who seemed both annoyed and unhelpful and had no idea what the present telephone number might be of anyone who had lived in that particular flat before.
Mrs. Oliver applied herself to an examination of the address book once more. She discovered two more addresses which were hastily scrawled over other numbers and did not seem wildly helpful. However, at the third attempt a somewhat illegible Ravenscroft seemed to emerge from the crossingsout and initials and addresses.
A voice admitted to knowing Celia.
'Oh, dear, yes. But she hasn't lived here for years. I think she was in Newcastle when I last heard from her.'
'Oh, dear,' said Mrs. Oliver, 'I'm afraid I haven't got that address.'
'No, I haven't got it either,' said the kindly girl. 'I think she went to be secretary to a veterinary surgeon.' It did not sound very hopeful. Mrs. Oliver tried once or twice more. The addresses in the latest of her two address books were no use, so she went back a bit further. She struck oil, as you might put it, when she came to the last one, which was for the year 1962.
'Oh, you mean Celia,' said a voice. 'Celia Ravenscroft, wasn't it? Or was it Finchwell?' Mrs. Oliver just prevented herself in time from saying, 'No, and it wasn't redbreast either.'
'A very competent girl,' said the voice. 'She worked for me for over a year and a half. Oh, yes, very competent. I would have been quite happy if she had stayed longer. I think she went from here to somewhere in Harley Street, but I think I've got her address somewhere. Now let me see.' There was a long pause while Mrs. X- name unknown-was seeing. 'I've got one address here. It seems to be in Islington somewhere. Do you think that's possible?' Mrs. Oliver said that anything was possible and thanked Mrs. X very much and wrote it down.
'So difficult, isn't it, trying to find people's addresses.
They do send them to you usually. You know, a sort of postcard or something of that kind. Personally I always seem to lose it.' Mrs. Oliver said that she herself also suffered in this respect.
She tried the Islington number. A heavy, foreign voice replied to her.
'You want, yes-you tell me what? Yes, who live here?'
'Miss Celia Ravenscroft?'
'Oh, yes, that is very true. Yes, yes, she lives here. She has a room on the second floor. She is out now and she not come home.'
'Will she be in later this evening?'
'Oh, she be home very soon now, I think, because she come home to dress for party and go out.' Mrs. Oliver thanked her for the information and rang off.
'Really,' said Mrs. Oliver to herself with some annoyance, 'girls!' She tried to think how long it was since she had last seen her goddaughter, Celia. One lost touch. That was the whole point. Celia, she thought, was in London now. If her boy friend was in London, or if the mother of her boy friend was in London-all of it went together. Oh, dear, thought Mrs. Oliver, this really makes my head ache. 'Yes, Miss Livingstone?' She turned her head.
Miss Livingstone, looking rather unlike herself and decorated with a good many cobwebs and a general coating of dust, stood looking annoyed in the doorway holding a pile of dusty volumes.
'I don't know whether any of these things will be any use to you, Mrs. Oliver. They seem to go back for a great many years.' She was disapproving.
'Bound to,' said Mrs. Oliver.
'I don't know if there's anything particular you want me to search for.'
'I don't think so,' said Mrs. Oliver, 'if you'll just put them on the corner of the sofa there I can look at them this evening.' Miss Livingstone, looking more disapproving every moment, said, 'Very good, Mrs. Oliver. I think I will just dust them first.'
'That will be very kind of you,' said Mrs. Oliver, just stopping herself in time from saying-'and for goodness' sake, dust yourself as well. You've got six cobwebs in your left ear.' She glanced at her watch and rang the Islington number again. The voice that answered this time was purely AngloSaxon and had a crisp sharpness about it that Mrs. Oliver felt was rather satisfactory.
'Miss Ravenscroft?-Celia Ravenscroft?'
'Yes, this is Celia Ravenscroft.'
'Well, I don't expect you'll remember me very well. I'm Mrs. Oliver. Ariadne Oliver. We haven't seen each other for a long time, but actually I'm your godmother.'
'Oh, yes, of course. I know that. No, we haven't seen each other for a long time.'
'I wonder very much if I could see you, if you could come and see me, or whatever you like. Would you like to come to a meal or…'
'Well, it's rather difficult at present, where I'm working. I could come round this evening, if you like. About half-past seven or eight. I've got a date later but…'
'If you do that, I shall be very, very pleased,' said Mrs. Oliver.
'Well, of course I will.'
'I'll give you the address.' Mrs. Oliver gave it.
'Good. I'll be there. Yes, I know where that is quite well.' Mrs. Oliver made a brief note on the telephone pad and looked with some annoyance at Miss Livingstone, who had just come into the room struggling under the weight of a large album.
'I wonder if this could possibly be it, Mrs. Oliver?'
'No, it couldn't,' said Mrs. Oliver. 'That's got cookery recipes in it.'
'Oh, dear,' said Miss Livingstone, 'so it has.'
'Well, I might as well look at some of them anyway,' said Mrs. Oliver, removing the volume firmly. 'Go and have another look. You know, I've thought about the linen cupboard.
Next door to the bathroom. You'd have to look on the top shelf above the bath towels. I do sometimes stick papers and books in there. Wait a minute. I'll come up and look myself.' Ten minutes later Mrs. Oliver was looking through the pages of a faded album. Miss Livingstone, having entered her final stage of martyrdom, was standing by the door. Unable to bear the sight of so much suffering, Mrs. Oliver said: 'Well, that's all right. You might just take a look in the desk in the dining room. The old desk. You know, the one that's broken a bit. See if you can find some more address books.
Early ones. Anything up to about ten years old will be worth while having a look at. And after that,' said Mrs. Oliver, 'I don't think I shall want anything more today.' Miss Livingstone departed.
'I wonder,' said Mrs. Oliver to herself, releasing a deep sigh as she sat down. She looked through the pages of the birthday book. 'Who's better pleased? She to go or I to see her go?
After Celia has come and gone, I shall have to have a busy evening.' Taking a new exercise book from the pile she kept on a small table by her desk, she entered various dates, possible addresses and names, looked up one or two more things in the telephone book and then proceeded to ring up Monsieur Hercule Poirot.
'Ah, is that you, Monsieur Poirot?'
'Yes, madame, it is I myself.'
'Have you done anything?' said Mrs. Oliver.
'I beg your pardon-have I done what?'
'Anything,' said Mrs. Oliver. 'What I asked you about yesterday.'
'Yes, certainly. I have put things in motion. I have arranged to make certain inquiries.'
'But you haven't made them yet,' said Mrs. Oliver, who had a poor view of what the male view was of doing something.
'And you, chere madame?'
'I have been very busy,' said Mrs. Oliver.
'Ah! And what have you been doing, madame?'
'Assembling elephants,' said Mrs. Oliver, 'if that means anything to you.'
'I think I can understand what you mean, yes.'
'It's not very easy, looking into the past,' said Mrs. Oliver. 'It is astonishing, really, how many people one does remember when one comes to look up names. My word, the silly things they write in birthday books sometimes, too. I can't think why when I was about sixteen or seventeen or even thirty, I wanted people to write in my birthday book. There's a sort of quotation from a poet for every particular day in the year. Some of them are terribly silly.'
