Chapter 15

Eugene and Rosentelle, Hair Stylists and BeauticiansMrs Oliver looked at Cheltenham with approval. As it happened, she hadnever been to Cheltenham before. How nice, said Mrs Oliver to herself, tosee some houses that are really like houses, proper houses.

Casting her mind back to youthful days, she remembered that she hadknown people, or at least her relations, her aunts, had known people wholived at Cheltenham. Retired people usually. Army or Navy. It was the sortof place, she thought, where one would like to come and live if one hadspent a good deal of time abroad. It had a feeling of English security, goodtaste and pleasant chat and conversation.

After looking in one or two agreeable antique shops, she found her wayto where she wanted – or rather Hercule Poirot wanted her – to go. It wascalled The Rose Green Hairdressing Saloons. She walked inside it andlooked round. Four or five people were in process of having things done totheir hair. A plump young lady left her client and came forward with anenquiring air.

‘Mrs Rosentelle?’ said Mrs Oliver, glancing down at a card. ‘I understandshe said she could see me if I came here this morning. I don’t mean,’ sheadded, ‘having anything done to my hair, but I wanted to consult herabout something and I believe a telephone call was made and she said if Icame at half past eleven she could spare me a short time.’

‘Oh yes,’ said the girl. ‘I think Madam is expecting someone.’

She led the way through a passage down a short flight of steps andpushed a swing door at the bottom of it. From the hairdressing saloon theyhad passed into what was obviously Mrs Rosentelle’s house. The plumpgirl knocked at the door and said, ‘The lady to see you,’ as she put her nosein, and then asked rather nervously, ‘What name did you say?’

‘Mrs Oliver,’ said Mrs Oliver.

She walked in. It had a faint effect of what might have been yet anothershowroom. There were curtains of rose gauze and roses on the wallpaperand Mrs Rosentelle, a woman Mrs Oliver thought of as roughly her ownage or possibly a good many years older, was just finishing what was obvi-ously a cup of morning coffee.

‘Mrs Rosentelle?’ said Mrs Oliver.

‘Yes?’

‘You did expect me?’

‘Oh yes. I didn’t quite understand what it was all about. The lines are sobad on the telephone. That is quite all right, I have about half an hour tospare. Would you like some coffee?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I won’t keep you any longer than Ineed. It is just something that I want to ask you about, that you may hap-pen to remember. You have had quite a long career, I understand, in thehairdressing business.’

‘Oh yes. I’m quite thankful to give over to the girls now. I don’t do any-thing myself these days.’

‘Perhaps you still advise people?’

‘Yes, I do that.’ Mrs Rosentelle smiled.

She had a nice, intelligent face with well arranged, brown hair, withsomewhat interesting grey streaks in it here and there.

‘I’m not sure what it’s all about.’

‘Well, really I wanted to ask you a question about, well, I suppose in away about wigs generally.’

‘We don’t do as much in wigs now as we used to do.’

‘You had a business in London, didn’t you?’

‘Yes. First in Bond Street and then we moved to Sloane Street but it’svery nice to live in the country after all that, you know. Oh yes, my hus-band and I are very satisfied here. We run a small business but we don’tdo much in the wig line nowadays,’ she said, ‘though my husband does ad-vise and get wigs designed for men who are bald. It really makes a big dif-ference, you know, to many people in their business if they don’t look tooold and it often helps in getting a job.’

‘I can quite imagine that,’ said Mrs Oliver.

From sheer nervousness she said a few more things in the way of ordin-ary chat and wondered how she would start on her subject. She wasstartled when Mrs Rosentelle leant forward and said suddenly, ‘You areAriadne Oliver, aren’t you? The novel writer?’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘as a matter of fact –’ she had her usual somewhatshame-faced expression when she said this, that was habitual to her – ‘yes,I do write novels.’

‘I’m so fond of your books. I’ve read a lot of them. Oh, this is very niceindeed. Now tell me in what way can I help you?’

‘Well, I wanted to talk about wigs and about something that happened agreat many years ago and probably you mayn’t remember anything aboutit.’

‘Well, I rather wonder – do you mean fashions of years ago?’

‘Not exactly. It’s a woman, a friend of mine – actually I was at schoolwith her – and then she married and went out to Malaya and came back toEngland, and there was a tragedy later and one of the things I think thatpeople found surprising after it was that she had so many wigs. I thinkthey had been all supplied by you, by your firm, I mean.’

‘Oh, a tragedy. What was her name?’

‘Well, her name when I knew her was Preston-Grey, but afterwards hername was Ravenscroft.’

‘Oh. Oh yes, that one. Yes, I do remember Lady Ravenscroft. I rememberher quite well. She was so nice and really very, very good-looking still. Yes,her husband was a Colonel or a General or something and they’d retiredand they lived in – I forget the county now –’

‘– And there was what was supposed to be a double suicide,’ said MrsOliver.

‘Yes. Yes, I remember reading about it and saying, “Why that’s our LadyRavenscroft,” and then there was a picture of them both in the paper, andI saw that it was so. Of course, I’d never seen him but it was her all right. Itseemed so sad, so much grief. I heard that they discovered that she hadcancer and they couldn’t do anything about it so this happened. But Inever heard any details or anything.’

‘No,’ said Mrs Oliver.

‘But what is it you think I can tell you?’

‘You supplied her with wigs and I understand the people investigating, Isuppose the police, thought four wigs was quite a lot to have, but perhapspeople did have four wigs at a time?’

‘Well, I think that most people had two wigs at least,’ said Mrs Rosen-telle. ‘You know, one to send back to be serviced, as you might say, and theother one that they wore while it was away.’

‘Do you remember Lady Ravenscroft ordering an extra two wigs?’

‘She didn’t come herself. I think she’d been or was ill in hospital, orsomething, and it was a French young lady who came. I think a Frenchlady who was companion to her or something like that. Very nice. Spokeperfect English. And she explained all about the extra wigs she wanted,sizes and colours and styles and ordered them. Yes. Fancy my remember-ing it. I suppose I wouldn’t have except that about – oh it must have been amonth later – a month, perhaps more, six weeks – I read about the suicide,you know. I’m afraid they gave her bad news at the hospital or wherevershe was, and so she just couldn’t face living any more, and her husbandfelt he couldn’t face life without her –’

Mrs Oliver shook her head sadly – and continued her enquiries.

‘They were different kinds of wigs, I suppose.’

‘Yes, one had a very pretty grey streak in it, and then there was a partyone and one for evening wear, and one close-cropped with curls. Verynice, that you could wear under a hat and it didn’t get messed up. I wassorry not to have seen Lady Ravenscroft again. Even apart from her ill-ness, she had been very unhappy about a sister who had recently died. Atwin sister.’

‘Yes, twins are very devoted, aren’t they,’ said Mrs Oliver.

‘She’d always seemed such a happy woman before,’ said Mrs Rosentelle.

Both women sighed. Mrs Oliver changed the subject.

‘Do you think that I’d find a wig useful?’ she asked.

The expert stretched out a hand and laid it speculatively on Mrs Oliver’shead.

‘I wouldn’t advise it – you’ve got a splendid crop of hair – very thick still– I imagine –’ a faint smile came to her lips – ‘you enjoy doing things withit?’

‘How clever of you to know that. It’s quite true – I enjoy experimenting –it’s such fun.’

‘You enjoy life altogether, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do. I suppose it’s the feeling that one never knows what might begoing to happen next.’

‘Yet that feeling,’ said Mrs Rosentelle, ‘is just what makes so manypeople never stop worrying!’