Chapter 13

Mrs Burton-Cox

‘Well,’ said Mrs Oliver as she returned into the room after seeing Celia tothe door. ‘What do you think of her?’

‘She is a personality,’ said Poirot, ‘an interesting girl. Definitely, if I mayput it so, she is somebody, not anybody.’

‘Yes, that’s true enough,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I would like you to tell mesomething.’

‘About her? I don’t really know her very well. One doesn’t really, withgodchildren. I mean, you only see them, as it were, at stated intervalsrather far apart.’

‘I didn’t mean her. Tell me about her mother.’

‘Oh. I see.’

‘You knew her mother?’

‘Yes. We were in a sort of pensionnat in Paris together. People used tosend girls to Paris then to be finished,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘That sounds morelike an introduction to a cemetery than an introduction into Society. Whatdo you want to know about her?’

‘You remember her? You remember what she was like?’

‘Yes. As I tell you, one doesn’t entirely forget things or people becausethey’re in the past.’

‘What impression did she make on you?’

‘She was beautiful,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I do remember that. Not when shewas about thirteen or fourteen. She had a lot of puppy fat then. I think weall did,’ she added, thoughtfully.

‘Was she a personality?’

‘It’s difficult to remember because, you see, she wasn’t my only friend ormy greatest friend. I mean, there were several of us together – a littlepack, as you might say. People with tastes more or less the same. We werekeen on tennis and we were keen on being taken to the opera and wewere bored to death being taken to the picture galleries. I really can onlygive you a general idea.

‘Molly Preston-Grey. That was her name.’

‘You both had boyfriends?’

‘We had one or two passions, I think. Not for pop singers, of course.

They hadn’t happened yet. Actors usually. There was one rather famousvariety actor. A girl – one of the girls – had him pinned up over her bedand Mademoiselle Girand, the French mistress, on no account allowedthat actor to be pinned up there. “Ce n’est pas convenable,” she said. Thegirl didn’t tell her that he was her father! We laughed,’ added Mrs Oliver.

‘Yes, we laughed a good deal.’

‘Well, tell me more about Molly or Margaret Preston-Grey. Does this girlremind you of her?’

‘No, I don’t think she does. No. They are not alike. I think Molly wasmore – 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, butno, I think she was in some entirely different place in England. I’m notsure. I have a feeling that the twin sister Dolly, whom I had met once ortwice very occasionally and who of course at that time looked exactly likeMolly – I mean they hadn’t started trying to look different, have differenthair-dos and all that, as twins do usually when they grow up. I think Mollywas devoted to her sister Dolly, but she didn’t talk about her very much. Ihave a feeling – nowadays, I mean, I didn’t have it then – that there mighthave been something a bit wrong perhaps with the sister even then. Onceor twice, I remember, there were mentions of her having been ill or goneaway for a course of treatment somewhere. Something like that. I remem-ber 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 feelingthat Molly was devoted to her and would have liked to have protected herin some way. Does that seem nonsense to you?’

‘Not at all,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘There were other times, I think, whenshe didn’t want to talk about her. She talked about her mother and herfather. She was fond of them, I think, in the ordinary sort of way. Hermother 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? No boyfriends?’

‘We didn’t have so many boyfriends then,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘It’s not likenowadays when it’s a matter of course. Later, when we were both backagain at home we more or less drifted apart. I think Molly went abroadsomewhere 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 inthe Diplomatic Service. They were in Sweden at one time, and after thatsomewhere like Bermuda or the West Indies. I think he was a Governor orsomething there. But those sort of things one doesn’t really remember.

Molly was very keen on the music master, which was very satisfying to usboth and I should think much less troublesome than boyfriends seem tobe nowadays. I mean, you adored – longed for the day when they cameagain 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 splendidkind of daydream in which I nursed my beloved Monsieur Adolphe whenhe 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 onI thought I’d be a hospital nurse. Well, I suppose we shall have Mrs Bur-ton-Cox 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. Anelephant investigation for you, shall we say? And an understudy for anelephant for me.’

‘What an extraordinary thing to say,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I told you I wasdone with elephants.’

‘Ah,’ said Poirot, ‘but elephants perhaps have not done with you.’

The front doorbell sounded once again. Poirot and Mrs Oliver looked ateach other.

‘Well,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘here we go.’

She left the room once more. Poirot heard sounds of greeting going onoutside and in a moment or two Mrs Oliver returned, ushering the some-what massive figure of Mrs Burton-Cox.

‘What a delightful flat you have,’ said Mrs Burton-Cox. ‘So charming ofyou to have spared time – your very valuable time, I’m sure – you askedme to come and see you.’ Her eyes shot sideways to Hercule Poirot. A faintexpression of surprise passed over her face. For a moment her eyes wentfrom him to the baby grand piano that stood in one window. It occurred toMrs Oliver that Mrs Burton-Cox was thinking that Hercule Poirot was a pi-ano-tuner. She hastened to dispel this illusion.

‘I want to introduce you,’ she said, ‘to M. 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 someway. You know. What you were asking me about the other day concerningmy godchild, Celia Ravenscroft.’

