大象的证词20

Chapter 20

Court of Enquiry

Once more Hercule Poirot stood on the cliff overlooking the rocks belowand the sea breaking against them. Here where he stood the bodies of ahusband and wife had been found. Here, three weeks before that a wo-man had walked in her sleep and fallen to her death.

‘Why had these things happened?’ That had been Superintendent Garro-way’s question.

Why? What had led to it?

An accident first – and three weeks later a double suicide. Old sins thathad left long shadows. A beginning that had led years later to a tragic end.

Today there would be people meeting here. A boy and a girl who soughtthe Truth. Two people who knew the truth.

Hercule Poirot turned away from the sea and back along the narrowpath that led to a house once called Overcliffe.

It was not very far. He saw cars parked against a wall. He saw the out-line of a house against the sky. A house that was clearly empty – thatneeded repainting. A house agent’s board hung there – announcing that‘this desirable property’ was for sale. On the gate the word Overcliffe hada line drawn over it and the name Down House replaced it. He went tomeet two people who were walking towards him. One was Desmond Bur-ton-Cox and the other was Celia Ravenscroft.

‘I got an order from the house agent,’ said Desmond, ‘saying we wantedto view it or however they put it. I’ve got the key in case we want to go in-side. It’s changed hands twice in the last five years. But there wouldn’t beanything to see there now, would there?’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Celia. ‘After all, it’s belonged to lots of peoplealready. Some people called Archer who first bought it, and then some-body called Fallowfield, I think. They said it was too lonely. And now theselast people are selling it too. Perhaps they were haunted.’

‘Do you really believe in haunted houses?’ said Desmond.

‘Well now, of course I don’t think so really,’ said Celia, ‘but this might be,mightn’t it? I mean, the sort of things that happened, the sort of place it isand everything …’

‘I do not think so,’ said Poirot. ‘There was sorrow here and Death, butthere was also Love.’

A taxi came along the road.

‘I expect that’s Mrs Oliver,’ said Celia. ‘She said she’d come by train andtake a taxi from the station.’

Two women got out of the taxi. One was Mrs Oliver and with her was atall, elegantly dressed woman. Since Poirot knew she was coming he wasnot taken by surprise. He watched Celia to see if she had any reactions.

‘Oh!’ Celia sprang forward.

She went towards the woman and her face had lit up.

‘Zélie!’ she said, ‘it is Zélie? It is really Zélie! Oh, I am so pleased. I didn’tknow you were coming.’

‘Monsieur Hercule Poirot asked me to come.’

‘I see,’ said Celia. ‘Yes, yes, I suppose I see. But I – I didn’t –’ she stopped.

She turned her head and looked at the handsome boy standing beside her.

‘Desmond, was it – was it you?’

‘Yes. I wrote to Mademoiselle Meauhourat – to Zélie, if I may still call herthat.’

‘You can always call me that, both of you,’ said Zélie. ‘I was not sure Iwanted to come, I did not know if I was wise to come. That I still do notknow, but I hope so.’

‘I want to know,’ said Celia. ‘We both want to know. Desmond thoughtyou could tell us something.’

‘Monsieur Poirot came to see me,’ said Zélie. ‘He persuaded me to cometoday.’

Celia linked her arm in Mrs Oliver’s. ‘I wanted you to come too becauseyou put this in hand, didn’t you? You got Monsieur Poirot and you foundout some things yourself, didn’t you?’

‘People told me things,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘people whom I thought mightremember things. Some of them did remember things. Some of them re-membered them right and some of them remembered them wrong. Thatwas confusing. Monsieur Poirot says that that does not really matter.’

‘No,’ said Poirot, ‘it is just as important to know what is hearsay andwhat is certain knowledge. Because from one you can learn facts even ifthey are not quite the right facts or had not got the explanation that youthink they had. With the knowledge that you got from me, madame, fromthe people whom you designated elephants –’ he smiled a little.

‘Elephants?!’ said Mademoiselle Zélie.

‘It is what she called them,’ said Poirot.

‘Elephants can remember,’ explained Mrs Oliver. ‘That was the idea Istarted on. And people can remember things that happened a long timeago just like elephants can. Not all people, of course, but they can usuallyremember something. There were a lot of people who did. I turned a lot ofthe things I heard over to Monsieur Poirot and he – he has made a sort of –oh, if he was a doctor I should call it a sort of diagnosis, I suppose.’

