There aren’t any. What happened is a thing that happened years ago when Celia was only a child, or a schoolgirl at least.
And there was a tragedy, the sort of thing that happens– well, it happens every day, any time. Two people you know whom something has upset very much and they commit suicide.
A sort of suicide pact, this was. Nobody knew very much about it or why, or anything like that. But, after all, it happens and it’s no business really of people’s children to worry about it. I mean, if they know the facts, that’s quite enough, I should think. And it’s no business of my mother’s at all.” “As one journeys through life,” said Poirot, “one finds more and more that people are often interested in things that are none of their own business. Even more so than they are in things that could be considered as their own business.” “But this is all over. Nobody knew much about it or anything.
But, you see, my mother keeps asking questions. Wants to know things, and she’s got at Celia. She’s got Celia into a state where she doesn’t really know whether she wants to marry me or not.” “And you? You know if you want to marry her still?” “Yes, of course I know. I mean to marry her. I’m quite determined to marry her. But she’s got upset. She wants to know things. She wants to know why all this happened and she thinks–I’m sure she’s wrong–she thinks that my mother knows something about it. That she’s heard something about it.
“Well, I have much sympathy for you,” said Poirot, “but it seems to me that if you are sensible young people and if you want to marry, there is no reason why you should not. I may say that I have been given some information at my request about this sad tragedy. As you say, it is a matter that happened many years ago. There was no full explanation of it.
There never has been. But in life one cannot have explanations of all the sad things that happen.” “It was a suicide pact,” said the boy. “It couldn’t have been anything else. But–well…” “You want to know the cause of it. Is that it?” “Well, yes, that’s it. That’s what Celia’s been worried about, and she’s almost made me worried. Certainly my mother is worried, though, as I’ve said, it’s absolutely no business of hers. I don’t think any fault is attached to anyone. I mean, there wasn’t a row or anything. The trouble is, of course, that we don’t know. Well, I mean, I shouldn’t know anyway because I wasn’t there.” “You didn’t know General and Lady Ravenscroft or Celia?” “I’ve known Celia more or less all my life. You see, the people I went to for holidays and her people lived next door to each other when we were very young. You know–just children. And we always liked each other, and got on together and all that. And then, of course, for a long time all that passed over. I didn’t meet Celia for a great many years after that. Her parents, you see, were in Malaya, and so were mine.
I think they met each other again there–I mean my father and mother. My father’s dead, by the way. But I think when my mother was in India she heard things and she’s remembered now what she heard and she’s worked herself up about them and she sort of–sort of thinks things that can’t possibly be true. I’m sure they aren’t true. But she’s determined to worry Celia about them. I want to know what really happened.
Celia wants to know what really happened. What it was all about. And why? And how? Not just people’s silly stories.” “Yes,” said Poirot, “it is not unnatural perhaps that you should both feel that. Celia, I should imagine, more than you.
She is more disturbed by it than you are. But, if I may say so, does it really matter? What matters is the now, the present. The girl you want to marry, the girl who wants to marry you–what has the past to do with you? Does it matter whether her parents had a suicide pact or whether they died in an airplane accident or one of them was killed in an accident and the other one later committed suicide? Whether there were love affairs which came into their lives and made for unhappiness.” “Yes,” said Desmond Burton-Cox, “yes, I think what you say is sensible and quite right but–well, things have been built up in such a way that I’ve got to make sure that Celia is satisfied. She’s–she’s a person who minds about things although she doesn’t talk about them much.” “Has it not occurred to you,” said Hercule Poirot, “that it may be very difficult, if not impossible, to find out what really happened?” “You mean which of them killed the other or why, or that one shot the other and then himself. Not unless–not unless there had been something,” “Yes, but that something would have been in the past, so why does it matter now?” “It oughtn’t to matter–it wouldn’t matter but for my mother interfering, poking about in things. It wouldn’t have mattered.