of the—you know—of the bullets and the various things, but it was very difficult. They thought it might be a suicide pact and—I forget what the verdict was. Something—it could have been misadventure or something like that. But of course everyone knew it must have been meant, and there were a lot of stories that went about, of course, at the time—’
‘Probably all invented ones,’ said Mrs Oliver hopefully, trying to remember even one of the stories if she could.
‘Well, maybe. Maybe. It’s very hard to say, I know. There were tales of a quarrel either that day or before, there was some talk of another man, and then of course there was the usual talk about some other woman. And one never knows which way it was about. I think things were hushed up a good deal because General Ravenscroft’s position was rather a high one, and I think it was said that he’d been in a nursing home that year, and he’d been very run down or something, and that he really didn’t know what he was doing.’
‘I’m really afraid,’ said Mrs Oliver, speaking firmly, ‘that I must say that I don’t know anything about it. I do remember, now you mention it, that there was such a case, and I remember the names and that I knew the people, but I never knew what happened or anything at all about it. And I really don’t think I have the least idea …’
And really, thought Mrs Oliver, wishing she was brave enough to say it, how on earth you have the impertinence to ask me such a thing I don’t know.
‘It’s very important that I should know,’ Mrs Burton-Cox said.
Her eyes, which were rather like hard marbles, started to snap.
‘It’s important, you see, because of my boy, my dear boy wanting to marry Celia.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I’ve never heard anything.’
‘But you must know,’ said Mrs Burton-Cox. ‘I mean, you write these wonderful stories, you know all about crime. You know who commits crimes and why they do it, and I’m sure that all sorts of people will tell you the story behind the story, as one so much thinks of these things.’
‘I don’t know anything,’ said Mrs Oliver, in a voice which no longer held very much politeness, and definitely now spoke in tones of distaste.
‘But you do see that really one doesn’t know who to go to ask about it? I mean, one couldn’t go to the police after all these years, and I don’t suppose they’d tell you anyway because obviously they were trying to hush it up. But I feel it’s important to get the truth.’
‘I only write books,’ said Mrs Oliver coldly. ‘They are entirely fictional. I know nothing personally about crime and have no opinions on criminology. So I’m afraid I can’t help you in any way.’
‘But you could ask your goddaughter. You could ask Celia.’
‘Ask Celia!’ Mrs Oliver stared again. ‘I don’t see how I could do that. She was—why, I think she must have been quite a child when this tragedy happened.’
‘Oh, I expect she knew all about it, though,’ said Mrs Burton-Cox. ‘Children always know everything. And she’d tell you. I’m sure she’d tell you.’
‘You’d better ask her yourself, I should think,’ said Mrs Oliver.
‘I don’t think I could really do that,’ said Mrs Burton-Cox. ‘I don’t think, you know, that Desmond would like it. You know he’s rather—well, he’s rather touchy where Celia is concerned and I really don’t think that—no—I’m sure she’d tell you.’
‘I really shouldn’t dream of asking her,’ said Mrs Oliver. She made a pretence of looking at her watch. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, ‘what a long time we’ve been over this delightful lunch. I must run now, I have a very important appointment. Goodbye, Mrs—er—Bedley-Cox, so sorry I can’t help you but these things are rather delicate and—does it really make any difference anyway, from your point of view?’
‘Oh, I think it makes all the difference.’
At that moment, a literary figure whom Mrs Oliver knew well drifted past. Mrs Oliver jumped up to catch her by the arm.
‘Louise, my dear, how lovely to see you. I hadn’t noticed you were here.’
‘Oh, Ariadne, it’s a long time since I’ve seen you. You’ve grown a lot thinner, haven’t you?’
‘What nice things you always say to me,’ said Mrs Oliver, engaging her friend by the arm and retreating from the settee. ‘I’m rushing away because I’ve got an appointment.’
‘I suppose you got tied up with that awful woman, didn’t you?’ said her friend, looking over her shoulder at Mrs Burton-Cox.
‘She was asking me the most extraordinary questions,’ said Mrs Oliver.
‘Oh. Didn’t you know how to answer them?’
‘No. They weren’t any of my business anyway. I didn’t know anything about them. Anyway, I wouldn’t have wanted to answer them.’
‘Was it about anything interesting?’
‘I suppose,’ said Mrs Oliver, letting a new idea come into her head. ‘I suppose it might be interesting, only—’
‘She’s getting up to chase you,’ said her friend. ‘Come along. I’ll see you get out and give you a lift to anywhere you want to go if you haven’t got your car here.’
‘I never take my car about in London, it’s so awful to park.’
‘I know it is. Absolutely deadly.’
Mrs Oliver made the proper goodbyes. Thanks, words of greatly expressed pleasure, and presently was being driven round a London square.
‘Eaton Terrace, isn’t it?’ said the kindly friend. ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘but where I’ve got to go now is—I think it’s Whitefriars Mansions. I can’t quite remember the name of it, but I know where it is.’
‘Oh, flats. Rather modern ones. Very square and geometrical.’
‘That’s right,’ said Mrs Oliver.
Having failed to find her friend Hercule Poirot at home, Mrs Oliver had to resort to a telephone enquiry.
‘Are you by any chance going to be at home this evening?’ asked Mrs Oliver.
She sat by her telephone, her fingers tapping rather nervously on the table.
‘Would that be—?’
‘Ariadne Oliver,’ said Mrs Oliver, who was always surprised to find she had to give her name because she always
