We run a small business, but we don’t do much in the wig line nowadays,” she said, “though my husband does advise and get wigs designed for men who are bald. It really makes a big difference; you know, to many people in their business if they don’t look too old and it often helps in getting a job.” “I can quite imagine that,” said Mrs. Oliver.
From sheer nervousness she said a few more things in the way of ordinary chat and wondered how she would start on her subject. She was startled when Mrs. Rosentelle leaned forward and said suddenly, “You are Ariadne Oliver, aren’t you? The novel writer?” “Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, “as a matter of fact–” she had her usual somewhat shamefaced expression when she said this, that was habitual to her–“yes, I do write novels.” “I’m so fond of your books. I’ve read a lot of them. Oh, this is very nice indeed. Now tell me in what way can I help you?” “Well, I wanted to talk about wigs and about something that happened a great many years ago and probably you mayn’t remember anything about it.” “Well, I rather wonder–do you mean fashions of years ago?” , “Not exactly. It’s a woman, a friend of mine–actually I was at school with her–and then she married and went out to India and came back to England, and there was a tragedy later and one of the things I think that people found surprising after it was that she had so many wigs. I think they had been all supplied by you, by your firm, I mean.” “Oh, a tragedy. What was her name?” “Well, her name when I knew her was Preston-Grey, but afterwards her name was Ravenscroft.” “Oh. Oh, yes, that one. Yes, I do remember Lady Ravenscroft.
I remember her quite well. She was so nice and really very, very good-looking still. Yes, her husband was a colonel or a general or something and they’d retired and they lived in–I forget the county now–” “And there was what was supposed to be a double suicide,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Yes. Yes, I remember reading about it and saying, ‘Why, that’s our Lady Ravenscroft,’ and then there was a picture of them both in the paper, and I saw that it was so. Of course, I’d never seen him, but it was her all right. It seemed so sad, so much grief. I heard that they discovered that she had cancer and they couldn’t do anything about it so this happened. But I never heard any details or anything.” “No,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“But what is it you think I can tell you?” “You supplied her with wigs and I understand the people investigating, I suppose the police, thought four wigs was quite a lot to have, but perhaps people did have four wigs at a time?” “Well, I think that most people had two wigs at least,” said Mrs. Rosentelle. “You know, one to send back to be serviced, as you might say, and the other one that they wore while it was away.” “Do you remember Lady Ravenscroft ordering an extra two wigs?” “She didn’t come herself. I think she’d been or was ill in hospital, or something, and it was a French young lady who came. I think a French lady who was companion to her or something like that. Very nice. Spoke perfect English. And she explained all about the extra wigs she wanted, sizes and colors and styles and ordered them. Yes. Fancy my remembering it. I suppose I wouldn’t have except that about–oh, it must have been a month later–a month, perhaps, more, six weeks—I read about the suicide you know. I’m afraid they gave her bad news at the hospital or wherever she was, and so she just couldn’t face living any more, and her husband felt he couldn’t face life without her—” Mrs. Oliver shook her head sadly and continued her inquiries.
“They were different kinds of wigs, I suppose.” “Yes, one had a very pretty gray streak in it, and then there was a party one and one for evening wear, and one closecropped with curls. Very nice, that you could wear under a hat and it didn’t get messed up. I was sorry not to have seen Lady Ravenscroft again. Even apart from her illness, she had been very unhappy about a sister who had recently died. A twin sister,” “Yes, twins are very devoted, aren’t they?” said Mrs. Oliver.