in, Celia,’ she said. ‘It’s such a long time since I saw you. The last time, as far as I remember, was at a wedding. You were a bridesmaid. You wore apricot chiffon, I remember, and large bunches of—I can’t remember what it was, something that looked like Golden Rod.’
‘Probably was Golden Rod,’ said Celia Ravenscroft. ‘We sneezed a lot—with hay fever. It was a terrible wedding. I know. Martha Leghorn, wasn’t it? Ugliest bridesmaids’ dresses I’ve ever seen. Certainly the ugliest I’ve ever worn!’
‘Yes. They weren’t very becoming to anybody. You looked better than most, if I may say so.’
‘Well, it’s nice of you to say that,’ said Celia. ‘I didn’t feel my best.’
Mrs Oliver indicated a chair and manipulated a couple of decanters.
‘Like sherry or something else?’
‘No. I’d like sherry.’
‘There you are, then. I suppose it seems rather odd to you,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘My ringing you up suddenly like this.’
‘Oh no, I don’t know that it does particularly.’
‘I’m not a very conscientious godmother, I’m afraid.’
‘Why should you be, at my age?’
‘You’re right there,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘One’s duties, one feels, end at a certain time. Not that I ever really fulfilled mine. I don’t remember coming to your Confirmation.’
‘I believe the duty of a godmother is to make you learn your catechism and a few things like that, isn’t it? Renounce the devil and all his works in my name,’ said Celia. A faint, humorous smile came to her lips.
She was being very amiable but all the same, thought Mrs Oliver, she’s rather a dangerous girl in some ways.
‘Well, I’ll tell you why I’ve been trying to get hold of you,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘The whole thing is rather peculiar. I don’t often go out to literary parties, but as it happened I did go out to one the day before yesterday.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Celia. ‘I saw mention of it in the paper, and you had your name in it, too, Mrs Ariadne Oliver, and I rather wondered because I know you don’t usually go to that sort of thing.’
‘No,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I rather wish I hadn’t gone to that one.’
‘Didn’t you enjoy it?’
‘Yes, I did in a way because I hadn’t been to one before. And so—well, the first time there’s always something that amuses you. But,’ she added, ‘there’s usually something that annoys you as well.’
‘And something happened to annoy you?’
‘Yes. And it’s connected in an odd sort of way with you. And I thought—well, I thought I ought to tell you about it because I didn’t like what happened. I didn’t like it at all.’
‘Sounds intriguing,’ said Celia, and sipped her sherry.
‘There was a woman there who came and spoke to me. I didn’t know her and she didn’t know me.’
‘Still, I suppose that often happens to you,’ said Celia.
‘Yes, invariably,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘It’s one of the—hazards of literary life. People come up to you and say “I do love your books so much and I’m so pleased to be able to meet you.” That sort of thing.’
‘I was secretary to a writer once. I do know about that sort of thing and how difficult it is.’
‘Yes, well, there was some of that too, but that I was prepared for. And then this woman came up to me and she said “I believe you have a goddaughter called Celia Ravenscroft.”’
‘Well, that was a bit odd,’ said Celia. ‘Just coming up to you and saying that. It seems to me she ought to have led into it more gradually. You know, talking about your books first and how much she’d enjoyed the last one, or something like that. And then sliding into me. What had she got against me?’
‘As far as I know she hadn’t got anything against you,’ said Mrs Oliver.
‘Was she a friend of mine?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs Oliver.
There was a silence. Celia sipped some more sherry and looked very searchingly at Mrs Oliver.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘you’re rather intriguing me. I can’t see quite what you’re leading into.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘I hope you won’t be angry with me.’
‘Why should I be angry with you?’
‘Well, because I’m going to tell you something, or repeat something, and you might say it’s no business of mine or I ought to keep quiet about it and not mention it.’
‘You’ve aroused my curiosity,’ said Celia.
‘Her name she mentioned to me. She was a Mrs Burton-Cox.’
‘Oh!’ Celia’s ‘Oh’ was rather distinctive. ‘Oh.’
‘You know her?’
‘Yes, I know her,’ said Celia. ‘Well, I thought you must because—’
‘Because of what?’
‘Because of something she said.’
‘What—about me? That she knew me?’
‘She said that she thought her son might be going to marry you.’
Celia’s expression changed. Her eyebrows went up, came down again. She looked very hard at Mrs Oliver.
‘You want to know if that’s so or not?’
‘No,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘I don’t particularly want to know. I merely mention that because it’s one of the first things she said to me. She said because you were my goddaughter, I might be able to ask you to give me some information. I presume that she meant that if the information was given to me I was to pass it on to her.’
‘What information?’
‘Well, I don’t suppose you’ll like what I’m going to say now,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I didn’t like it myself. In fact, it gives me a very nasty feeling all down my spine because I think it was—well, such awful cheek. Awful bad manners. Absolutely unpardonable. She said, “Can you find out if her father murdered her mother or if her mother murdered her father.”’
‘She said that to you? Asked you to do that?’
‘Yes.’
‘And she didn’t know you? I mean, apart from being an authoress and being at the party?’
‘She
