The Indian story was just somebody mental. There are mental people who are in homes or loony-bins because they have killed their children or some other child, for some absolutely batty reason, no sense to it at all. I don’t see why that would make General and Lady Ravenscroft want to kill themselves.” “Unless one of them was implicated,” said Poirot.
“You mean that General Ravenscroft may have killed someone, a boy–an illegitimate child, perhaps, of his wife’s or of his own? No, I think we’re getting a bit too melodramatic there. Or she might have killed her husband’s child or her own.” “And yet,” said Poirot, “what people seem to be, they usually are.” “You mean–?” “They seemed an affectionate couple–a couple who lived together happily without disputes. They seem to have had no case history of illness beyond a suggestion of an operation, of someone coming to London to consult some medical authority, a possibility of cancer, of leukemia, something of that kind, some future that they could not face. And yet, somehow we do not seem to get at something beyond what is possible, but not yet what is probable. If there was anyone else in the house, anyone else at the time, the police, my friends that is to say, who have known the investigation at the time, say that nothing told was really compatible with anything else but with the facts. For some reason, those two didn’t want to go on living. Why?” “I knew a couple,” said Mrs. Oliver, “in the war–the second war, I mean–they thought that the Germans would land in England and they had decided if that happened they would kill themselves. I said it was very stupid. They said it would be impossible to go on living. It still seems to me stupid. You’ve got to have enough courage to live through something. I mean, it’s not as though your death was going to do any good to anybody else. I wonder–?” “Yes, what do you wonder?” “Well, when I said that I wondered suddenly if General and Lady Ravenscroft’s deaths did any good to anyone else.” “You mean somebody inherited money from them?” “Yes. Not quite as blatant as that. Perhaps somebody would have a better chance of doing well in life. Something there was in their life that they didn’t want either of their two children ever to hear about or to know about.” Poirot sighed.
“The trouble with you is,” he said, “you think so often of something that well might have occurred, that might have been. You give me ideas. Possible ideas. If only they were probable ideas also. Why? Why were the deaths of those two necessary? Why is it–they were not in pain, they were not in illness, they were not deeply unhappy from what one can see.
Then why, in the evening of a beautiful day, did they go for a walk to a cliff and taking the dog with them…” “What’s the dog got to do with it?” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Well, I wondered for a moment. Did they take the dog, or did the dog follow them? Where does the dog come in?” “I suppose it comes in like the wigs,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Just one more thing that you can’t explain and doesn’t seem to make sense. One of my elephants said the dog was devoted to Lady Ravenscroft, but another one said the dog bit her.” “One always comes back to the same thing,” said Poirot.
“One wants to know more.” He sighed. “One wants to know more about the people, and how can you know people separated from you by a gulf of years?” “Well, you’ve done it once or twice, haven’t you?” said Mrs. Oliver. “You know–something about where a painter was shot or poisoned. That was near the sea on a sort of fortification or something. You found out who did that, although you didn’t know any of the people.” “No. I didn’t know any of the people, but I learned about them from the other people who were there.”* “Well, that’s what I’m trying to do,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Only I can’t get near enough. I can’t get to anyone who really knew anything, who was really involved. Do you think really we ought to give it up?” “I think it would be very wise to give it up,” said Poirot, “but there is a moment when one no longer wants to be wise.