‘I made a list,’ said Poirot. ‘A list of things that seemed to be pointers tothe truth of what happened all those years ago. I shall read the variousitems to you to see perhaps if you who were concerned in all this, feel thatthey have any significance. You may not see their significance or you maysee it plainly.’

‘One wants to know,’ said Celia. ‘Was it suicide, or was it murder? Didsomebody – some outside person – kill both my father and my mother,shoot them for some reason we don’t know about, some motive? I shall al-ways think there was something of that kind or something else. It’s diffi-cult, but –’

‘We will stay here, I think,’ said Poirot. ‘We will not go into the house asyet. Other people have lived in it and it has a different atmosphere. Wewill perhaps go in if we wish when we have finished our court of enquiryhere.’

‘It’s a court of enquiry, is it?’ said Desmond.

‘Yes. A court of enquiry into what happened.’

He moved towards some iron seats which stood near the shelter of alarge magnolia near the house. Poirot took from the case he carried asheet of paper with writing on it. He said to Celia:

‘To you, it has got to be that way? A definite choice. Suicide or murder.’

‘One of them must be true,’ said Celia.

‘I shall say to you that both are true, and more than those two. Accord-ing to my ideas, we have here not only a murder and also a suicide, but wehave as well what I shall call an execution, and we have a tragedy also. Atragedy of two people who loved each other and who died for love. Atragedy of love may not always belong to Romeo and Juliet, it is not neces-sarily only the young who suffer the pains of love and are ready to die forlove. No. There is more to it than that.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Celia.

‘Not yet.’

‘Shall I understand?’ said Celia.

‘I think so,’ said Poirot. ‘I will tell you what I think happened and I willtell you how I came to think so. The first thing that struck me was thethings that were not explained by the evidence that the police examined.

Some things were very commonplace, were not evidence at all, you’dthink. Among the possessions of the dead Margaret Ravenscroft, were fourwigs.’ He repeated with emphasis. ‘Four wigs.’ He looked at Zélie.

‘She did not use a wig all the time,’ said Zélie. ‘Only occasionally. If shetravelled or if she’d been out and got very dishevelled and wanted to tidyherself in a hurry, or sometimes she’d use one that was suitable for even-ing wear.’

‘Yes,’ said Poirot, ‘it was quite the fashion at that particular date. Peoplecertainly when they travelled abroad usually had a wig or two wigs. But inher possession were four wigs. Four wigs seemed to me rather a lot. Iwondered why she needed four. According to the police whom I asked, itwas not that she had any tendency to baldness, she had the ordinary haira woman of her age would have and in good condition. All the same, Iwondered about those. One of the wigs had a grey streak in it, I learntlater. It was her hairdresser who told me that. And one of the wigs hadlittle curls. It was the latter wig she was wearing the day she died.’

‘Is that significant in any way?’ asked Celia. ‘She might have been wear-ing any of them.’

‘She might. I also learnt the housekeeper told the police that she hadbeen wearing that particular wig almost all the time for the last few weeksbefore she died. It appeared to be her favourite one.’

‘I can’t see –’

‘There was also a saying that Superintendent Garroway quoted to me –“Same man, different hat”. It gave me furiously to think.’

Celia repeated, ‘I don’t see –’

Poirot said, ‘There was also the evidence of the dog –’

‘The dog – what did the dog do?’

‘The dog bit her. The dog was said to be devoted to its mistress – but inthe last few weeks of her life, the dog turned on her more than once andbit her quite severely.’

‘Do you mean it knew she was going to commit suicide?’ Desmondstared.

‘No, something much simpler than that –’

‘I don’t –’

Poirot went on – ‘No, it knew what no one else seemed to know. It knewshe was not its mistress. She looked like its mistress – the housekeeperwho was slightly blind and also deaf saw a woman who wore MollyRavenscroft’s clothes and the most recognizable of Molly Ravenscroft’swigs – the one with little curls all over the head. The housekeeper saidonly that her mistress had been rather different in her manner the lastfew weeks of her life – “Same man, different hat,” had been Garroway’sphrase. And the thought – the conviction – came to me then. Same wig –different woman. The dog knew – he knew by what his nose told him. Adifferent woman, not the woman he loved – a woman whom he dislikedand feared. And I thought, suppose that woman was not Molly Ravenscroft– but who could she be? Could she be Dolly – the twin sister?’

‘But that’s impossible,’ said Celia.

