That's what you wanted, isn't it?' Poirot said it was just what he wanted.
'I've got to dash now,' said Mrs. Oliver, 'going to meet an old war horse-provided by my elephant Number One, Julia Carstairs. I think she's got his name wrong-she always does- but I hope she's got his address right.'
Chapter XII. Celia Meets Hercule Poirot
'Well, madame,' said Poirot, 'and how did you fare with Sir Hugo Foster?'
'To begin with, his name wasn't Foster-it was Fothergill.
Trust Julia to get a name wrong. She's always doing it.'
'So elephants are not always reliable in the names they remember?'
'Don't talk of elephants-I've finished with elephants.'
'And your war horse?'
'Quite an old pet-but useless as a source of information.
Obsessed by some people called Marchant who did have a child killed in an accident in India. But nothing to do with the Ravenscrofts. I tell you, I've finished with elephants-'
'Madame, you have been most persevering, most noble.'
'Celia is coming along in about half an hour's time. You wanted to meet her, didn't you? I've told her that you are- well, helping me in this matter. Or would you rather she came to see you?'
'No,' said Poirot, 'I think I should like her to come in the way you have arranged.'
'I don't suppose she'll stay very long. If we get rid other in about an hour, that would be all right, just to think over things a bit, and then Mrs. Burton-Cox is coming.'
'Ah, yes. That will be interesting. Yes, that will be very interesting.' Mrs. Oliver sighed. 'Oh, dear, it's a pity, though, isn't it?' She said again, 'We do have too much material, don't we?'
'Yes,' said Poirot. 'We do not know what we are looking for. All we know of still is, in all probability, the double suicide of a married couple who lived quiet and happy lives together. And what have we got to show for cause, for reason?
We've gone forward and back to the right, to the left, to the west, to the east.'
'Quite right,' said Mrs. Oliver. 'Everywhere. We haven't been to the North Pole yet,' she added.
'Nor to the South Pole,' said Poirot.
'So what is there, when it all comes to it?'
'Various things,' said Poirot. 'I have made here a list. Do you want to read it?' Mrs. Oliver came over and sat beside him and looked over his shoulder.
'Wigs,' she said, pointing to the first item. 'Why wigs first?'
'Four wigs,' said Poirot, 'seem to be interesting. Interesting and rather difficult to solve.'
'I believe the shop she got her wigs from has gone out of the trade now. People go to quite different places for wigs and they're not wearing so many as they did just then. People used to wear wigs to go abroad. You know, because it saves bother in traveling.'
'Yes, yes,' said Poirot, 'we will do what we can with wigs.
Anyway, that is one thing that interests me. And then there are other stories. Stories of mental disturbance in the family.
Stories of a twin sister who was mentally disturbed and spent a good many years of her life in a mental home.'
'It doesn't seem to lead anywhere,' said Mrs. Oliver. 'I mean to say, I suppose she could have come and shot the two of them, but I don't really see why.'
'No,' said Poirot, 'the fingerprints on the revolver were definitely only the fingerprints of General Ravenscroft and his wife, I understand. Then there are stories of a child. A child in India was murdered or attacked, possibly by this twin sister of Lady Ravenscroft. Possibly by some quite different woman-possibly by an ayah or a servant. Point two. You know a little more about money.'
'Where does money come into it?' said Mrs. Oliver in some surprise.
'It does not come into it,' said Poirot. 'That is what is so interesting. Money usually comes in. Money someone got as a result of that suicide. Money lost as a result of it. Money somewhere causing difficulties, causing trouble, causing covetousness and desire. It is difficult, that. Difficult to see.
There does not seem to have been any large amount of money anywhere. There are various stories of love affairs, women who were attractive to the husband, men who were attractive to the wife. An affair there one side or the other could have led to suicide or to murder. It very often does. Then we come to what at the moment inclines me to the most interest. That is why I am so anxious to meet Mrs. Burton-Cox.'
'Oh. That awful woman. I don't see why you think she's important. All she did was to go being a nosey- parker and wanting me to find out things.'
'Yes, but why did she want you to find out things? It seems to me very odd, that. It seems to me that that is something that one has to find out about. She is the link, you see.'
'The link?'
'Yes. We do not know what the link was, where it was, how it was. All we know is that she wants desperately to learn more about this suicide. Being a link, she connects both with your godchild, Celia Ravenscroft, and with the son who is not her son.'
'What do you mean-not her son?'
'He is an adopted son,' said Poirot. 'A son she adopted because her own son died,'
'How did her own child die? Why? When?'
'All these things I asked myself. She could be a link, a link of emotion, a wish for revenge through hatred, through some love affair. At any rate I must see her. I must make up my mind about her. Yes. I cannot help but think that is very important.' There was a ring at the bell and Mrs. Oliver went out of the room to answer it.
'This, I think, could be Celia,' she said. 'You're sure it's all right?'
'By me, yes,' said Poirot. 'By her also, I hope.' Mrs. Oliver came back a few minutes later. Celia Ravenscroft was with her. She had a doubtful, suspicious look.
'I don't know,' she said, 'if I-' She stopped, staring at Hercule Poirot.
'I want to introduce you,' said Mrs. Oliver, 'to someone who is helping me, and I hope is helping you also. That is, helping you in what you want to know and to find out. This is Monsieur Hercule Poirot. He has special genius in finding out things.'
'Oh,' said Celia.
She looked very doubtfully at the egg-shaped head, the monstrous moustaches and the small stature.
'I think,' she said rather doubtfully, 'that I have heard of him.' Hercule Poirot stopped himself with a slight effort from saying firmly, 'Most people have heard of me.' It was not quite as true as it used to be, because many people who had heard of Hercule Poirot and known him were now reposing with suitable memorial stones over them in churchyards. He said: 'Sit down, mademoiselle. I will tell you this much about myself. That when I start an investigation I pursue it to the end. I will bring to light the truth and if it is, shall we say, truly the truth that you want, then I will deliver that knowledge to you. But it may be that you want reassuring.
That is not the same thing as the truth. I can find various aspects that might reassure you. Will that be enough? If so, do not ask for more.' Celia sat down in the chair he had pushed towards her, and looked at him rather earnestly. Then she said: 'You don't think I'd care for the truth, is that it?'
'I think,' said Poirot, 'that the truth might be-a shock, a sorrow, and it might be that you would have said 'why did I not leave all this behind? Why did I ask for knowledge? It is painful knowledge about which I can do nothing helpful or hopeful.' It is a double suicide by a father and a mother that I-well, we'll admit it-that I loved. It is not a disadvantage to love a mother and father.'
'It seems to be considered so nowadays occasionally,' said Mrs. Oliver. 'New article of belief, shall we say.'
'That's the way I've been living,' said Celia. 'Beginning to wonder, you know. Catching on to odd things that people said sometimes. People who looked at me rather pityingly. But more than that. With curiosity as well. One
