CHAPTER IV Celia
A tall girl was standing on the mat outside. Just for a moment Mrs. Oliver was startled, looking at her. So this -was Celia. The impression of vitality and of life was really very strong. Mrs. Oliver had the feeling which one does not often get.
Here, she thought, was someone who meant something.
Aggressive, perhaps, could be difficult, could be almost dangerous perhaps. One of those girls who had a mission in life, who was dedicated to violence, perhaps, who went in for causes. But interesting. Definitely interesting.
“Come 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 goldenrod.” “Probably was goldenrod,” 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 those sort of things.” “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, T 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.