‘No – it was not impossible. After all, remember, they were twins. I mustcome now to the things that were brought to my notice by Mrs Oliver. Thethings people told her or suggested to her. The knowledge that LadyRavenscroft had suggested to her. The knowledge that Lady Ravenscrofthad recently been in hospital or in a nursing home and that she perhapshad known that she suffered from cancer, or thought that she did. Medicalevidence was against that, however. She still might have thought she did,but it was not the case. Then I learnt little by little the early history of herand her twin sister, who loved each other very devotedly as twins do, dideverything alike, wore clothes alike, the same things seemed to happen tothem, they had illnesses at the same time, they married about the sametime or not very far removed in time. And eventually, as many twins do,instead of wanting to do everything in the same fashion and the sameway, they wanted to do the opposite. To be as unlike each other as theycould. And even between them grew a certain amount of dislike. Morethan that. There was a reason in the past for that. Alistair Ravenscroft as ayoung man fell in love with Dorothea Preston-Grey, the elder twin of thetwo. But his affection shifted to the other sister, Margaret, whom he mar-ried. There was jealousy then, no doubt, which led to an estrangementbetween the sisters. Margaret continued to be deeply attached to her twin,but Dorothea no longer was devoted in any way to Margaret. That seemedto me to be the explanation of a great many things. Dorothea was a tragicfigure. By no fault of her own but by some accident of genes, of birth, ofhereditary characteristics, she was always mentally unstable. At quite anearly age she had, for some reason which has never been made clear, adislike of children. There is every reason to believe that a child came to itsdeath through her action. The evidence was not definite, but it was defin-ite enough for a doctor to advise that she should have mental treatment,and she was for some years treated in a mental home. When reportedcured by doctors, she resumed normal life, came often to stay with her sis-ter and went out to Malaya at a time when they were stationed out there,to join them there. And there, again, an accident happened. A child of aneighbour. And again, although perhaps there was no very definite proof,it seems again Dorothea might have been responsible for it. GeneralRavenscroft took her home to England and she was placed once more inmedical care. Once again she appeared to be cured, and after psychiatriccare it was again said that she could go once more and resume a normallife. Margaret believed this time that all would be well, and thought thatshe ought to live with them so that they could watch closely for any signsof any further mental disability. I don’t think that General Ravenscroft ap-proved. I think he had a very strong belief that just as someone can beborn deformed, spastic or crippled in some way, she had a deformity ofthe brain which would recur from time to time and that she would have tobe constantly watched and saved from herself in case some other tragedyhappened.’

‘Are you saying,’ asked Desmond, ‘that it was she who shot both theRavenscrofts?’

‘No,’ said Poirot, ‘that is not my solution. I think what happened was thatDorothea killed her sister, Margaret. They walked together on the cliff oneday and Dorothea pushed Margaret over. The dormant obsession ofhatred and resentment of the sister who, though so like herself, was saneand healthy, was too much for her. Hate, jealousy, the desire to kill all roseto the surface and dominated her. I think that there was one outsider whoknew, who was here at the time that this happened. I think you knew, Ma-demoiselle Zélie.’

‘Yes,’ said Zélie Meauhourat, ‘I knew. I was here at the time. TheRavenscrofts had been worried about her. That is when they saw her at-tempt to injure their small son, Edward. Edward was sent back to schooland I and Celia went to my pensionnat. I came back here – after seeingCelia settled in. Once the house was empty except for myself, GeneralRavenscroft and Dorothea and Margaret, nobody had any anxiety. Andthen one day it happened. The two sisters went out together. Dolly re-turned alone. She seemed in a very queer and nervous state. She came inand sat down at the tea-table. It was then General Ravenscroft noticed thather right hand was covered with blood. He asked her if she had had a fall.

She said, “Oh no, it was nothing. Nothing at all. I got scratched by a rose-bush.” But there were no rose-bushes on the downs. It was a purely fool-ish remark and we were worried. If she had said a gorse bush, we mighthave accepted the remark. General Ravenscroft went out and I went afterhim. He kept saying as he walked, “Something has happened to Margaret.

I’m sure something has happened to Molly.” We found her on a ledge alittle way down the cliff. She had been battered with a rock and stones.

