawer in his study.
The finger marks of both of them were found on that weapon. There wasno definite indication of who had held it last. Impressions of both people,slightly smeared, were on it. The obvious solution was a double suicide.’
‘You found no reason to doubt that?’
‘The police found no reason, so I believe.’
‘Ah,’ said Poirot.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Mademoiselle Meauhourat. ‘Nothing. Nothing.
Just something upon which I reflect.’
Poirot looked at her. Brown hair as yet hardly touched with grey, lipsclosed firmly together, grey eyes, a face which showed no emotion. Shewas in control of herself completely.
‘So you cannot tell me anything more?’
‘I fear not. It was a long time ago.’
‘You remember that time well enough.’
‘Yes. One cannot entirely forget such a sad thing.’
‘And you agreed that Celia should not be told anything more of whathad led up to this?’
‘Have I not just told you that I had no extra information?’
‘You were there, living at Overcliffe, for a period of time before thetragedy, were you not? Four or five weeks – six weeks perhaps.’
‘Longer than that, really. Although I had been governess to Celia earlier,I came back this time, after she went to school, in order to help LadyRavenscroft.’
‘Lady Ravenscroft’s sister was living with her also about that time, wasshe not?’
‘Yes. She had been in hospital having special treatment for some time.
She had shown much improvement and the authorities had felt – the med-ical authorities I speak of – that she would do better to lead a normal lifewith her own relations and the atmosphere of a home. As Celia had goneto school, it seemed a good time for Lady Ravenscroft to invite her sister tobe with her.’
‘Were they fond of each other, those two sisters?’
‘It was difficult to know,’ said Mademoiselle Meauhourat. Her browsdrew together. It was as though what Poirot had just said aroused her in-terest. ‘I have wondered, you know. I have wondered so much since, andat the time really. They were identical twins, you know. They had a bondbetween them, a bond of mutual dependence and love and in many waysthey were very alike. But there were ways also in which they were notalike.’
‘You mean? I should be glad to know just what you mean by that.’
‘Oh, this has nothing to do with the tragedy. Nothing of that kind. Butthere was a definite, as I shall put it, a definite physical or mental flaw –whichever way you like to put it – some people nowadays hold the theorythat there is some physical cause for any kind of mental disorder. I believethat it is fairly well recognized by the medical profession that identicaltwins are born either with a great bond between them, a great likeness intheir characters which means that although they may be divided in theirenvironment, where they are brought up, the same things will happen tothem at the same time of life. They will take the same trend. Some of thecases quoted as medical example seem quite extraordinary. Two sisters,one living in Europe, one say in France, the other in England, they have adog of the same kind which they choose at about the same date. Theymarry men singularly alike. They give birth perhaps to a child almostwithin a month of each other. It as though they have to follow the patternwherever they are and without knowing what the other one is doing. Thenthere is the opposite to that. A kind of revulsion, a hatred almost, thatmakes one sister draw apart, or one brother reject the other as thoughthey seek to get away from the sameness, the likeness, the knowledge, thethings they have in common. And that can lead to very strange results.’
‘I know,’ said Poirot. ‘I have heard of it. I have seen it once or twice.
Love can turn to hate very easily. It is easier to hate where you have lovedthan it is to be indifferent where you have loved.’
‘Ah, you know that,’ said Mademoiselle Meauhourat. ‘Yes, I have seen itnot once but several times. Lady Ravenscroft’s sister was very like her?’
‘I think she was still very like her in appearance, though, if I may say so,the expression on her face was very different. She was in a condition ofstrain as Lady Ravenscroft was not. She had a great aversion to children. Idon’t know why. Perhaps she had had a miscarriage in early life. Perhapsshe had longed for a child and never had one, but she had a kind of resent-ment against children. A dislike of them.’
‘That had led to one or two rather serious happenings, had it not?’ saidPoirot.
‘Someone has told you that?’
‘I have heard things from people who knew both sisters when they werein Malaya. Lady Ravenscroft was there with her husband and her sister,Dolly, came out to stay with them there. There was an accident to a childthere, and it was thought that Dolly might have been partially responsiblefor it. Nothing was proved definitely, but I gather that Molly’s husbandtook his sister-in-law home to England and she had once more to go into amental home.’
‘Yes, I believe that is a very good account of what happened. I do not ofcourse know it of my own knowledge.’
‘No, but there are things you do know, I think, from your own know-ledge.’
‘If so, I see no reason for bringing them back to mind now. Is it not bet-ter to leave things when at least they have been accepted?’
‘There are other things that could have happened that day at Overcliffe.
It may have been a double suicide, it could have been a murder, it couldhavebeen several other things. You were told what had happened, but Ithink from one little sentence you just said, that you know what happenedthat day and I think you know what happened perhaps – or began to hap-pen, shall we say? – some time before that. The time when Celia had goneto Switzerland and you were still at Overcliffe. I will ask you one question.
