Go on finding out. Go on telling Mrs. Oliver or telling me direct. I’d rather you told me direct.” She turned towards Mrs. Olivet. “I don’t mean to be horrid to you, Godmother.
You’ve been a very nice godmother to me always, but—but I’d like it straight from the horse’s mouth. I’m afraid that’s rather rude, Monsieur Poirot, but I didn’t mean it that way.” “No,” said Poirot, “I am content to be the horse’s mouth.” “And you think you will be?” “I always believe that I can.” “And it’s always true, is it?” “It is usually true,” said Poirot. “I do not say more than that.”
CHAPTER XIII Mrs. Burton-Cox
“Well,” said Mrs. Oliver as she returned to the room after seeing Celia to the door. “What do you think of her?” “She is.a personality,” said Poirot, “an interesting girl.
Definitely, if I may put it so, she is somebody, not anybody.” “Yes, that’s true enough,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“I would like you to tell me something.” “About her? I don’t really know her very well. One doesn’t really, with godchildren. I mean, you only see them, as it were, at stated intervals rather far apart.” “I didn’t mean her. Tell me about her mother.” “Oh. I see.” “You knew her mother?” “Yes. We were in a sort of pensionnat in Paris together.
People used to send girls to Paris then to be finished,” said Mrs. Oliver. “That sounds more like an introduction to a cemetery than an introduction into society. What do you want to know about her?” “You remember her? You remember what she was like?” “Yes. As I tell you, one doesn’t entirely forget things or.
people because they’re in the past.” “What impression did she make on you?” “She was beautiful,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I do remember that. Not when she was about thirteen or fourteen. She had a lot of puppy fat then. I think we all did,” she added thoughtfully.
“Was she a personality?” “It’s difficult to remember because, you see, she wasn’t my only friend or my greatest friend. I mean, there were several of us together–a little pack, as you might say. People with tastes more or less the same. We were keen on tennis and we were keen on being taken to the opera and we were bored to death being taken to the picture galleries. I really can only give you a general idea.” “Molly Preston-Grey. That was her name. Had few boy friends?” “We had one or two passions, I think. Not for pop singers, of course. They hadn’t happened yet. Actors usually. There was one rather famous variety actor. A girl–one of the girls– had him pinned up over her bed and Mademoiselle Girand, the French mistress, on no account allowed that actor to be pinned up there. ‘Ce nest pas convenable,’ she said. The girl didn’t tell her that he was her father! We laughed,” added Mrs. Oliver. “Yes, we laughed a good deal.” “Well, tell me more about Molly or Margaret Preston-Grey.
Does this girl remind you of her?” “No, I don’t think she does. No. They are not alike. I think Molly was more–was more emotional than this girl.” “There was a twin sister, I understand. Was she at the same pensionnat’?” “No, she wasn’t. She might have been since they were the same age, but no, I think she was in some entirely different place in England. I’m not sure. I have a feeling that the twin sister Dolly, whom I had met once or twice very occasionally and who of course at that time looked exactly like Molly–I mean they hadn’t started trying to look different, have different hair-dos and all that, as twins do usually when they grow up. I think Molly was devoted to her sister Dolly, but she didn’t talk about her very much. I have a feeling–nowadays, I mean, I didn’t have it then–that there might have been something a bit wrong perhaps with the sister even then.
Once or twice, I remember, there were mentions of her having been ill or gone away for a course of treatment somewhere.
Something like that. I remember once wondering whether she was a cripple. She was taken once by an aunt on a sea voyage to do her health good.” She shook her head. “I can’t really remember, though. I just had a feeling that Molly was devoted to her and would have liked to have protected her in some way. Does that seem nonsense to you?” “Not at all,” said Hercule Poirot.