‘Oh yes, how kind of you to remember. I do so hope you can give me alittle more knowledge of what really happened.’

‘I’m afraid I haven’t been very successful,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘and that isreally why I asked M. Poirot to meet you. He is a wonderful person, youknow, 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 sucha tragic thing to have happened.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mrs Burton-Cox. Her eyes were still somewhat doubt-ful. Mrs Oliver indicated chairs and remarked,‘Now what will you have? A glass of sherry? It’s too late for tea, ofcourse. 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 Siropde Cassis or one of his favourite fruit drinks. She got out glasses and a de-canter.

‘I have already indicated to Monsieur Poirot the outlines of the enquiryyou want to make.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs Burton-Cox.

She seemed rather doubtful and not so sure of herself as it would seemshe was in the natural habit of being.

‘These young people,’ she said to Poirot, ‘so difficult nowadays. Theseyoung people. My son, such a dear boy, we have great hopes of his doingwell in the future. And then there is this girl, a very charming girl, who, asprobably Mrs Oliver told you, is her goddaughter, and – well, of courseone never knows. I mean these friendships spring up and very often theydon’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 ofpeople. You know, what their families are like. Oh, of course I know Celia’sa very well-born girl and all that, but there was this tragedy. Mutual sui-cide, I believe, but nobody has been really able to enlighten me at all onwhat led to it or what led up to it, shall we say. I have no actual friendswho were friends in common with the Ravenscrofts and so it is very diffi-cult for me to have ideas. I know Celia is a charming girl and all that, butone would like to know, to know more.’

‘I understand from my friend, Mrs Oliver, that you wanted to knowsomething specifically. You wanted to know, in fact –’

‘What you said you wanted to know,’ said Mrs Oliver, chipping in withsome firmness, ‘was whether Celia’s father shot her mother and then him-self 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 itmakes 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 ledup to all this. In a marriage, you must admit, one has to think of the chil-dren. The children, I mean, that are to come. I mean heredity. I think nowwe realize that heredity does more than environment. It leads to certainformation of character and certain very grave risks that one might notwant to take.’

‘True,’ said Poirot. ‘The people who undertake the risks are the ones thathave to make the decision. Your son and this young lady, it will be theirchoice.’

‘Oh, I know, I know. Not mine. Parents are never allowed to choose, arethey, or even to give any advice. But I would like to know something aboutit, yes, I would like to know very much. If you feel that you could under-take any – investigation I suppose is the word you would use. But perhaps– perhaps I am being a very foolish mother. You know. Over- anxiousabout my dear son. Mothers are like that.’

She gave a little whinney of laughter, putting her head slightly on oneside.

‘Perhaps,’ she said, as she tipped up the sherry glass, ‘perhaps you willthink about it and I also will let you know. Perhaps the exact points andthings that I am worried about.’

She looked at her watch.

‘Oh dear. Oh dear, I’m late for another appointment. I shall have to go. Iam so sorry, dear Mrs Oliver, to have to run away so soon, but you knowwhat it is. I had great difficulties finding a taxi this afternoon. One afteranother just turned his head aside and drove straight past me. All very,very difficult, isn’t it? I think Mrs Oliver has your address, has she not?’

‘I will give you my address,’ said Poirot. He removed a card from hispocket and handed it to her.

‘Oh yes, yes. I see. Monsieur Hercule Poirot. You are French, is thatright?’

‘I am Belgian,’ said Poirot. ‘Oh yes, yes. Belgique. Yes, yes, I quite under-stand. I am so pleased to have met you and I feel so hopeful. Oh dear, Imust go very, very fast.’

Shaking Mrs Oliver warmly by the hand, then extending the same handto Poirot, she left the room and the door sounded in the hall.

‘Well, what do you think of that?’ said Mrs Oliver.

‘What do you?’ said Poirot.

‘She ran away,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘She ran away. You frightened her insome way.’

‘Yes,’ said Poirot, ‘I think you’ve judged quite right.’

‘She wanted me to get things out of Celia, she wanted me to get someknowledge out of Celia, some expression, some sort of secret she suspectedwas there, but she doesn’t want a real proper investigation, does she?’

‘I think not,’ said Poirot. ‘That is interesting. Very interesting. She iswell-to-do, you think?’

‘I should say so. Her clothes are expensive, she lives at an expensive ad-dress, she is – it’s difficult to make out. She’s a pushing woman and a bossywoman. She sits on a lot of committees. There’s nothing, I mean, suspi-cious about her. I’ve asked a few people. Nobody likes her very much. Butshe’s a sort of public-spirited woman who takes part in politics, all thosesort of things.’

‘Then what is wrong with her?’ said Poirot.

‘You think there is something wrong with her? Or do you just not likeher, like I do?’

‘I think there is something there that she does not want to come to light,’

said Poirot.

‘Oh. And are you going to find out what it is?’

‘Naturally, if I can,’ said Poirot. ‘It may not be easy. She is in retreat. Shewas in retreat when she left us here. She was afraid of what questions Iwas going to ask her. Yes. It is interesting.’ He sighed. ‘One will have to goback, you know, even farther than one thought.’