I would like to know what your answer would be to it. It is not a thing ofdirect information, it is a question of what you believe. What were thefeelings of General Ravenscroft towards those two sisters, the twin sis-ters?’
‘I know what you mean.’
For the first time her manner changed slightly. She was no longer onher guard, she leaned forward now and spoke to Poirot almost as thoughshe definitely found a relief in doing so.
‘They were both beautiful,’ she said, ‘as girls. I heard that from manypeople. General Ravenscroft fell in love with Dolly, the mentally afflictedsister. Although she had a disturbed personality she was exceedingly at-tractive – sexually attractive. He loved her very dearly, and then I don’tknow whether he discovered in her some characteristic, something per-haps that alarmed him or in which he found a repulsion of some kind. Hesaw perhaps the beginnings of insanity in her, the dangers connected withher. His affections went to her sister. He fell in love with the sister andmarried her.’
‘He loved them both, you mean. Not at the same time but in each casethere was a genuine fact of love.’
‘Oh, yes, he was devoted to Molly, relied on her and she on him. He wasa very lovable man.’
‘Forgive me,’ said Poirot, ‘you too were in love with him, I think.’
‘You – you dare say that to me?’
‘Yes. I dare say it to you. I am not suggesting that you and he had a love-affair, nothing of that kind. I’m only saying that you loved him.’
‘Yes,’ said Zélie Meauhourat. ‘I loved him. In a sense, I still love him.
There’s nothing to be ashamed of. He trusted me and relied on me, but hewas never in love with me. You can love and serve and still be happy. Iwanted no more than I had. Trust, sympathy, belief in me –’
‘And you did,’ said Poirot, ‘what you could to help him in a terrible crisisin his life. There are things you do not wish to tell me. There are thingsthat I will say to you, things that I have gathered from various informationthat has come to me, that I know something about. Before I have come tosee you I have heard from others, from people who have known not onlyLady Ravenscroft, not only Molly, but who have known Dolly. And I knowsomething of Dolly, the tragedy of her life, the sorrow, the unhappinessand also the hatred, the streak perhaps of evil, the love of destruction thatcan be handed down in families. If she loved the man she was engaged toshe must have, when he married her sister, felt hatred perhaps towardsthat sister. Perhaps she never quite forgave her. But what of MollyRavenscroft? Did she dislike her sister? Did she hate her?’
‘Oh no,’ said Zélie Meauhourat, ‘she loved her sister. She loved her witha very deep and protective love. That I do know. It was she who alwaysasked that her sister should come and make her home with her. Shewanted to save her sister from unhappiness, from danger too, because hersister would often relapse into fits of rather dangerous rages. She wasfrightened sometimes. Well, you know enough. You have already said thatthere was a strange dislike of children from which Dolly suffered.’
‘You mean that she disliked Celia?’
‘No, no, not Celia. The other one, Edward. The younger one. Twice Ed-ward had dangers of an accident. Once, some kind of tinkering with a carand once some outburst of violent annoyance. I know Molly was gladwhen Edward went back to school. He was very young, remember, muchyounger than Celia. He was only eight or nine, at preparatory school. Hewas vulnerable. Molly was frightened about him.’
‘Yes,’ said Poirot, ‘I can understand that. Now, if I may I will talk of wigs.
Wigs. The wearing of wigs. Four wigs. That is a lot for one woman to pos-sess at one time. I know what they were like, what they looked like. Iknow that when more were needed, a French lady went to the shop inLondon and spoke about them and ordered them. There was a dog, too. Adog who went for a walk on the day of the tragedy with GeneralRavenscroft and his wife. Earlier that dog, some little time earlier, had bit-ten his mistress, Molly Ravenscroft.’
‘Dogs are like that,’ said Zélie Meauhourat. ‘They are never quite to betrusted. Yes, I know that.’
‘And I will tell you what I think happened on that day, and whathappened before that. Some little time before that.’
‘And if I will not listen to you?’
‘You will listen to me. You may say that what I have imagined is false.
Yes, you might even do that, but I do not think you will. I am telling you,and I believe it with all my heart, that what is needed here is the truth. Itis not just imagining, it is not just wondering. There is a girl and a boy whocare for each other and who are frightened of the future because of whatmay have happened and what there might be handed down from thefather or the mother to the child. I am thinking of the girl, Celia. A rebelli-ous girl, spirited, difficult perhaps to manage but with brains, a goodmind, capable of happiness, capable of courage but needing – there arepeople who need – truth. Because they can face truth without dismay.
They can face it with that brave acceptance you have to have in life if lifeis to be any good to you. And the boy that she loves, he wants that for hertoo. Will you listen to me?’
‘Yes,’ said Zélie Meauhourat, ‘I am listening. You understand a greatdeal, I think, and I think you know more than I could have imagined youwould know. Speak and I will listen.’
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