Mrs. Oliver could not help being thankful that he had not asked for Sirop de Cassis or one of his favorite fruit drinks.
She got out glasses and a decanter.
“I have already indicated to Monsieur Poirot the outlines of the inquiry you want to make.” “Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Burton-Cox.
She seemed rather doubtful and not so sure of herself as it would seem she was in the natural habit of being.
“These young people,” she said to Poirot, “so difficult nowadays. These young people. My son, such a dear boy^we have great hopes of his doing well in the future. And then there is this girl, a very charming girl, who, as probably Mrs.
Oliver told you, is her goddaughter, and—well, of course one never knows. I mean these friendships spring up and very often they don’t last. They are what we used to call calf love, you know, years ago, and it is very important to know a little at least about the–antecedents of people. You know, what their families are like. Oh, of course I know Celia’s a very well-born girl and all that, but there was this tragedy. Mutual suicide, I believe, but nobody has been really able to enlighten me at all on what led to it or what led up to it, shall we say. I have no actual friends who were friends in common with the Ravenscrofts and so it is very difficult for me to have ideas. I know Celia is a charming girl and all that, but one would like to know, to know more.” “I understand from my friend, Mrs. Oliver, that you wanted to know something specifically. You wanted to know, in fact–” “What you said you wanted to know,” said Mrs. Oliver, chipping in with some firmness, “was whether Celia’s father shot her mother and then himself or whether Celia’s mother shot her father and then herself.” “I feel it makes a difference,” said Mrs. Burton-Cox. “Yes, definitely I feel it makes a difference.” “A very interesting point of view,” said Poirot.
His tone was not very encouraging.
“Oh, the emotional background, shall I say, the emotional events that led up to all this. In a marriage, you must admit, one had to think of the children. The children, I mean, that are to come. I mean heredity. I think now we realize that heredity does more than environment. It leads to certain formation of character and certain very grave risks that one might not want to take.” “True,” said Poirot. “The people who undertake the risks are the ones that have to make the decision. Your son and this young lady, it will be their choice.” “Oh, I know, I know. Not mine. Parents are never allowed to choose, are they, or even to give any advice. Bdt I would like to know something about it. Yes, I would like to know very much. If you feel that you could undertake any–investigation I suppose is the word you would use. But perhaps– perhaps I am being a very foolish mother. You know. Overanxious about my dear son. Mothers are like that.” She gave a little whinny of laughter, putting her head slightly on one side.
“Perhaps,” she said, as she tipped up the sherry glass, “perhaps you will think about it and I also will let you know.
Perhaps the exact points and things that I am worried about.” She looked at her watch.
“Oh, dear. Oh, dear, I’m late for another appointment. I shall have to go. I am so sorry, dear Mrs. Oliver, to have to run away so soon, but you know what it is. I had great difficulties finding a taxi this afternoon. One after another just turned his head aside and drove straight past me. Ah, very, very difficult, isn’t it? I think Mrs. Oliver has your address, has she not?” “I will give you my address,” said Poirot. He removed a card from his pocket and handed it to her.
“Oh, yes, yes. I see. Monsieur Hercule Poirot. You are French, is that right?” “I am Belgian,” said Poirot.
“Oh, yes, yes. Belgique. Yes, yes. I quite understand. I am so pleased to have met you and I feel so hopeful. Oh, dear, I must go very, very fast.” Shaking Mrs. Oliver warmly by the hand, then extending the same hand to Poirot, she left the room and the door sounded in the hall.