I’m not sure that it had anything to do with the Ravenscrofts, it might have been to do with some other people out there because she doesn’t remember surnames and things very well.
It was a mental case in one family. Someone’s sister-in-law.
Either General Whoever-it-was’s sister or Mrs. Whoever-itwas’s sister. Somebody who’d been in a mental home for years. I gathered she’d killed her own children or tried to kill her own children long ago, and then she’d been supposed to be cured or paroled or something and came out to Egypt, or India or wherever it was. She came out to stay with the people. And then it seems there was some other tragedy, connected again, I think, with children or something of that kind. Anyway, it was something that was hushed up. But I wondered. I mean, if there was something mental in the family, either Lady Ravenscroft’s family or General Ravenscroft’s family. I don’t think it need have been as near as a sister. It could have been a cousin or something like that.
But–well, it seemed to me a possible line of inquiry.” “Yes,” said Poirot, “there’s always possibility and something that waits for many years and then comes home to roost from somewhere in the past. That is what someone said to me. Old sins have long shadows.” “It seemed to me,” said Mrs. Oliver, “not that it was likely or even that old Nanny Matcham remembered it right or even really about it being the people she thought it was. But it might have fitted in with what that awful woman at the literary luncheon said to me.” “You mean when she wanted to know…” “Yes. When she wanted me to find out from the daughter, my godchild, whether her mother had killed her father or whether her father had killed her mother.” “And she thought the girl might know?” “Well, it’s likely enough that the girl would know. I mean, not at the time—it might have been shielded from her—but she might know things about it which would make her be aware what the circumstances were in their lives and who was likely to have killed whom, though she would probably never mention it or say anything about it or talk to anyone about it.” “And you say that woman—this Mrs.—” “Yes. I’ve forgotten her name now. Mrs. Burton something.
A name like that. She said something about her son had this girl friend and that they were thinking of getting married.
And I can quite see you might want to know, if so, whether her mother or her father had criminal relations in their family—or a loony strain. She probably thought that if it was the mother who killed the father it would be very unwise for the boy to marry her, whereas if the father had killed the mother, she probably wouldn’t mind as much,” said Mrs.
Oliver.
“You mean that she would think that the inheritance would go in the female line?” “Well, she wasn’t a very clever type of woman. Bossy,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Thinks she knows a lot, but no. I think you might think that way if you were a woman.” “An interesting point of view, but possible,” said Poirot.
“Yes, I realize that.” He sighed. “We have a lot to do still.” “I’ve got another sidelight on things, too. Same thing, but second hand, if you know what I mean. You know. Someone says, ‘The Ravenscrofts? Weren’t they that couple who adopted a child? Then it seems, after it was all arranged, and they were absolutely stuck on it–very, very keen on it, one of their children had died in India, I think–but at any rate they had adopted this child and then its own mother wanted it back and they had a court case or something. But the court gave them the custody of the child and the mother came and tried to kidnap it back.’ ” “There are simpler points,” said Poirot, “arising out of your report, points that I prefer.” “Such as?” “Wigs. Four wigs.” “Well,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I thought that was interesting you, but I don’t know why. It doesn’t seem to mean anything.