She was not dead but she had bled heavily. For a moment we hardly knewwhat we could do. We dared not move her. We must get a doctor, we felt,at once, but before we could do that she clung to her husband. She said,gasping for breath, “Yes, it was Dolly. She didn’t know what she was do-ing. She didn’t know, Alistair. You mustn’t let her suffer for it. She’s neverknown the things she does or why. She can’t help it. She’s never been ableto help it. You must promise me, Alistair. I think I’m dying now. No – no,we won’t have time to get a doctor and a doctor couldn’t do anything. I’vebeen lying here bleeding to death – and I’m very close to death. I knowthat, but promise me. Promise me you’ll save her. Promise me you won’tlet the police arrest her. Promise me that she’ll not be tried for killing me,not shut up for life as a criminal. Hide me somewhere so that my bodywon’t be found. Please, please, it’s the last thing I ask you. You whom Ilove more than anything in the world. If I could live for you I would, butI’m not going to live. I can feel that. I crawled a little way but that was all Icould do. Promise me. And you, Zélie, you love me too. I know. You’veloved me and been good to me and looked after me always. And you lovedthe children, so you must save Dolly. You must save poor Dolly. Please,please. For all the love we have for each other, Dolly must be saved.”’

‘And then,’ said Poirot. ‘What did you do? It seems to me that you mustin some way between you –’

‘Yes. She died, you know. She died within about ten minutes of those lastwords, and I helped him. I helped him to hide her body. It was a place alittle further along the cliff. We carried her there and there were rocksand boulders and stones, and we covered her body as best we could.

There was no path to it really, or no way. You had to scramble. We put herthere. All Alistair said again and again was – “I promised her. I must keepmy word. I don’t know how to do it, I don’t know howanyone can saveher. I don’t know. But –” Well, we did do it. Dolly was in the house. Shewas frightened, desperate with fright – but at the same time she showed ahorrible kind of satisfaction. She said, “I always knew, I’ve known foryears that Molly was really evil. She took you away from me, Alistair. Youbelonged to me – but she took you away from me and made you marry herand I always knew. Now I’m frightened. What’ll they do to me – what’llthey say? I can’t be shut up again. I can’t, I can’t. I shall go mad. You won’tlet me be shut up. They’ll take me away and they’ll say I’m guilty ofmurder. It wasn’t murder. I just had to do it. Sometimes I do have to dothings. I wanted to see the blood, you know. I couldn’t wait to see Mollydie, though. I ran away. But I knew she would die. I just hoped youwouldn’t find her. She just fell over the cliff. People would say it was anaccident.”’

‘It’s a horrible story,’ said Desmond. ‘Yes,’ said Celia, ‘it’s a horriblestory, but it’s better to know. It’s better to know, isn’t it? I can’t even feelsorry for her. I mean for my mother. I know she was sweet. I know therewas never any trace of evil in her – she was good all through – and I know,I can understand, why my father didn’t want to marry Dolly. He wanted tomarry my mother because he loved her and he had found out by then thatthere was something wrong with Dolly. Something bad and twisted. Buthow – how did you do it all?’

‘We told a good many lies,’ said Zélie. ‘We hoped the body would not befound so that later perhaps it might be removed in the night or somethinglike that to somewhere where it could look as though she’d fallen downinto the sea. But then we thought of the sleep-walking story. What we hadto do was really quite simple. Alistair said, “It’s frightening, you know. ButI promised – I swore to Molly when she was dying. I swore I’d do as sheasked – there’s a way, a possible way to save Dolly, if only Dolly can do herpart. I don’t know if she’s capable of it.” I said, “Do what?” And Alistairsaid, “Pretend she’s Molly and that it’s Dorothea who walked in her sleepand fell to her death.”

‘We managed it. Took Dolly to an empty cottage we knew of and I stayedwith her there for some days. Alistair said Molly had been taken to hos-pital suffering from shock after the discovery that her sister had fallenover the cliff whilst walking in her sleep at night. Then we brought Dollyback – brought her back as Molly – wearing Molly’s clothes and Molly’swig. I got extra wigs – the kind with the curls which really did disguiseher. The dear old housekeeper, Janet, couldn’t see very well. Dolly andMolly were really very much alike, you know, and their voices were alike.

Everyone accepted quite easily that it was Molly, behaving rather peculi-arly now and then because of still suffering from shock. It all seemed quitenatural. That was the horrible part of it –’

‘But how could she keep it up?’ asked Celia. ‘It must have been dread-fully difficult.’

‘No – she did not find it difficult – she had got, you see, what she wanted– what she had always wanted. She had got Alistair –’

‘But Alistair – how could he bear it?’

