“Well,” he said, “here’s to suicide!” “It was suicide?” Poirot asked.
“What else can it be?” said Superintendent Garroway. “The things you wanted to know!” He shook his head. His smile grew more pronounced.
“I am sorry,” said Poirot, “to have troubled you so much. I am like the animal or the child in one of your stories by Mr.
Kipling. I suffer from insatiable curiosity.” “Insatiable curiosity,” said Superintendent Garroway. “Nice stories he wrote, Kipling. Knew his stuff, too. They told me once that that man could go for one short tour round a destroyer and know more about it than one of the top engineers in the Royal Navy.” “Alas,” said Hercule Poirot, “I do not know everything. Therefore, you see, I have to ask questions. I am afraid that I sent you rather a long list of questions.” “What intrigued me,” said Superintendent Garroway, “is the way you jumped from one thing to another. Psychiatrists, doctors’ reports, how money was left, who had money, who got money. Who expected money and didn’t get money, particulars of ladies’ hairdressing, wigs, name of the supplier of wigs, charming rose-colored cardboard boxes they came in, by the way.” “You knew all these things,” said Poirot. “That has amazed me, I can assure you.” “Ah, well, it was a puzzling case and of course we made full notes on the subject. None of this was any good to us, but we kept the files and it was all there if one wanted to look for it.” He pushed a piece of paper across the table.
“Here you are. Hairdressers. Bond Street, Expensive firm.
Eugene and Rosentelle was the name of it. They moved later.
Same firm but went into business in Sloane Street. Here’s the address, but it’s a pet shop now. Two of their assistants retired some years ago now, but they were the top assistants serving people then, and Lady Ravenscroft was on their list.
Rosentelle lives in Cheltenham now. Still in the same line of business. Calls herself a hair stylist–that’s the up-to-date term–and you add beautician. Same man, different hat, as one used to say in my young days.” “Ah-ha!” said Poirot.
“Why ah-ha?” asked Garroway.
“I am immensely obliged to you,” said Hercule Poirot. “You have presented me with an idea. How strange it is the way ideas arrive into one’s head.” “You’ve too many ideas in your head already,” said the Superintendent. “That’s one of your troubles–you don’t need any more. Now then, I’ve checked up as well as I could on the family history–nothing much there. Alistair Ravenscroft was of Scottish extraction. Father was a clergyman–two uncles in the Army–both quite distinguished. Married Margaret Preston-Grey–well-born girl–presented at Court and all the rest of it. No family scandals. You were quite right about her being one of twin sisters. Don’t know where you picked that up–Dorothea and Margaret Preston-Grey–known colloquially as Dolly and Molly. Preston-Gr^ys lived at Hatters Green in Sussex. Identical twins–usual kind of history of that kind of twin. Cut their first tooth the same day–both got scarlet fever the same month–wore the same kind of clothes–fell in love with the same kind of man–got married about the same time–both husbands in the Army. Family doctor who attended the family when they were young died some years ago, so there’s nothing of interest to be got out of him. There was an early tragedy, though, connected with one of them.” “Lady Ravenscroft?” “No, the other one–she married a Captain Jarrow–had two children; the younger one, a boy of four, was knocked down by a wheelbarrow or some kind of a child’s garden toy–or a spade or a child’s hoe. Hit him on his head and he fell into an artificial pond or something and drowned. Apparently it was the older child, a girl of nine, who did it. They were playing together and quarreled, as children do. Doesn’t seem much doubt, but there was another story. Someone said the mother did it–got angry and hit him–and someone else said it was a woman who lived next door who hit him. Don’t suppose it’s of any interest to you–no bearing on a suicide pact entered into by the mother’s sister and her husband years after.” “No,” said Poirot, “it does not seem to. But one likes to know background.” “Yes,” said Garroway, “as I told you, one has to look into the past. I can’t say we’d thought of looking into the past as long ago as this. I mean, as I’ve said, all this was twenty years before the suicide.” “Were there any proceedings at the time?” “Yes. I managed to look up the case. Accounts of it.