But there was a period before that. What did I know about that? What I knew was a life spent mostly abroad with occasional visits home, a good record for the man, pleasant remembrances of her from friends of the wife’s. There was no outstanding tragedy, dispute, nothing that one knew of. But then I mightn’t have known. One doesn’t know. There was a period of, say, twenty-thirty years, years from childhood to the time they married, the time they lived abroad in India and other places. Perhaps the root of the tragedy was there.
There is a proverb my grandmother used to repeat: Old sins have long shadows. Was the cause of death some long shadow, a shadow from the past? That’s not an easy thing to find out about. You find out about a man’s record, what friends or acquaintances say, but you don’t know any inner details.
Well, I think little by little the theory grew up in my mind that that would have been the place to look, if I could have looked. Something that had happened then, in another country, perhaps. Something that had been thought to be forgotten, to have passed out of existence, but which still perhaps existed.
A grudge from the past, some happening that nobody knew about, that had happened elsewhere, not in their life in England, but which may have been there. If one had known where to look for it.” “Not the sort of thing, you mean,” said Poirot, “that anybody would remember. I mean, remember nowadays. Something that no friends of theirs in England, perhaps, would have known about.” “Their friends in England seem to have been mostly made since retirement, though I suppose old friends did come and visit them or see them occasionally. But one doesn’t hear about things that happened in the past. People forget.” “Yes,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “People forget.” “They’re not like elephants,” said Superintendent Garroway, giving a faint smile. “Elephants, they always say, remember everything.” “It is odd that you should say that,” said Poirot.
“That I should say about long sins?” “Not so much that. It was your mention of elephants that interested me.” Superintendent Garroway looked at Poirot with some surprise. He seemed to be waiting for more. Spence also cast a quick glance at his old friend.
“Something that happened in India, perhaps,” he suggested.
“I mean—well, that’s where elephants come from, isn’t it? Or from Africa. Anyway, who’s been talking to you about elephants?” he added.
“A friend of mine happened to mention them,” said Poirot.
“Someone you know,” he said to Superintendent Spence. “Mrs.
Oliver.” “Oh, Mrs. Ariadne Oliver. Well!” He paused.
“Well what?” said Poirot.
“Well, does she know something, then?” he asked.
“I do not think so as yet,” said Poirot, “but she might know something before very long.” He added thoughtfully, “She’s that kind of person. She gets around, if you know what I mean.” “Yes,” said Spence. “Yes. Has she got any ideas?” he asked.
“Do you mean Mrs. Ariadne Oliver, the writer?” asked Garroway with some interest.
“That’s the one,” said Spence.
“Does she know a good deal about crime? I know she writes crime stories. I’ve never known where she got her ideas from or her facts.” “Her ideas,” said Poirot, “come out of her head. Her facts– well, that’s more difficult.” He paused for a moment.
“What are you thinking of, Poirot? Something in particular?” “Yes,” said Poirot. “I ruined one of her stories once, or so she tells me. She had just had a very good idea about a fact, something that had to do with a long-sleeved woolen vest. I asked her something over the telephone and it put the idea for the story out other head. She reproaches me at intervals.” “Dear, dear,” said Spence. “Sounds rather like that parsley that sank into the butter on a hot day. You know. Sherlock Holmes and the dog who did nothing in the nighttime.” “Did they have a dog?” asked Poirot.
“I beg your pardon?” “I said did they have a dog? General and Mrs. Ravenscroft.
Did they take a dog for that walk with them on the day they were shot? The Ravenscrofts.” “They had a dog–yes,” said Garroway. “I suppose, I suppose they did take him for a walk most days.” “If it had been one of Mrs. Oliver’s stories,” said Spence, “you ought to have found the dog howling over the two dead bodies. But that didn’t happen.” Garroway shook his head.