‘He told me why and how – on the day he had arranged for me to goback to Switzerland. He told me what I had to do and then he told mewhat he was going to do.

‘He said: “There is only one thing for me to do. I promised Margaret thatI wouldn’t hand Dolly over to the police, that it should never be knownthat she was a murderess, that the children were never to know that theyhad a murderess for an aunt. No one need ever know that Dolly commit-ted murder. She walked in her sleep and fell over the cliff – a sad accidentand she will be buried here in the church, and under her own name.”

‘ “How can you let that be done?” I asked – I couldn’t bear it.

‘He said: “Because of what I am going to do – you have got to knowabout it.”

‘ “You see,” he said, “Dolly has to be stopped from living. If she’s nearchildren she’ll take more lives – poor soul; she’s not fit to live. But youmust understand, Zélie, that because of what I am going to do, I must paywith my own life, too – I shall live here quietly for a few weeks with Dollyplaying the part of my wife – and then there will be another tragedy –”

‘I didn’t understand what he meant – I said, “Another accident? Sleep-walking again?” And he said, “No – what will be known to the world is thatI and Molly have both committed suicide – I don’t suppose the reason willever be known. They may think it’s because she was convinced she hadcancer – or that I thought so – all sorts of things may be suggested. But yousee – you must help me, Zélie. You are the only person who really loves meand loves Molly and loves the children. If Dolly has got to die, I am theonly person who must do it. She won’t be unhappy or frightened. I shallshoot her and then myself. Her fingerprints will show on the revolver be-cause she handled it not long ago, and mine will be there too. Justice hasto be done and I have to be the executioner. The thing I want you to knowis that I did – that I still do – love them both. Molly more than my life.

Dolly because I pity her so much for what she was born to be.” He said,“Always remember that –”’

Zélie rose and came towards Celia. ‘Now you know the truth,’ she said. ‘Ipromised your father that you should never know – I have broken myword. I never meant to reveal it to you or to anyone else. Monsieur Poirotmade me feel differently. But – it’s such a horrible story –’

‘I understand how you felt,’ said Celia. ‘Perhaps you were right fromyour point of view, but I – I am glad to know because now a great burdenseems to have been lifted off me –’

‘Because now,’ said Desmond, ‘we both know. And it’s something we’llnever mind about knowing. It was a tragedy. As Monsieur Poirot here hassaid, it was a real tragedy of two people who loved each other. But theydidn’t kill each other, because they loved each other. One was murderedand the other executed a murderer for the sake of humanity so that morechildren shouldn’t suffer. One can forgive him if he was wrong, but I don’tthink it was wrong really.’

‘She was a frightening woman always,’ said Celia. ‘Even when I was achild I was frightened of her but I didn’t know why. But I do know whynow. I think my father was a brave man to do what he did. He did whatmy mother asked him to do , begged him to dowith her dying breath. Hesaved her twin sister whom I think she’d always loved very dearly. I liketo think – oh, it seems a silly thing for me to say –’ she looked doubtfully atHercule Poirot. ‘Perhaps you won’t think so. I expect you’re a Catholic, butit’s what’s written on their tombstone. “In death they were not divided.” Itdoesn’t mean that they died together, but I think they are together. I thinkthey came together afterwards. Two people who loved each other verymuch, and my poor aunt whom I’ll try to feel more kindly about than Iever did – my poor aunt didn’t have to suffer for what she couldn’t per-haps help herself doing. Mind you,’ said Celia, suddenly breaking into herordinary everyday voice, ‘she wasn’t a nice person. You can’t help not lik-ing people if they’re not nice people. Perhaps she could have been differ-ent if she tried, but perhaps she couldn’t. And if so, one has to think of heras someone who was very ill – like somebody, for instance, who hadplague in a village and they wouldn’t let her go out or feed her and shecouldn’t go amongst other people because the whole village would havedied. Something like that. But I’ll try and be sorry for her. And my motherand father – I don’t worry about them any more. They loved each other somuch, and loved poor, unhappy, hating Dolly.’

‘I think, Celia,’ said Desmond, ‘we’d better get married now as soon aspossible. I can tell you one thing. My mother is never going to hear any-thing about this. She’s not my own mother and she’s nota person I cantrust with this sort of secret.’

