“Elephants?” said Mademoiselle Zeiie.
“It is what she called them,” said Poirot.
“Elephants can remember,” explained Mrs. Oliver. “That was the idea I started on. And people can remember things that happened a long time ago just like elephants can. Not all people, of course, but they can usually remember something. There were a lot of people who did. I turned a lot of the things I heard over to Monsieur Poirot and he–he has made a sort of–oh, if he was a doctor I should call it a sort of diagnosis, I suppose.” “I made a list,” said Poirot. “A list of things that seemed to be pointers to the truth of what happened all those years ago.
I shall read the various items to you to see perhaps if you who were concerned in all this feel that they have any significance.
You may not see their significance or you may see it plainly.” “One wants to know,” said Celia. “Was it suicide, or was it murder? Did somebody—some outside person—kill both my father and my mother, shoot them for some reason we don’t know about, some motive. I shall always think there was something of that kind or something else. It’s difficult, but—” “We will stay here, I think,” said Poirot. “We will not go into the house as yet. Other people have lived in it and it has a different atmosphere. We will perhaps go in if we wish when we have finished our court of inquiry here.” “It’s a court of inquiry, is it?” said Desmond.
“Yes. A court of inquiry into what happened.” He moved towards some iron seats which stood near the shelter of a large magnolia near the house. Poirot took from the case he carried a sheet of paper with writing on it. He said to Celia: “To you, it has got to be that way? A definite choice.
Suicide or murder.” “One of them must be true,” said Celia.
“I shall say to you that both are true, and more than those two. According to my ideas, we have here not only a murder and also a suicide, but we have as well what I shall call an execution, and we have a tragedy also. A tragedy of two people who loved each other and who died for love. A tragedy of love may not always belong to Romeo and Juliet. It is not necessarily only the young who suffer the pains of love and are ready to die for love. No. There is more to it than that.” “I don’t understand,” said Celia.
“Not yet.” “Shall I understand?” said Celia.
“I think so,” said Poirot. “I will tell you what I think happened and I will tell you how I came to think so. The first things that struck me were the things that were not explained by the evidence that the police examined. Some things were very commonplace, were not evidence at all, you’d think.
Among the possessions of the dead Margaret Ravenscroft, were four wigs.” He repeated with emphasis, “Four wigs.” He looked at Zeiie.
“She did not use a wig all the time,” said Zeiie. “Only occasionally. If she traveled or if she’d been out and got very disheveled and wanted to tidy herself in a hurry, or sometimes she’d use one that was suitable for evening wear.” “Yes,” said Poirot, “it was quite the fashion at that particular date. People certainly when they traveled abroad usually had a wig or two wigs. But in her possession were four wigs.
Four wigs seemed to me rather a lot. I wondered why she needed four. According to the police whom I asked, it was not that she had any tendency to baldness. She had the ordinary hair a woman of her age would have and in good condition.
All the same, I wondered about those. One of the wigs had a gray streak in it, I learned later. It was her hairdresser who told me that. And one of the wigs had little curls. It was the latter wig she was wearing the day she died.” “Is that significant in any way?” asked Celia. “She might have been wearing any of them.” “She might. I also learned the housekeeper told the police that she had been wearing that particular wig almost all the time for the last few weeks before she died. It appeared to be her favorite one.” “I can’t see–” “There was also a saying that Superintendent Garroway quoted to me, ‘Same man–different hat.’ It gave me furiously to think.” Celia repeated, “I don’t see–” Poirot said, “There was also the evidence of the dog–” “The dog–what did the dog do?” “The dog bit her. The dog was said to be devoted to its mistress, but in the last few weeks of her life, the dog turned on her more than once and bit her quite severely.” “Do you mean it knew she was going to commit suicide?” Desmond stared.