‘What, back into the past again?’

‘Yes. Somewhere in the past, in more cases than one, there is somethingthat one will have to know before we can come back again to whathappened – what is it now? – fifteen years ago, twenty years ago, at ahouse called Overcliffe. Yes. One will have to go back again.’

‘Well, that’s that,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘And now, what is there to do? Whatis this list of yours?’

‘I have heard a certain amount of information through police records onwhat was found in the house. You will remember that among the thingsthere were four wigs.’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘you said that four wigs were too many.’

‘It seemed to be a little excessive,’ said Poirot. ‘I have also got certainuseful addresses. The address of a doctor that might be helpful.’

‘The doctor? You mean, the family doctor?’

‘No, not the family doctor. The doctor who gave evidence at an inqueston a child who met with an accident. Either pushed by an older child orpossibly by someone else.’

‘You mean by the mother?’

‘Possibly the mother, possibly by someone else who was in the house atthe time. I know the part of England where that happened, and Superin-tendent Garroway has been able to trace him, through sources known tohim and also through journalistic friends of mine, who were interested inthis particular case.’

‘And you’re going to see – he must be a very old man by now.’

‘It is not him I shall go to see, it is his son. His son is also qualified as aspecialist in various forms of mental disorders. I have an introduction tohim and he might be able to tell me something interesting. There havealso been enquiries into a case of money.’

‘What do you mean by money?’

‘Well, there are certain things we have to find out. That is one of thethings in anything which might be a crime. Money. Who has money to loseby some happening, who has money to gain by something happening.

That, one has to find out.’

‘Well, they must have found out in the case of the Ravenscrofts.’

‘Yes, that was all quite natural, it seems. They had both made normalwills, leaving in each case, the money to the other partner. The wife lefther money to the husband and the husband left his money to his wife.

Neither of them benefited by what happened because they both died. Sothat the people who did profit, were the daughter, Celia, and a youngerchild, Edward, who I gather is now at a university abroad.’

‘Well, that won’t help. Neither of the children were there or could havehad anything to do with it.’

‘Oh no, that is quite true. One must go further – further back, furtherforward, further sideways to find out if there is some financial motivesomewhere that is – well, shall we say, significant.’

‘Well, don’t ask me to do that sort of thing,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘I’ve no realqualifications for that. I mean, that’s come up, I suppose, fairly reasonablein the – well, in the elephants that I’ve talked to.’

‘No. I think the best thing for you to do would be to, shall we say, take onthe subject of the wigs.’

‘Wigs?’

‘There had been a note made in the careful police report at the time ofthe suppliers of the wigs, who were a very expensive firm of hairdressersand wig- makers in London, in Bond Street. Later, that particular shopclosed and the business was transferred somewhere else. Two of the ori-ginal partners continued to run it and I understand it has now been givenup, but I have here an address of one of the principal fitters and hairdress-ers, and I thought perhaps that it would come more easily if enquirieswere made by a woman.’

‘Ah,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘me?’

‘Yes, you.’

‘All right. What do you want me to do?’

‘Pay a visit to Cheltenham to an address I shall give you and there youwill find a Madame Rosentelle. A woman no longer young but who was avery fashionable maker of ladies’ hair adornments of all kinds, and whowas married, I understand, to another in the same profession, ahairdresser who specialized in surmounting the problems of gentlemen’sbaldness. Toupees and other things.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘the jobs you do give me to do. Do you thinkthey’ll remember anything about it?’

‘Elephants remember,’ said Hercule Poirot.

‘Oh, and who are you going to ask questions of ? This doctor you talkedabout?’

‘For one, yes.’

‘And what do you think he’ll remember?’

‘Not very much,’ said Poirot, ‘but it seems to me possible that he mighthave heard about a certain accident. It must have been an interestingcase, you know. There must be records of the case history.’

‘You mean of the twin sister?’

‘Yes. There were two accidents as far as I can hear connected with her.

One when she was a young mother living in the country, at Hatters GreenI think the address was, and again later when she was in Malaya. Eachtime an accident which resulted in the death of a child. I might learnsomething about –’

‘You mean that as they were twin sisters, that Molly – my Molly I mean –might also have had mental disability of some kind? I don’t believe it for aminute. She wasn’t like that. She was affectionate, loving, very good-look-ing, emotional and – oh, she was a terribly nice person.’

‘Yes. Yes, so it would seem. And a very happy person on the whole,would you say?’

‘Yes. She was a happy person. A very happy person. Oh, I know I neversaw anything of her later in life, of course; she was living abroad. But it al-ways seemed to me on the very rare occasions when I got a letter or wentto see her that she was a happy person.’

‘And the twin sister you did not really know?’

‘No. Well, I think she was … well, quite frankly she was in an institutionof some kind, I think, on the rare occasions that I saw Molly. She wasn’t atMolly’s wedding, not as a bridesmaid even.’

‘That is odd in itself.’

‘I still don’t see what you’re going to find out from that.’

‘Just information,’ said Poirot.