‘Your adopted mother, Desmond,’ said Poirot, ‘I have good reason to be-lieve was anxious to come between you and Celia and tried to influenceyou in the idea that from her mother and father she might have inheritedsome terrible characteristic. But you know, or you may not know and I seeno reason why I should not tell you, you will inherit from the woman whowas your real mother and who died not very long ago leaving all hermoney to you – you will inherit a very large sum when you reach the ageof twenty-five.’

‘If I marry Celia, of course we shall need the money to live on,’ said Des-mond. ‘I quite understand. I know my present adopted mother is verykeen on money and I often lend her money even now. She suggested myseeing a lawyer the other day because she said it was very dangerous nowthat I was over twenty-one, not leaving a Will behind me. I suppose shethought she’d get the money. I had thought of probably leaving nearly allthe money to her. But of course now Celia and I are getting married I shallleave it to Celia – and I didn’t like the way my mother tried to put meagainst Celia.’

‘I think your suspicions are entirely correct,’ said Poirot. ‘I dare say shecould tell herself that she meant it all for the best, that Celia’s origin issomething that you ought to know if there is a risk for you to take, but –’

‘All right,’ said Desmond, ‘but – I know I’m being unkind. After all, sheadopted me and brought me up and all the rest of it and I dare say ifthere’s enough money I can settle some of it on her. Celia and I will havethe rest and we’re going to be happy together. After all, there are thingsthat’ll make us feel sad from time to time but we shan’t worry any more,shall we, Celia?’

‘No,’ said Celia, ‘we’ll never worry again. I think they were rather splen-did people, my mother and father. Mother tried to look after her sister allher life, but I suppose it was a bit too hopeless. You can’t stop people frombeing like they are.’

‘Ah, dear children,’ said Zélie. ‘Forgive me for calling you children be-cause you are not. You are a grown man and woman. I know that. I am sopleased to have seen you again and to know I have not done any harm inwhat I did.’

‘You haven’t done any harm at all and it’s lovely seeing you, dear Zélie.’

Celia went to her and hugged her. ‘I’ve always been terribly fond of you,’

she said.

‘And I was very fond of you too when I knew you,’ said Desmond. ‘WhenI lived next door. You had lovely games you played with us.’

The two young people turned. ‘Thank you, Mrs Oliver,’ said Desmond.

‘You’ve been very kind and you’ve put in a lot of work. I can see that.

Thank you, Monsieur Poirot.’

‘Yes, thank you,’ said Celia. ‘I’m very grateful.

’They walked away and the others looked after them.

‘Well,’ said Zélie, ‘I must leave now.’ She said to Poirot, ‘What about you?

Will you have to tell anyone about this?’

‘There is one person I might tell in confidence. A retired police force of-ficer. He is no longer actively in the Service now. He is completely retired.

I think he would not feel it is his duty to interfere with what time has nowwiped out. If he was still in active service it might be different.’

‘It’s a terrible story,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘terrible. And all those people Italked to – yes, I can see now, they all remembered something. Somethingthat was useful in showing us what the truth was, although it was difficultto put together. Except for Monsieur Poirot, who can always put things to-gether out of the most extraordinary things. Like wigs and twins.’

Poirot walked across to where Zélie was standing looking out over theview.

‘You do not blame me,’ he said, ‘for coming to you, persuading you to dowhat you have done?’

‘No. I am glad. You have been right. They are very charming, those two,and they are well suited, I think. They will be happy. We are standing herewhere two lovers once lived. Where two lovers died and I don’t blame himfor what he did. It may have been wrong, I suppose it was wrong, but Ican’t blame him. I think it was a brave act even if it was a wrong one.’

‘You loved him too, did you not?’ said Hercule Poirot.

‘Yes. Always. As soon as I came to the house. I loved him dearly. I don’tthink he knew it. There was never anything, what you call, between us. Hetrusted me and was fond of me. I loved them both. Both him and Mar-garet.’

‘There is something I would like to ask you. He loved Dolly as well asMolly, didn’t he?’

‘Right up to the end. He loved them both. And that’s why he was willingto save Dolly. Why Molly wanted him to. Which did he love the best ofthose sisters? I wonder. That is a thing I shall perhaps never know,’ saidZélie. ‘I never did – perhaps I never shall.’

Poirot looked at her for a moment, then turned away. He rejoined MrsOliver.

‘We will drive back to London. We must return to everyday life, forgettragedies and love-affairs.’

‘Elephants can remember,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘but we are human beingsand mercifully human beings can forget.’

 

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