Elephants Can Remember - Agatha Christie [55]
‘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. An elephant investigation for you, shall we say? And an understudy for an elephant for me.’
‘What an extraordinary thing to say,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I told you I was done with elephants.’
‘Ah,’ said Poirot, ‘but elephants perhaps have not done with you.’
The front doorbell sounded once again. Poirot and Mrs Oliver looked at each other.
‘Well,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘here we go.’
She left the room once more. Poirot heard sounds of greeting going on outside and in a moment or two Mrs Oliver returned, ushering the somewhat massive figure of Mrs Burton-Cox.
‘What a delightful flat you have,’ said Mrs Burton-Cox. ‘So charming of you to have spared time – your very valuable time, I’m sure – you asked me to come and see you.’ Her eyes shot sideways to Hercule Poirot. A faint expression of surprise passed over her face. For a moment her eyes went from him to the baby grand piano that stood in one window. It occurred to Mrs Oliver that Mrs Burton-Cox was thinking that Hercule Poirot was a piano-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 some way. You know. What you were asking me about the other day concerning my godchild, Celia Ravenscroft.’
‘Oh yes, how kind of you to remember. I do so hope you can give me a little more knowledge of what really happened.’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t been very successful,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘and that is really why I asked M. Poirot to meet you. He is a wonderful person, you know, 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 such a tragic thing to have happened.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mrs Burton-Cox. Her eyes were still somewhat doubtful. Mrs Oliver indicated chairs and remarked,
‘Now what will you have? A glass of sherry? It’s too late for tea, of course. 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 Sirop de Cassis or one of his favourite fruit drinks. She got out glasses and a decanter.
‘I have already indicated to Monsieur Poirot the outlines of the enquiry you want to make.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs Burton-Cox.
She seemed rather doubtful and not so sure of herself as it would seem she was in the natural habit of being.
‘These young people,’ she said to Poirot, ‘so difficult nowadays. These young people. My son, such a dear boy, we have great hopes of his doing well in the future. And then there is this girl, a very charming girl, who, as probably Mrs Oliver told you, is her goddaughter, and – well, of course one never knows. I mean these friendships spring up and very often they don’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 of people. You know, what their families are like. Oh, of course I know Celia’s a very well-born girl and all that, but there was this tragedy. Mutual suicide, I believe, but nobody has been really able to enlighten me at all on what led to it or what led up to it, shall we say. I have no actual friends who were friends in common with the Ravenscrofts and so it is very difficult for me to have ideas. I know Celia is a charming girl and all that, but one would like to know, to know more.’
‘I understand from my friend, Mrs Oliver, that you wanted to know something specifically. You wanted to know, in fact –’
‘What you said you wanted to know,’ said Mrs Oliver, chipping in with some firmness, ‘was whether Celia’s father shot her mother and