Agatha Christie - Elephants Can Remember

"I can quite imagine that," said Mrs. Oliver.

From sheer nervousness she said a few more things in the way of ordinary chat and wondered how she would start on her subject. She was startled when Mrs. Rosentelle leaned forward and said suddenly, "You are Ariadne Oliver, aren't you? The novel writer?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Oliver, "as a matter of fact-" she had her usual somewhat shamefaced expression when she said this, that was habitual to her-"yes, I do write novels."

"I'm so fond of your books. I've read a lot of them. Oh, this is very nice indeed. Now tell me in what way can I help you?"

"Well, I wanted to talk about wigs and about something that happened a great many years ago and probably you mayn't remember anything about it."

"Well, I rather wonder-do you mean fashions of years ago?"

"Not exactly. It's a woman, a friend of mine-actually I was at school with her-and then she married and went out to India and came back to England, and there was a tragedy later and one of the things I think that people found surprising after it was that she had so many wigs. I think they had been all supplied by you, by your firm, I mean."

"Oh, a tragedy. What was her name?"

"Well, her name when I knew her was Preston-Grey, but afterwards her name was Ravenscroft."

"Oh. Oh, yes, that one. Yes, I do remember Lady Ravenscroft. I remember her quite well. She was so nice and really very, very good-looking still. Yes, her husband was a colonel or a general or something and they'd retired and they lived in-I forget the county now-"

"And there was what was supposed to be a double suicide," said Mrs. Oliver.

"Yes. Yes, I remember reading about it and saying, 'Why, that's our Lady Ravenscroft,' and then there was a picture of them both in the paper, and I saw that it was so. Of course, I'd never seen him, but it was her all right. It seemed so sad, so much grief. I heard that they discovered that she had cancer and they couldn't do anything about it so this happened. But I never heard any details or anything."

"No," said Mrs. Oliver.

"But what is it you think I can tell you?"

"You supplied her with wigs and I understand the people investigating, I suppose the police, thought four wigs was quite a lot to have, but perhaps people did have four wigs at a time?"

"Well, I think that most people had two wigs at least," said Mrs. Rosentelle. "You know, one to send back to be serviced, as you might say, and the other one that they wore while it was away."

"Do you remember Lady Ravenscroft ordering an extra two wigs?"

"She didn't come herself. I think she'd been or was ill in hospital, or something, and it was a French young lady who came. I think a French lady who was companion to her or something like that. Very nice. Spoke perfect English. And she explained all about the extra wigs she wanted, sizes and colors and styles and ordered them. Yes. Fancy my remembering it. I suppose I wouldn't have except that about-oh, it must have been a month later-a month, perhaps, more, six weeks-I read about the suicide you know. I'm afraid they gave her bad news at the hospital or wherever she was, and so she just couldn't face living any more, and her husband felt he couldn't face life without her-" Mrs. Oliver shook her head sadly and continued her inquiries.

"They were different kinds of wigs, I suppose."

"Yes, one had a very pretty gray streak in it, and then there was a party one and one for evening wear, and one closecropped with curls. Very nice, that you could wear under a hat and it didn't get messed up. I was sorry not to have seen Lady Ravenscroft again. Even apart from her illness, she had been very unhappy about a sister who had recently died. A twin sister,"

"Yes, twins are very devoted, aren't they?" said Mrs. Oliver.

"She'd always seemed such a happy woman before," said Mrs. Rosentelle.

Both women sighed. Mrs. Oliver changed the subject.

"Do you think that I'd find a wig useful?" she asked.

The expert stretched out a hand and laid it speculatively on Mrs. Oliver's head.

"I wouldn't advise it-you've got a splendid crop of hair- very thick still. I imagine"-a faint smile came to her lips- "you enjoy doing things with it?"

"How clever of you to know that. It's quite true-I enjoy experimenting. It's such fun."

"You enjoy life altogether, don't you?"

"Yes, I do. I suppose it's the feeling that one never knows what might be going to happen next."

"Yet that feeling," said Mrs. Rosentelle, "is just what makes so many people never stop worrying!"

Mr. Goby came into the room and sat, as indicated by Poirot, in his usual chair. He glanced around him before choosing what particular piece of furniture or part of the room he was about to address. He settled, as often before, for the electric fire, not turned on at this time of year. Mr. Goby had never been known to address the human being he was working for directly. He selected always the cornice, a radiator, a television set, a clock, sometimes a carpet or a mat. Out of a briefcase he took a few papers.

"Well," said Hercule Poirot, "you have something for me?"

"I have collected various details," said Mr. Goby.

Mr. Goby was celebrated all over London, indeed possibly all over England and even further, as a great purveyor of information. How he performed these miracles, nobody ever really quite knew. He employed a not excessive staff. Sometimes he complained that his legs, as he sometimes called them, were not as good as they used to be. But his results were still able to astonish people who had commissioned them.

"Mrs. Burton-Cox," he said, announcing the name much as though he had been the local churchwarden having his turn at reading the lessons. He might equally have been saying, "Third verse, fourth chapter, the book of Isaiah."

"Mrs. Burton-Cox," he said again. "Married Mr. Cecil Aidbury, manufacturer of buttons on a large scale. Rich man.

Entered politics, was MP for Little Stansmere. Mr. Cecil Aldbury was killed in a car accident four years after their marriage. The only child of the marriage died in an accident shortly afterwards, Mr. Aldbury's estate was inherited by his wife, but was not as much as had been expected, since the firm had not been doing well of late years. Mr. Aldbury also left quite a considerable sum of money to a Miss Kathleen Fenn, with whom it seemed he had been having intimate relations quite unknown to his wife. Mrs. Burton-Cox continued her political career. Some three years after that she adopted a child which had been born to Miss Kathleen Fenn. Miss Kathleen Fenn insisted that the child was the son of the late Mr. Aldbury. This, from what I have been able to learn in my inquiries, is somewhat difficult to accept," continued Mr. Goby. "Miss Fenn had had many relationships, usually with gentlemen of ample means and generous dispositions, but after all, so many people have their price, have they not? I'm afraid this is quite a serious bill I may have to send you in."

"Continue," said Hercule Poirot.

"Mrs. Aldbury, as she then was, agreed to adopt the child.

A short while later she married Major Burton-Cox. Miss Kathleen Fenn became, I may say, a most successful actress and pop singer and made a very large amount of money. She then wrote to Mrs. Burton-Cox, saying she would be willing to take back the adopted child. Mrs. Burton-Cox refused.

Mrs. Burton-Cox has been living quite comfortably since, I understand. Major Burton-Cox was killed in Malaya. He left her moderately well off. A further piece of information I have obtained is that Miss Kathleen Fenn, who died a very short while ago-eighteen months, I think-left a will by which her entire fortune, which amounted by then to a considerable sum of money, was left to her natural son Desmond, at present known under the name of Desmond Burton-Cox."