Here is a young man whom I care for and who cares for me.
This is the future we are spending together, not the past.’ ” “Did be tell you he was an adopted child?” asked Celia.
“Yes, he did.” “You see, what business is it really, of hers? Why should she come worrying Mrs. Oliver here, trying to make Mrs.
Oliver ask me questions, find out things. She’s not his own mother.” “Does he care for her?” “No,” said Celia. “I’d say on the whole he dislikes her. I think he always has.” “She’s spent money on him, schooling and on clothes and on all sorts of different things. And you think she cares for him’?” “I don’t know. I don’t think so. She wanted, I suppose, a child to replace her own child. She’d had a child who died in an accident, that was why she wanted to adopt someone, and her husband had died quite recently. All these dates are so difficult.” “I know, I know. I would like perhaps to know one thing.” “About her or about him?” “Is he provided for financially?” “I don’t know quite what you mean by that. He’ll be able to support me—to support a wife. I gather some money was settled on him when he was adopted. A sufficient sum, that is. I don’t mean a fortune or anything like that.” “There is nothing that she could—withhold?” “What, you mean that she’d cut off the money supplies if he married me? I don’t think she’s ever threatened to do that, or indeed that she could do it. I think it was all fixed up by lawyers or whoever arranges adoptions. I mean, they make a lot of fuss, these adoption societies, from all I hear.” “I would ask you something else which you might know but nobody else does. Presumably Mrs. Burton-Cox knows it. Do you know who his actual mother was?” “You think that might have been one of the reasons for her being so nosey and all that? Something to do with, as you say, what he was really. I don’t know. I suppose he might have been an illegitimate child. They’re the usual ones that go for adoption, aren’t they? She might have known something about his real mother or his real father, or something like that. If so, she didn’t tell him. I gather she just told him the silly things they suggest you should say. That it is just as nice to be adopted, because it shows you really were wanted. There’s a lot of silly slop like that.” “I think some societies suggest that that’s the way you should break the news. Does he or you know of any blood relations?” “I don’t know. I don’t think he knows, but I don’t think it worries him at all. He’s not that kind of a worrier.” “Do you know if Mrs. Burton-Cox was a friend of your family, of your mother and father? Did you ever meet her, as far as you can remember, when you were living in your own home in the early days?” “I don’t think so. I think Desmond’s mother—I mean, I think Mrs. Burton-Cox went to Malaya. I think perhaps her husband died out in Malaya, and that Desmond was sent to school in England while they were out there and that he was boarded with some cousins or people who take in children for holidays. And that’s how we came to be friends in those days.
I always remembered him, you know. I was a great heroworshiper.
He was wonderful at climbing trees and he taught me things about birds’ nests and birds’ eggs. So it seemed quite natural, when I met him again I mean, met him at the university, and we both talked about where we’d lived and then he asked me my name. He said, ‘Only your Christian name I know,’ and then we remembered quite a lot of things together. It’s what made us, you might say, get acquainted. I don’t know everything about him. I don’t know anything. I want to know. How can you arrange your life and know what you’re going to do with your life if you don’t know all about the things that affect you, that really happened?” “So you tell me to carry on with my investigation?” “Yes, if it’s going to produce any results, though I don’t think it will, because in a way, well, Desmond and I have tried our hand at finding out a few things. We haven’t been very successful. It seems to come back to this plain fact which isn’t really the story of a life. It’s the story of a death, isn’t it? Of two deaths, that’s to say. When it’s a double suicide, one thinks of it as one death. Is it in Shakespeare or where does the quotation come from—”And in death they were not divided’?” She turned to Poirot again. “Yes, go on.