“I wonder where the dog is now?” said Poirot.
“Buried in somebody’s garden, I expect,” said Garroway.
“It’s fourteen years ago.” “So we can’t go and ask the dog, can we?” said Poirot. He added thoughtfully, “A pity. It’s astonishing, you know, what dogs can know. Who was there exactly in the house? I mean on the day when the crime happened?” “I brought you a list,” said Superintendent Garroway, “in case you like to consult it. Mrs. Whittaker, the elderly cookhousekeeper.
It was her day out, so we couldn’t get much from her that was helpful. A visitor was staying there who had been governess to the Ravenscroft children once, I believe.
Mrs. Whittaker was rather deaf and slightly blind. She couldn’t tell us anything of interest, except that recently Lady Ravenscroft had been in hospital or in a nursing home—for nerves but not illness, apparently. There was a gardener, too.” “But.a stranger might have come from outside. A stranger from the past. That’s your idea, Superintendent Garroway?” “Not so much an idea as just a theory.” Poirot was silent, he was thinking of a time when he had asked to go back into the past, had studied five people out of the past who had reminded him of the nursery rhyme “Five little pigs.” Interesting it had been, and in the end rewarding, because he had found out the truth.
CHAPTER VI An Old Friend Remembers
When Mrs. Oliver returned to the house the following morning, she found Miss Livingstone waiting for her.
“There have been two telephone calls, Mrs. Oliver.” “Yes?” said Mrs. Oliver.
“The first one was from Crichton and Smith. They wanted to know whether you had chosen the lime-green brocade or the pale blue one.” “I haven’t made up my mind yet,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Just remind me tomorrow morning, will you? I’d like to see it by night light.” “And the other was from a foreigner, a Mr. Hercules Poirot, I believe.” “Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Oliver. “What did he want?” “He asked if you would be able to call and see him this afternoon.” “That will be quite impossible,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Ring him up, will you? I’ve got to go out again at once, as a matter of fact. Did he leave a telephone number?” “Yes, he did.” “That’s all right, then. We won’t have to look it up again.
All right. Just ring him. Tell him I’m sorry that I can’t but that I’m out on the track of an elephant.” “I beg your pardon?” said Miss Livingstone, “Say that I’m on the track of an elephant.” “Oh, yes,” said Miss Livingstone, looking shrewdly at her employer to see if she was right in the feelings that she sometimes had that Mrs. Ariadne Oliver, though a successful novelist, was at the same time not quite right in the head.
“I’ve never hunted elephants before,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“It’s quite an interesting thing to do, though.” She went into the sitting room, opened the top volume of the assorted books on the sofa, most of them looking rather the worse for wear, since she had toiled through them the evening before and written out a paper with various addresses.
“Well, one has got to make a start somewhere,” she said.
“On the whole I think that if Julia hasn’t gone completely off her rocker by now, I might start with her. She always had ideas, and after all, she knew that part of the country because she lived near there. Yes, I think we’ll start with Julia.” “There are four letters for you here to sign,” said Miss Livingstone.
“I can’t be bothered now,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I really can’t spare a moment. I’ve got to go down to Hampton Court, and it’s quite a long ride.” The Honorable Julia Carstairs, struggling with some slight difficulty out of her armchair, the difficulty that those over the age of seventy have when rising to their feet after prolonged rest, even a possible nap, stepped forward, peering a little to see who it was who had just been announced by the faithful retainer who shared the apartment which she occupied in her status of a member of “Homes for the Privileged.” Being slightly deaf, the name had not come clearly to her.